Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near

And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her

ear

She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head: She listen'd-naught else could she hear.

The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom

with dread,

For she heard in the ruins, distinctly, the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, She crept to conceal herself there :

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear,

And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!

Again the rough wind hurry'd by

It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold!

Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd
She fell and expected to die.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims; " nay come on, "and first hide

"The dead body," his comrade repliesShe beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the kat, fear her courage supply'd, And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gaz'd horribly eager around;

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen

no more,

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor

Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,

Her

For a moment the hat met her view;

eyes

from that object convulsively start,

For, O God! what cold horror thrill'd through

her heart,

When the name of her Richard she knew,

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard

by,

His gibbet is now to be seen;

Not far from the inn it engages the eye;

The trav❜ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh

Of Poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

THE SWALLOW.

BY W. ROSCOE.

Go place the Swallow on yon turfy bed,
Much will he struggle, but can never rise,
Go raise him even with the daisy's head,

And the poor twitter like an arrow flies.

So oft, through life, the man of pow'rs and

worth,

Haply the cat'rer for an infant train,

Like BURNS, must struggle on the bare-worn

earth,

While all his efforts to arise are vain.

267

Yet should the hand of Relative, or Friend,

Just from the surface lift the suff'ring wight,
Soon would the wings of Industry extend,
Soon would he rise from anguish to delight.

Go then, ye Affluent! go, your hands cut-stretch, And, from despair's dark verge, oh! raise the woe-worn wretch.

THE END.

John Lister

A.