Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! farewell! Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be, crown. Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways, He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." 15.-MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. [See p. 110.] WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, As Mary, the maid of the inn. Her cheerful address fill'd her guests with delight She loved; and young Richard had settled the day, But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, ""Tis pleasant," cried one, 66 "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without." "A fine night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied. "I myself, like a schoolboy, would tremble to hear "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle." With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent. The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid; All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear: The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, Of footsteps approaching her near. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdled cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd— 66 She felt, and expected to die. Curse the hat!" he exclaimed; "Nay, come on here, and hide The dead body," his comrade replied. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For-O God! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart Where the old Abbey stands on the common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen; His irons you still from the road may espy, The traveller beholds them, and thinks, with a sigh, 16.-THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. THOMAS NOEL. THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none- He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing and din! Poor Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed— And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns. 17.-THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.* THOMAS DAVIS. [Thomas Davis was one of that band of advanced Irish patriots who thought that they could supersede in Ireland, "Moore's Irish Melodies," because they did not go far enough for them. Fortunately for Davis's chance of future fame, he did not confine his lyrics to political ones. We are told that he wrote the greater portion of them in a single year, 1844; and this, too, in addition to a great quantity of other writing for the journal with which he was connected "The Nation." Apart from his political songs, he wrote with great tenderness. He was born in 1814, and died in 1854.] THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles— A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide. * Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.-See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i. p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.-AUTHOR'S NOTE. |