Imatges de pÓgina

And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flushed with hope, had caught his eye,
"Alas! unhappy youth!" he cried,

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Expect no praise from me," and sighed ;
"With indignation I survey

"Such skill and judgment thrown away;
"The time profusely squandered there
"On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
"If well employed, at less expense
"Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense;
"And raised thee from a coachman's fate,
"To govern men, and guide the state."


WHO is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through her

rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom, half bare, and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day,)
Poor Mary the maniac hath been;

The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,
That she was too good for his wife.

'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,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, "To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the Abbey !" his comrade replied; "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, "Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear "The hoarse ivy shake over my head; "And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, "Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear,

"For this wind might awaken the dead."

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now."
"Then wager, and lose," with a sneer he replied,
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
"And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"
His companion exclaimed with a smile;

"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 gloomy, the wind it was high;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gateway she entered,-she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough;

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear,→
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head:-
She listened ;-nought else could she neɑ..

The wind ceased, 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 moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold;
Again the rough wind hurried by-

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ;-
She fell and expected to die!

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"Plague the hat!" he exclaims, "Nay, come on, and fast hide

"The dead body," his comrade replies.

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 rushed in at the door,
She cast her eyes horribly round;

Her limbs could support their faint burden no more;
But, exhausted and breathless, she sunk on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

For, O God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart When the name of her Richard she knew!

Where the old Abbey stands on the common hard by,
His jibbet is now to be seen;

Not far from the road it engages the eye,
The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.


THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This strong affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room;


And, looking grave,-" You must," says he
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
"With you!" the hapless husband cried ;



44 Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go;
"This is my wedding-day, you know."
What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

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His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more "Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; "And farther, to avoid all blame

"Of cruelty upon my name,

"To give you time for preparation,
"And fit you for your future station,
"Three several warnings you shall have,
"Before you're summoned to the grave,
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
"And grant a kind reprieve;


In hopes you'll have no more to say;
"But, when I call again this way,
"Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace;

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,

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