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It waved not through an eastern sky,
But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew
Strange looked it there !—the willow streamed
There came an eve of festal hours—
But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,
And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
He passed the pale-green olives by,
To him, to him its rustling spoke;
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whispered of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Aye to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave's moan!
His mother's cabin-home, that lay
Oh, scorn him not!—the strength whereby
MAET THE MAID OF THE IKS.
Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
The composure of settled distress.
No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that withered breast, and her weather-worn cheek
Hath the hue of a mortal despair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;
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;
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 burned bright, And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.
"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside,
To hear the wind whistle without."— "What a 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 schoolboy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
For this wind might awaken the dead!"
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied;
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghest 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;—.
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;
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 intently, in fear,
And her heart panted painfully now.
The wind blew; the hoarse ivy shook over her head,—
She listened, nought else could she hear: The wind fell; 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:
And between them a corpse they did bear!
Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold:
Again the rough wind hurried by—
She felt, and expected to die.
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on, till we hide
The dead body," his comrade replies.
And fast through the Abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,
She gazed in her terror around, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sank 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—what a cold horror then thrilled through her heart
When the name of her Richard she knew 1
Where the old Abbey stands, on the Common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen;
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
A MOTHER'S GRIEF.
To mark the sufferings of the babo
That cannot speak its woe;
Yet know not why they flow;
That fain would ask relief,
This is a mother's grief!