THE PALM-TREE. It waved not through an eastern sky, It was not fanned by southern breeze But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew Strange looked it there!-the willow streamed To murmur by the Desert's Tree; 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 ; His mother's cabin-home, that lay Oh, scorn him not !—the strength whereby The unconquerable power which fills These have one fountain deep and clear The same whence gushed that child-like tear! HEMANS. MARY THE MAID OF THE INN. WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; Through her tatters 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 filled the 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 burned bright, ""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, "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 "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, With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid, All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-covered fragments she fearlessly passed, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear!- 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, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold: It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold, Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled!— She felt, and expected to die. "Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on, till we hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, 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-what a cold horror then thrilled 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 Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. A MOTHER'S GRIEF. To mark the sufferings of the babe SOUTHEY. |