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It waved not through an eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby ;
It was not fanned by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas;
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled Palm-tree grew
'Midst foliage of no kindred hue ;
Through the laburnum's drooping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould ;
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange looked it there !-the willow streamed
Where silvery waters near it gleamed ;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the Desert's Tree;
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours-
Rich music filled that garden's bowers ;
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colours flung ;
And bright forms glanced-a fairy show--
Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,
Seemed reckless all of dance or song;
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been;
Of crested brow, and long black hair--
A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms :

He passed the paie-green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye;
But when to that sole Palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame.

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
Where feathery cocoas fringe the bay ;
The dashing of his brethren’s oar,
The conch-note heard along the shore,-
All through his wakening bosom swept :
He clasped his country's Tree and wept !

Oh, scorn him not !-the strength whereby
The patriot girds himself to die ;
The unconquerable power which fills
The freeman battling on his hills ;
These have one fountain deep and clear-
The same whence gushed that child-like tear!


Who is yonder 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 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;
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 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 trenible 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 was dark, and the wind 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 she fearlessly 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 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 :
That instant the moon v'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,

And between them a corpse they did bear!

Then Mary could feel the 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 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 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 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 !

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.



To mark the sufferings of the babe

That cannot speak its woe;
To see the infant tears gush forth,

Yet know not why they flow;
To meet the meek uplifted eye,

That fain would ask relief,
Yet can but tell of agony ;-

This is a mother's grief !

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