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45. THE MAID OF THE INN.-Southey.

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 the 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, has been;

The traveler 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 her, 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 fireside, 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 schoolboy, 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 white 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 alder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good humor did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and 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 alder-tree grows 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 ;-naught else could she hear.

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's-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!

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims; "Nay come on and first hide
The dead body," his comrade replies-
She beheld 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 horribly eager around;

Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And 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, Oh 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 gibbet is now to be seen;

Not far from the inn it engages the eye,
The traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

COMIC AND AMUSING.

1.

TO AN OLD WIG.—Anonymous.

Hail thou! that liest so snug in this old box;

With awe I bend before thy wood-built shrine' Oh! 'tis not closed with glue, nor nails, nor locks, And hence the bliss of viewing thee is mine. Like my poor aunt, thou hast seen better days; Well curled and powdered, once it was thy lot Balls to frequent, and masquerades, and plays, And panoramas, and I know not what!

Alas! what art thou now? a mere old mop!

With which our housemaid Nan, who hates a broom
Dusts all the chambers in my little shop,-
Then slyly hides thee in this lumber-room.

Such is the fate of wigs-and mortals too!
After a few more years than thine are past,
The Turk, the Christian, Pagan, and the Jew,
Must all be shut up in a box at last!

Vain man! to talk so loud, and look so big!
How small the difference 'twixt thee-and a wig!
How small, indeed!—for speak the truth I must,—
Wigs turn to dusters, and man turns to dust.

-Gilman.

2. THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

Mother, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.

See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;

And pussy sits ncar, with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighboring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,

And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
And scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.

3. THE INFANT ORATOR.-Everett.
You'd scarce expect one of my age,
To speak in public on the stage;
And if I chance to fall below
Demosthenes or Cicero,

Don't view me with a critic's eye,
But pass my imperfections by.

Large streams from little fountains flow;
Tall oaks from little acorns grow;
And though I now am small and young,
Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue;
Yet all great learned men, like me,
Once learned to read their A, B, C.
But why may not Columbia's soil
Rear men as great as Britain's isle;
Exceed what Greece and Rome have done,
Or any land beneath the sun?
May'nt Massachusetts boast as great
As any other sister state?

Or, where's the town, go far and near,
That does not find a rival here ?

Or, where's the boy, but three feet high,
Who's made improvements more than I?
These thoughts inspire my youthful mind
To be the greatest of mankind;

Great, not like Cæsar, stained with blood;
But only great, as I am good.

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