Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down:
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child! farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic gown!
And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my

crown.

Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;
And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way!
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey !
With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left.

He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow-
Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never
know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more

kiss;

And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this."
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.
(By permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green, & Co.)

15.-MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[See p. 110.]

WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharg'd 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 wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek
Has the deathly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the maniac has 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 fill'd her guests with delight
As she welcom'd 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 listen'd to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one,

66

"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, would 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 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 dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shiver'd 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 enter'd, 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
Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,
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 gather'd the bough;

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

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd,-nought 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-blood curdled 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 roll'd—

66

She felt, and expected to die.

Curse the hat!" he exclaimed; "Nay, come on here, and hide The dead body," his comrade replied.

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 rush'd 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-O God! what cold horror then thrill'd 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.

16.-THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

THOMAS NOEL.

THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough and the hearse has no springs;
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none-
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone—
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing and din!
The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they spin!
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!

Poor

Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!
pauper defunct! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast!
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed—
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!
Rattle his bones over the stones!

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad.
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend!
Bear soft his bones over the stones!

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns.

17.-THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.*

THOMAS DAVIS.

[Thomas Davis was one of that band of advanced Irish patriots who thought that they could supersede in Ireland, "Moore's Irish Melodies," because they did not go far enough for them. Fortunately for Davis's chance of future fame, he did not confine his lyrics to political ones. We are told that he wrote the greater portion of them in a single year, 1844; and this, too, in addition to a great quantity of other writing for the journal with which he was connected "The Nation." Apart from his political songs, he wrote with great tenderness. He was born in 1814, and died in 1854.]

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles—
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles—
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray-
And full of love, and peace, and rest-its daily labour o'er-
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that
glide,

Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide.
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore-
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

* Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.-See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i. p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.-AUTHOR'S NOTE.