They hear no sound-the swell is strong, Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, The ship sinks fast beneath the tide. MARY THE MAID OF THE INN. WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered 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 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 burnt bright; "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 For this wind might awaken the dead!" "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? With fearless good humour did Mary comply, The night it was dark, and the wind it was high; 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; All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she past, 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: The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, 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, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and behold, She fell, and expected to die. "Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on here, and 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, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For-O God! what 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 irons you still from the road may espy; THE CROSS ROADS. THERE was an old man breaking stones He sat him down beside a brook, And out his bread and cheese he took, For now it was midday. He leant his back against a post, A soldier with his knapsack on, Came travelling o'er the down ; “Half an hour's walk for a young man, Why then 'tis three good miles." The soldier took his knapsack off, And out his bread and cheese he took, "Old friend, in faith," the soldier says, My shoulders have been sorely prest, The old man laughed and moved-" I wish That ever brought it there. There's a poor girl lies buried here The earth upon her corpse is prest, The soldier had but just leant back, |