Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!— Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! The patriot TELL the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN! Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Campbell. WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek; Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak Yet cheerful and happy-nor distant the day— The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn! Her cheerful address fill'd 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, Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burn'd bright; ""Tis pleasant,' cried one, “seated by the fire-side, "To hear the wind whistle without." 66 'A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied: "I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 66 "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, With fearless good humour did Mary comply, The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high; O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Through the gateway she enter'd-she felt not afraidYet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd 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 pass'd, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear- 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, Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and behold! Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd— 'Curse the hat!"-he exclaims-" Nay, come on, and fast The dead body!" his comrade replies. She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, Her limbs could support their faint burden no more; Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, Her eyes from that object convulsively start, [hide For, Ŏ Heaven! what cold horror thrill'd thro' 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 traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Lord Ullin's Daughter. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries," Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry!" Southey. "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And fast before her father's men, It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady! "And, by my word, the bonny bird By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, The boat has left a stormy land, And still they row'd, amidst the roar Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing— For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, One lovely arm was stretch'd for aid, "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!-oh! my daughter!" Twas vain!-the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child- Campbell. Song from the Lady of the Lake. SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Booming from the sedgy shallow. |