Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!— Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, 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, And fast were the windows and door; 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 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 exclaim'd, with a smile: "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, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd-she felt not afraid- All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, 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:-- The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 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, [hide For, O 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. 66 "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, "And, by my word, the bonny bird By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, "Oh! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries; 'Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, When-oh! too strong for human hand! 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, 66 And one was round her lover. 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 And he was left lamenting. 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. |