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, '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, And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar. "'Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, 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 school-boy, should tremble to hear "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "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, O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Through the gateway she enter'd-she felt not afraid— Yet 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 Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, 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 Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, It blew off the hat of the one, and behold! "Curse the hat!"-he exclaims-" Nay come on, and fast hide 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, 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, Confidence in God. How are thy servants bless'd, O Lord! Their help-Omnipotence. In foreign realms, and lands remote, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Think, O my soul! devoutly think, Southey. Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep Confusion dwelt in every face, And fear in every heart, When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord! For though in dreadful whirls we hung I knew thou wert not slow to hear, The storm was laid, the winds retired, The sea, that roar'd at thy command, In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, And praise thee for thy mercies past. My life if thou preserv'st my life, Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death-if death must be my doom Anon. Shall join my soul to thee. Lord Ullin's Daughter. A Chieftain to the Highlands bound, And I'll give thee a silver pound, "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, "And fast before her father's men, For should he find us in the glen, "And, by my word, the bonny bird 'By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, Their trampling sounded nearer ! But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When-oh! too strong for human hand !— The tempest gather'd o'er her And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, His child he did discover! One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. |