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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 fight ;
Through the gateway she enter'd, the felt not afraid,
Yet the rụins were lonely and wild, and their shade

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was filent, fave when the rude blast

Howld dilmally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless (lze pass’dy
And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at laft,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.
Well pleas'd did the reach it, and quickly drew near,

And haftily gather'd the bough;
When the sound of a voice feem'd to rise on her ears.
She paus’d, 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’dnaught else could she hear.
The wind ceas’d, her heart funk in her bofom 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 initant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear,

And between them a corpse did they bear.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!

Again the rough wind hurry'd by-
It blew off the hat of the one, and, behoid!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rollid:

She fell—and expected to die. “ Curse the hat!” he exclaims; * nay come on, and first

“ hide
“ The dead body,” his comrade repacs

She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supply'd,

And fast through the abbey fhe flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rulh'd in at the door,
She gaz'd horribly eager

around; Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she funk on the floor,

Unable to utter found.
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 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 trav’ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

THREE BLACK CROWS.

BYROM.

TWOOR

WO honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,

One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, said he, 'tis an odd story this,
About the crows !-I don't know what it is,
Reply'd his friend—No! I'm surpris’d at that;
Where I come from, it is the common chat:
But you shall hear; an odd affair indeed!
And that it happen'd, they are all agreed:
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crow's.
Impossible !

-Nay, but it's really true;
I have it from good hands, and so may you

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From whose, I prayl fo having nam’d the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
Sir, did you tell-relating the affair
Yes, Sir, I did; and if it's worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me;
But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three.
Resolv'd to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went.
Sir,--and so forth-Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact;
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon.
The gentleman himself told me the case-
Where

may

I find him ?-Why, in such a place. Away goes he, and having found him out, Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt, Then to his last informant he referr'd, And begg’d to know, if true what he had heard; Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow?--Not I!Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here I find all comes at last to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all? Crow_Crow-perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over- And pray, Sir, what was’t?Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, Something that was as black, Sir, as a crow.

SONNET.

I :

And many a bubble on its breast it bore, Which, quickly bursting, vanish'd from my eye,

And scarcely was created, ere no more. I saw the western sky with gold o'erspread,

Glowing with purple and with crimson bright; A minute pass’d-and every tint was fled

And lost, and blended with oblivious night.

On thee, O wretched man! my thought was turn'd;

For thee th' involuntary tear did flow; Thy fleeting happiness I inly mourn'd;

For, ah! by lad experience, well I know, Life's fairelt views are but an airy dream, Frail as the transient cloud, or bubble on thé ftream.

THE SAILOR-AN ELEGY.

ROGERS.

THE

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"HË Sailor fighs as sinks his native shore, He climbs the maft to feast his eyes once more,

And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,

Recallid and cherish'd in a foreign clime;
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;

Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart,

Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This the last wish with which its warmth could part,

To meet the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,

Or Eve’s grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,

Still, ftill he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hov’ring o’er,

Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows sound him roar,

Whispers sweet Hope to soothe his troubled foul. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove,

In many a plantain foreit, waving wide ; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,

And giant palms o’er-arch the yellow tide. But, lo! at last, he comes with crowded fail!

Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!

And, hark! what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furld; Soon, through the whit’ning surge, he springs to land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

DOMESTIC PEACE.

COLERIDGE.

TE

ELL me, on what holy ground

May Domestic Peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies
From the pomp of sceptred state,
From the rebels' noisy hate.
In a cottage vale she dwells,
List’ning to the fabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien;
Love, the fire of pleasing fears ;
Sorrow, smiling through her tears ;
And, conscious of the past employ,
Mem'ry, bosom-spring of joy.

THE FROGS-AN ODE.

PINDAR.

A ,

Were sporting midst the funny ray,

In a large pool reflecting ev'ry face;
They show'd their goid-lac'd clothes with pride,
In harmless fallies frequent vied,

And gambol?d through the water with a grace.
It happen’d that a band of boys,

Observant of their harmless joys,
Thoughtless, resolv'd to spoil their happy sport;

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