Yet cheerful and happy, not distant the day,
Poor Mary, the maniac has been;

The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the maid of the inn.

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;

Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in Autumn, and stormy and dark was the night And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests were enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight.
They listened to hear the wind roar.

"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night in the abbey," his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.

66

I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some icy old abbot's white spirit appear,

For this wind might awaken the dead.”

"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 exclaimed with a smile:
"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the alder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good humor 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 crept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

O'er the path, so well known, proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gathered the bough—

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear: She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,

And her heart panted fearfully now!

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head;-
She listened ;-naught else could she hear;
The wind ceased, her heart sank 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, And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, And between them-a corpse did they bear!

Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by-

It blew off the hat of the one, and behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled!-
She fell-and expected to die!

"Curse the hut!" he exclaims; "Nay come on and first hide

The dead body," his comrade repliesShe beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around;

Then her limbs could support their faint burden no

more,

And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;-

For, Oh God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart,

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

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 traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

SOUTHEY.

THE SEASONS.

The Spring-time, O the Spring-time!
Who does not know it well?

When the little birds begin to build,

And the buds begin to swell.

When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek,
And the lambs are bucking and bleating,
And the color mounts to the maiden's cheek,
And the cuckoo scatters greeting;

In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time!

The Summer, O the Summer!

Who does not know it well?

When the ring-doves coo the long day through,
And the bee refills his cell.

When the swish of the mower is heard at morn,
And we all in the woods go roaming,

And waiting is over, and love is born,
And shy lips meet in the gloaming;

In the Summer, luscious Summer!

The Autumn, O the Autumn!

Who does not know it well?

When the leaf turns brown, and the masts drops down, And the chestnut splits its shell.

When we muse o'er the days that have gone before,
And the days that will follow after,

When the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor,
And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter;
In the Autumn, mellow Autumn!

The Winter, O the Winter!

Who does not know it well?

When, day after day, the fields stretch gray,

And the peewit wails on the fell.

When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow,

And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, And we pray that we soon may follow;

In the Winter, mournful Winter!

AUSTIN.

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort!

We knew that it was the last:

The enemy's lines had crept surely in,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe meant worse than death,
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

There was one of us, a coporal's wife,
A fair young, gentle thing,

Wasted with fever and with siege,
And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee;

"When my father comes home frae the pleugh," she

said,

'Oh, please then waken me!"

She slept like a child on her father's floor,

In the flecking of the woodbine shade,

When the house-dog sprawls by the half-open door,
And the mother's wheel is stayed.

It was smoke and roar and powder stench,
And hopeless waiting death;

But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream
Of an English village lane,

And wall and garden, till a sudden scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

There Jessie Brown stood listening;
And then a broad gladness broke
All over her face, and she took my hand
And drew me near, and spoke: