Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
As she welcom'd 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 lov'd-and young Richard had settled the day-
And she hop'd to be happy for life;
But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him 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 sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoaking in silence, with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

"Tis pleasant," cry'd one," seated by the fire-side, "To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the abbey," his comrade reply'd: "Methinks a man's courage would now be well try'd,

"Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear

"The hoarse ivy shake over my head; "And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, "Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear; For this wind might awaken the dead."

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cry'd,

"That Mary would venture there now :" Then wager, and lose!" with a sneer, he reply'd, "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 companiou exclaim'd 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 humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;

The night it was gloomy, 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 sight;

Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Stem'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, Aud arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-
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'd;-nought else could she hear.
The wind ceas'd, 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,
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 curdled 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 roll'd:
She fell and expected to die,

"Curse the hat !"-he exclaims-" nay come on, "and first hide

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

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She cast her eyes horribly round;

Her limbs could support their faint burden no more, But, 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;

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For, oh 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.

THE DOUBLET OF GREY.

ROBINSON.

BENEATH the tall turrets that nod o'er the dell,
A dark forest now blackens the mound:
Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-sounding bell
Tolls sadly and solemn a soul-parting kuell,
While the ruin re-echoes the sound.

Yet long has the castle been left to decay;
For its ramparts are skirted with thorn:

And no one by moon-light will venture that way,
Lest they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of grey,
As she wanders, all pale and forlorn!

"And why should she wander? O tell me, I pray, "And, O! why does she wander alone?" Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay,

With no shroud, but a course simple doublet of grey,
Lies her bosom as cold as a stone.

Time was when no form was so fresh or so fair,
Or so comely, when richly array'd;

She was tall, and the jewels that blaz'd in her hair
Could no more with her eye's living lustre compare,
Than a rose with the cheek of the maid..

She lov'd!-but the youth who had vanquish'd her heart,

Was the heir of a peasant's hard toil ;
For no treasure had he; yet a stranger to art,
He would oft by a look to the damsel impart
What the damsel receiv'd with a smile.

go,

Whene'er to the wake or the chase she would
The young Theodore loiter'd that way;
Did the sun-beams of summer invitingly glow,
Or across the bleak common the winter winds blow,..
Still he watch'd till the closing of day..

Her parents so wealthy, her kindred so proud,
Heard the story of love with dismay;

They rav'd, and they storm'd, by the Virgin they vow'd,

That, before they would see her so wedded, a shroud Should be Madeline's bridal array.

One night, it was winter, all dreary and cold, And the moon-beams shone palely and clear, When she open'd her lattice, in hopes to behold Her Theodore's form, when the turret-bell toll'd, And the blood in her heart froze for fear.

Near the green-mantled moat her stern father she spy'd,

And a grave he was making with speed;

The light, which all silver'd the castle's strong side, Display'd his wild gestures, while madly he cry'd,"Curs'd caitiff! thy bosom shall bleed!”

Distracted, forlorn, from the castle of pride,
She escap'd at the next close of day,

Her soft blushing cheek, with dark herries all dy'd,
With a spear on her shoulder, a sword by her side,
And her form in a doublet of grey.

She travers'd the courts, not a vassal was seen,
Through the gate hung with ivy she flew :
The sky was unclouded, the air was serene,
The moon shot its rays the long vistas between,
And her doublet was spangled with dew.

O'er the cold breezy downs to the hamlet she hied,
Where the cottage of Theodore stood ;

For its low roof of rushes she oft had descry'd, When she drank of the brook that foam'd wild by its side,

While the keen hunters travers'd the wood.

The sky on a sudden grew dark, and the wind,
With a deep sullen murmur rush'd by;
She wander'd about, but no path could she find,
While horrors on horrors encompass'd her mind,
When she found that no shelter was nigh.