I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom I saw that grief had deck'd it out—an offering for the tomb! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living gold I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of mould! Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bow'd! Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay! The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er, Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth hath seen Lapp'd by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone; Then weigh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne. H. G. BELL. MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; The composure of settled distress. No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek, Through her 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 burnt bright, ""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, "To hear the wind whistle without.' "What a night for the abbey !" his comrade replied; 'Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, "Who should wander the ruins about. 46 66 '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 grim spirit appear, "For this wind might awaken the dead." "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 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, With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 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 Seemed 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, 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, 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, Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdle cold; It blew off the hat of the one; and, behold! 66 Plague the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on and fast hide "The dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds 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, For, O God! what cold horror thrill'd through her heart, Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, Not far from the road it engages the eye, The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, SOUTHEY MESSIAH-A SACRED ECLOGUE. YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, D ! |