His visor was clos'd, gigantic his height,

His armour was sable to view;

All laughter and pleasure were hush'd at his sight-
The dogs, as they eyed him drew back with affright;
And the lights in the chamber burnt blue.

His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay,
The guests sat in silence and fear;

At length spoke the bride, while she trembled-"I pray
Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,

And deign to partake of our cheer."

The lady is silent-the stranger complies,
And his visor he slowly unclos'd;
O, gods! what a sight met Imogine's eyes-
What words can express her dismay and surprise,
When a skeleton's head was expos'd!

All present then utter'd a terrific shout,

And turned with disgust from the scene;

The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,
And sported his eyes and his temples about,
While the spectre address'd Imogine ;-

"Behold me, thou false one!-behold me!" he cried,
"Behold thy Alonzo the brave !

God grants that to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side-
Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,
And bear thee away to the grave."

This saying, his arms round the lady he wound,
While poor Imogine shriek'd with dismay;

Then sunk with his prey through the wide yawning ground,
Nor ever again was fair Imogine found,

Or the spectre that bore her away.

Not long liv'd the baron, and none since that time,

To inhabit the castle presume;

For Chronicles tell, that by order sublime,

There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound;

Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,

Appear in the hall with her spectral knight,
And shrinks as he whirls her around.

H

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them pale spectres are seen;

Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl," To the health of Alonzo the brave,
And his consort the false Imogine."

A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE.

It was a fearful night; pale lightning quivered at intervals through the clouds, and the wind rose through the neighbouring wood in strange fitful blasts, which were followed only by a mysterious stillness augmenting the terrors of the hour. I knew not how got there; enough-I found myself in a dark gloomy dungeon, a torch burning at the further end was the only thing visible. In the centre of this scene of desolation, methought I saw a young female of exquisite beauty, whose luxurious hair hung in natural ringlets over a graceful and well moulded shoulder. Her form, too, was such as a statuary might have chosen for a model. In her hand was a wand, with which she beckoned me; I had scarcely advanced a few steps, when an icy coldness seized me, and by the livid effulgence of the torch, I beheld skulls scattered over the floor, and heads, severed from their bodies, laughing with grim insensibility. Claps of distant thunder now shook the building, but my own beating heart soon overpowered every other sound. A thrill of horror seized me, all the frightful recollections of my youth flashed across my brain, and I fell senseless on the ground!

When my senses returned, the morn had burst forth in all its splendour of fullness, and the chequered rays of the sun penetrated through a small aperture into this dismal abyss. The same loathsome objects were around me, looking more hideous than before; in the place of the lovely and beauteous creature, was an old withered hag, whose hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes presented an appearance truly horrible. She held a dagger which she brandished with a ghastly smile. Her black brows were knitted together, and anger darted from her eyes as she pronounc ed, like the croaking of the raven, "Child of guilt, thy hour is come." By a supernatural effort I sprang upon my legs, and seized a skull as a weapon of defence, but her bony hand had already encircled my throat; I felt a choking thirst come over me! I was paralyzed with fear; a preternatural giddiness took possession of my head, large drops of perspiration rolled down my forehead; I uttered a shrill and piercing cry, the noise of which startled me. I awoke, and found I was grasping--the bed-post.

THE STILTON CHEESE.

THERE'S many in this wondrous city
Whose wants compel them to be witty,
Not so alone in words, but in their deeds,
Whilst by our wits we can supply our needs;
He who would tamely starve deserves no pity;
But modest virtue sinks where vice oft thrives,
And merit fasts where impudence is fed,
And one man fails e'en when he next contrives
With ease to live and gain his daily bread;
But virtue is, 'tis true, its own reward,
And but for that, indeed its fate were hard;
For one may see the weak at every hour-
I mean the weak in intellectual power-
Unto the stronger fall an easy prey,
But to my tale-it so befell,

As by the way,

It might have chanc'd to any other swell,
Who, out of luck might want the needful tin-
Heaven bless the mark, where poverty is sin-
Our hero, without sup or bite,

Had kept his fast from over night,

Therefore his appetite

Was wondrous nice you'll say for one whose bowels Were pinch'd by hunger's sharp and pointed rowels, For hunting round, he from the farthest nook

Of his capacious pocket took

Three-halfpence forth, his hunger to appease ;
A penny loaf's a sorry meal, I grant,

But with some folks the more they get they want.
He bought a loaf, but wanted cheese,

And so he set his wits to work to strive,

And make three-halfpence do the work of five.
So with the air of one intent to buy,

He stepp'd into a grocer's shop hard by,
Straight pointing to a cheese of goodly round,

That with its rich look caught his longing eye, With face drawn out quite serious and profound, The while the obsequious shopman bow'd his head, 'I'm something of a connoisseur,' he said,

'In cheese;

The better thus their rich strong taste to try,

As 'tis not everything my fancy pleases,

I test my cheese, before I choose, with bread.'
The scoop soon pierced a double Glo'ster's' side,
Which fail'd to please, some others then he tried;
He waver'd long, he tasted much,
But none had the right racy touch,

Till at a piece of fine old Cheshire
His lips relax'd into a smile of pleasure;
He seem'd inclin'd to fix, yet half in doubt,
He'd eat so much, his bread was nearly out,
When, lo! a noble Stilton met his sight

That he must taste;

He smack'd his lips with undisguis'd delight,
And said in haste,

'Aye, sir, aye, that, that's the cheese.

It has the right rich racy touch for me,
But then, indeed, it is too much for me—
So cut a lumping ha'porth,' if you please.'

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN.

A favourite Recitation.

WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?-

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek,

Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Thro' the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak, On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day)

Poor Mary the maniac has been :

The trav❜ller remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

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 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 reply'd:
"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
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half pursued 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 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 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 at her sight;

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
Howl'd dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And 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 a bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to raise 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.