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 corse they did 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 roll'd:

She fell-and expected to die.

"Curse the hat!"-he exclaim'd-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 supplied,

As 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 the 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 horrors thrill'd thro' her heart
When the name of her Richard she knew!

Where the old abbey stands on a 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.

A CELEBRATED PREACHER.

THE Rev. Dr. is what is commonly denominated 'a celebrated preacher.' His reputation, however, has not been acquired by drawing largely upon his own stores of knowledge and eloquence, but by the skill with which he appropriates the thoughts and language of the great divines who have gone before him. Fortunately for him, those who compose a fashionable audience are not deeply read in pulpit lore, and accordingly, with such hearers, he passed for a wonder of erudition and pathos. It did, nevertheless, happen that the doctor was once detected in his plagiarisms. One Sunday, as he was beginning to delight the sprightly beaux and belles belonging to

his congregation, a grave old gentleman seated himself close to the pulpit, and listened with profound attention. The doctor had scarcely finished his third sentence, before the said gentleman muttered loudly enough to be heard by those that were near him, "That's Sherlock !' The doctor frowned, but went on. He had not proceeded much further, when his tormenting interruptor broke out with That's Tillotson!' The doctor bit his lips, and paused, but again thought it better to pursue the thread of his discourse. A third exclamation of 'That's Blair's!' was however too much, and completely exhausted all his patience. Leaning over the pulpit, Fellow,' he cried, if you do not hold your tongue, you shall be turned out.' Without altering a muscle of his countenance, the grave old gentleman lifted up his head, and looking the doctor in the face, retorted, That's his own.'

6

NOTHING AT ALL.

IN Derry Down Dale, when I wanted a mate,
I went wi' my dad a courting to Kate;
Wi' a nose gay so fine, and my holiday clothes,
My hands in my pockets, a-courting I goes.
The weather was cold and my bosom was hot,
My heart on a gallop, t'old meare on a trot,
Naw I wur so bashful and loving withal,

My tongue stuck to my mouth ;-I said nothing

'Heigho!'-'Dang it,' says feyther, what for does't thou talk; one might as weel hae naebody wi' them os thee'-' Why,' says I, I's sure, I talk'd plenty as we com ower t'lang meadow,' Aye,' says he, 'what about ?— About,' says I, why about about

Nothing at all!-Ri fol de rol, &c.

When we came to the door, I lumpish and glum!
The rapper I held 'twixt my finger and thum;
Tap went the knocker, and Kate shew'd her chin:
She chuckled and duckled-I bow'd and walk'd in,
Now I wur as bashful as bashful could be,

And Kitty poor lass! wur as bashful as me;

So I bowed, and she grinned, and let my hat fall;
Then I smiled- -scratch'd my head-and said-

'I-I-I's com'd'- Yes, sur,' says she, I see ye's com❜d, what's your business wi' I?' 'Why (says I) I hean't much business, I's com❜d to-to-to'- To what?' says she- Why, (says I) to-to-to'-' Dang it,' says feyther, and he hits me a

great drive ower't chops, tell her thou's com❜d to make love till her at yance'- Eees,' says I, Feyther says as how I's com'd to make-to make'- To make what?' says she, 'Why,' says I, to make

Nothing at all!-Ri fol de rol, &c.

If bashful wur I, no less bashful the maid,

For she simper'd and blush'd, wi' her apron strings play'd;
Till the old folks, impatient to have the thing done,
Agreed little Kitty and I should be one.

In silence us young folks just nodded consent;

Hand in hand to the church to be married we went;
Where we answered the parson, in voices so small,

Ecod, I shall never forget, it wur so comical. Parson turns to me wi' a face as grave as a church yard, and he says to me, Wull, says he to me, will tua hae this young woman to be thy wedded wife ?-Ees, says I, I brought her here o' purpose. So he turns to Kitty, and he says, Kitty, will you hae this young man to be thy wedded husband? Dang me, if Kitty warn't quite shocked, she blush'd, and she stammer'd, and she twitter'd, and wur quite in a state of conflammery gastuation, as a body may say; and so she says to the parson, says she, sur-I-I

Nothing at all!-Ri fol de rol, &c.

But mark what a change in the course of a week;
Now Kate left off blushing, and Wully could speak,
Could play wi' my deary, laugh loud at a jest,
She could coax too, and fondle as well as the best.
Now we laugh at past follies, and since we've declar'd
To encourage young folks who at wedlock are scar'd,
That if once to your aid some insurance you call,-
May kiss and get married, and get married, and-

Ecod, it wor nought when it wor over, just like hanging. But I shall never forget that day, there were sic fiddling, sic feasting, and sic dancing. But when it began to get rather late, I gi'es Kate a nudge, and says I, Brush! and then I made a bit of a speech to the company; says I, Nybours-bridemaids, bridegroom, I'll thank you all to make a clean sweep; and I hope you'll all come again this day nine months, when I will shew you aShew us what, says yan. Why, says I, I'll shew you -a-a-a

Nothing at all!-Ri fol de rol, &c.

THE DEAF MAN'S GRAVE.

ALMOST at the root

Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,
Oft stretches towards me like a long straight path,
Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath
A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies,
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up
From year to year in loneliness of soul;
And this deep mountain valley was to him
Soundless with all its streams. The bird of dawn
Did never rouse this cottager from sleep

With startling summons: not for his delight

The vernal cuckoo shouted; nor for him

Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds
Were working the broad bosom of the lake
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,
Rocking the trees, and driving cloud on cloud,
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,
The agitated scene before his eye
Was silent as a picture: evermore

Were all things silent wheresoe'er he moved,
Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts
Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labours; the steep mountain-side
Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog;
The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;
And the ripe corn before his sickle fell
Among the jocund reapers. For himself,
All watchful and industrious as he was,

He wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned:
No wish for wealth had place within his mind;
Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care.
Though born a younger brother, need was none
That from the floor of his paternal home
He should depart, to plant himself anew.
And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

His parents laid in earth, no less ensued

Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,
By the pure bond of independent love,

An inmate of a second family,

The fellow-labourer and friend of him

To whom the small inheritance had fallen.

Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight That pressed upon his brother's house; for books

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire,-
Of whose society the blameless man

Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,
Even to old age, with unabated charm

Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his thoughts;
Beyond its natural elevation raised

His introverted spirit; and bestowed
Upon his life an outward dignity

Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,
The stormy day, had each its own resource;
Song of the muses, sage historic tale,
Science severe, or word of holy writ
Announcing immortality and joy

To the assembled spirits of the just,
From imperfection and decay secure.

Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,
To no perverse suspicion he gave way,
No languid peevishness, no vain complaint:
And they who were about him did not fail
In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized
His gentle manners :-and his peaceful smiles,
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,
Were met with answering sympathy and love.

At length, when sixty years and five were told, A slow disease insensibly consumed

The powers of nature; and a few short steps
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home
(Yon cottage, shaded by the woody crags,)
To the profounder stillness of the grave.
Nor was his funeral denied the grace
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.

And now that monumental stone preserves
His name, and unambitiously relates
How long, and by what kindly outward aids,
And in what pure contentedness of mind,
The sad privation was by him endured.
And yon tall pine-tree whose composing sound
Was wasted on the good man's living ear,
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;
And at the touch of every wandering breeze,
Murmurs not idly o'er his peaceful grave.