And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such,
That she grew a NOBLE LADY,

And the people loved her much.

7. But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burden of an honor

Unto which she was not born.

(p.) Faint she grew, and ever fainter,

As she murmured:

Oh, that he

Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"

EXERCISE CXLV.

THE MAID OF THE INN.

SOUTHEY.

1. Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

2. No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom, half-bare; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

3. Yet cheerful and happy, nor 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.

4. 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.

5. 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.

6. 'T was in Autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burned bright, And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,

They listened to hear the wind roar.

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

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

8. "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 ugly old abbot's white spirit appear;
For this wind might awaken the dead."

9 "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."

10. "Will Mary this be on her courage allów ?”
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.”

11. 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 swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

12. O'er the path, so well known, still 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.

13. 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.

14. 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.

15. The wind blew; the hoarse ivy shook over her head ;She listened; naught else could she hear.

The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins-distinctly-the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

16. 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!

17. 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!

[hide

18. "Curse the hat!" he exclaims; "Nay, come, on and first
The dead body," his comrade replies ;—
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the abbey she flies.

19. 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.

20. 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, O God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew!

21. 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.

1. Oh, sleep not, my babe, for the morn of to-morrow
Shall soothe me to slumber more tranquil than thine ;
The dark grave shall shield me from shame and from sorrow,
Though the deeds and the gloom of the guilty are mine.
Not long shall the arm of affection enfold thee;

Not long shalt thou hang on thy mother's fond breast; And who with the eye of delight shall behold thee,

And watch thee, and guard thee, when I am at rest?

2. And yet it doth grieve me to wake thee, my dearest, The pangs of thy desolate mother to see;

Thou wilt weep when the clank of my cold chain thou hearest, And none but the guilty shall mourn over me.

And yet I must wake thee-for while thou art weeping, To calm thee, I stifle my tears for awhile;

But thou smil'st in thy dreams, while thus placidly sleeping, And, Oh, how it wounds me to gaze on thy smile!

3. Alas! my sweet babe, with what pride had I pressed the To the bosom that now throbs with terror and shame, If the pure tie of virtuous affection had blessed thee,

And hailed thee the heir of thy father's high name!
But now, with remorse that avails not, I mourn thee,-
Forsaken and friendless, as soon thou wilt be,

In a world, if it can not betray, that will scorn thee--
Avenging the guilt of thy mother on thee!

4. And, when the dark thought of my fate shall awaken
The deep blush of shame on thy innocent cheek;
When by all but the God of the orphan forsaken,
A home and a father in vain thou shalt seek;