Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek Has the deathly pale hue of despair. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The trav❜ller remembers, who journey'd this way, Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 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 replied; "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who would wander the ruins about. "I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; 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 !" With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Where the abbey rosé dim on the 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 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 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, 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 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 corse did they bear. Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold! "Curse the hat!" he exclaims; and first hide Nay, come on, The dead body," his comrade repliesShe beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gaz'd horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 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; ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.* GLOVER. As near Porto-Bello lying Drank success to England's fleet : *This Commander was sent, in the year 1726, with a fleet to the Spanish West Indies, to block up the galleons of the enemy in port; or, should they come out, to seize them. Being restricted from first attacking them, he continued cruising, till most of his men fell victims to the climate, and he is said to have died of a broken heart. On a sudden, shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre, "Heed, O heed our fatal story! You now triumph free from fears, "See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping- |