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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,
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 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;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded 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 dark, and 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 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
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 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,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

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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.

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!
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 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,
For a moment the hat met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For, oh, God! what cold horror thrill'd through
her heart,

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;
The trav❜ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.*

GLOVER.

As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There, while Vernon sat all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat;
And his crews, with shouts victorious,

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;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appear'd;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And, with looks of horror clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale band was seen to muster,
Rising from their wat❜ry grave:
O'er the glimm'ring wave he hied him,
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail :-

"Heed, O heed our fatal story!
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
You, who now have purchas'd glory
At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto- Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.

"See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping-
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold;
Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

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