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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 earShe 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. 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 corpse did they bear. Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold !
Again the rough wind hurried by-
She fell--and expected to die. “ Lift the hat !” he exclaims;" Nay, come on,
and first hide
And fast through the abbey she flies.
She gaz'd horribly eager around; [more, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no 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 amazement and horror thrillid 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 seenNot far from the inn it
eye ; The trav’ller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
The quality of Mercy is not strain’d ;
mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. .
THE ORPHAN BOY. Alas! I am an Orphan boy,
With nought on earth to cheer my heart: No father's love, no mother's joy,
Nor kin nor kind, to take my part.
I eat the bread of charity;
There is no kiss, alas ! for me.
A mother too, I wont to prize, With ready hand to wipe the tear
If chanc'd a childish tear to rise : But cause of tears was rarely found;
For all my heart was youthful glee; And, when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me!
What is a War I cannot tell;
And loudly rang our village bell.
I thought! nor could I thence foresee That, when the kiss of love went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me. A scarlet coat my father took,
And sword, as bright as bright could be ! And feathers that so gaily look,
All in a shining cap had he.
Alas ! I thought it fine to see;
There soon should be no kiss for me.
My mother sigh’d, my mother wept,
My father talk'd of wealth and fame;
Till I, to see her, did the same.
My father mounts with shout and glee; Then gave a kiss to all around;
And ah! how sweet a kiss to me!
But, when I found he rode so far,
And came not home, as heretofore, I said it was a naughty War,
And lov'd the fife and drum no more. My mother oft in tears was drown’dNor
merry tale, nor song had she: And when the hour of night came round,
Sad was the kiss she gave to me. At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory they said ; 'Twas what my father said he'd bring;
But ah! it brought my father dead. My mother shriek’d; her heart was woe; She clasp'd me to her trembling knee: that you
will never know How wild a kiss she gave to me. But once again—but once again
These lips a mother's kisses felt; That once again—that once again
The tale a heart of stone would melt; 'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,
(Alas! alas! that sight to see!) “My child !—my child!” she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.
So now, I am an Orphan Boy,
With nought below my heart to cheer:
Nor kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear.
Í eat the bread of charity;
THE STUDIOUS MECHANIC.
Down a close street, whose darksome shops display Old clothes and iron on both sides the
way; Loathsome and wretched, whence the eye in pain Averted turns, nor seeks to view again; Where lowest dregs of human nature dwell, More loathsome than the rust and rags they sell;A pale mechanic rents an attic floor; By many a shatter'd stair you gain the door: 'Tis one poor room whose blacken'd walls are hung With dust that settled there when he was young. The rusty grate two massy bricks displays, To fill the sides, and make a frugal blaze. The door unhing'd, the window patch'd and broke; The panes obscur'd by half a century's smoke: There stands the bench at which his life is spent; Worn, groov'd, and bor’d, and worm-devour'd, and Where daily, undisturb’d by foes or friends, [bent; In one unvaried attitude he bends. His tools, long practis’d, seem to understand Scarce less their functions than his own right hand. With these he drives his craft with patient skill; Year after year would find him at it still: