Down the long minster's aisle Crowds mutely gazing streamed, Through mists of incense gleamed. And, by the torches' blaze, They lowered him, with the sound "Forbear! forbear!" it cried; "By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine: Hath borne for me and mine; "By the house e'en here o'erthrown, "Will my sire's unransomed field, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave! In the name of Heaven, I forbid that the body of the spoiler be placed there, and that it be covered by my glebe.' The man who spoke was named Asselin, and all the bystanders confirmed the truth of his assertions. The Bishops made him approach, and agreed to pay him sixty sous for the place of sepulture alone, and to compensate him justly for the rest of the ground."-THIERRY'S Hist. of the Conquest of England by the Normans. "The tree before him fell Which we cherished many a year; "The land that I have tilled Hath been wet by weeping eyes— Where no wrong against him cries." Shame glowed on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! The name, a nation's star! One deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven: Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in Heaven? MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. BY SOUTHEY. WHO is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek, Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The Traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, But Richard was idle and worthless, and they '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, ""Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, "What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about. "I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear "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 ?" "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Through the gateway she entered,—she felt not afraid, All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-covered fragments she fearlessly passed, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. 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 intently, in fear, And her heart panted painfully now. The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listened-nought else could she hear; The wind fell; 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, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold; It blew off the hat of the one, and, behold! She felt, and expected to die. "Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on till we hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, And fast through the Abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed,—she rushed in at the door,— She gazed in her terror 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. Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen; His irons you still from the road may espy; The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh |