No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek,
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:

Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak
On that withered breast, and her weather-worn cheek
Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;

The Traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

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.

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 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 listened to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side,
To hear the wind whistle without."

"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
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's grim 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 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 elder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night was dark and the wind was high;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.

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.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments she fearlessly passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

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,
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.

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 rolled,—

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,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

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,
For a moment the hat met her view ;-
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For-what a cold horror then thrilled 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;

His irons you still from the road may espy;

The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;
And his bow lay unstrung beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.
For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hushed and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on the attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,

And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a withered oak, On the deep dream of age his accents broke. And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said,— "I listened for the words, which years ago Passed o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. "Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride,

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenMany, but bringing naught like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls as with the morning's wings.
"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of One, the grave's dark bonds who broke,
And our hearts burned within us as he spoke.
"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for there are none that die, And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!' He came to guide us thither; but away The Happy called him, and he might not stay. "We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime: Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time-
Therefore we hoped-but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes-and finds not him!
"We gathered round him in the dewy hour

Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice at first the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swelled, and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids fluttered, and his head
Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung-
Know'st thou not how we pass to join the dead?

It is enough! he sank upon my breast-
Our friend that loved us,-he was gone to rest!