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No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek,

Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom half bare; and her cheek Has the deadly pale hue of despair!

Yet cheerful and happy-nor distant the day-
Poor Mary the maniac has been :

The traveller 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 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 burn'd 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 should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake o'er 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 gloomy, 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 rose dim on the sight:

Through the gateway she enter'd-she felt not afraidYet 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 arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased 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 paused 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 ceased, 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 roll'd !—

She fell-and expected to die!

"Curse the hat!"-he exclaims-"Nay, come on, and first hide

The dead body!" his comrade replies,

She 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 gazed horribly eager around:

Her limbs could support their faint burden no more :
But 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, O heaven! 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 traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn!

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory."

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
While little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;

"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they killed each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

"And every body prais'd the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

But 'twas a famous victory."

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