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With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;
She shiver'd with cold as she went.
Where the abbey rose dim on the fight ;
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
Howld dilmally round the old pile;
Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.
And haftily gather'd the bough;
“And her heart panted fearfully now. The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head:
She listen’dnaught else could she hear.
Of footsteps approaching her near.
She crept to conceal herself there:
And between them a corpse did they bear.
Again the rough wind hurry'd by-
She fell—and expected to die. “ Curse the hat!” he exclaims; * nay come on, and first
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,
And fast through the abbey fhe flies.
around; Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she funk on the floor,
Unable to utter found.
For a moment the hat met her view;
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;
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
THREE BLACK CROWS.
WO honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
-Nay, but it's really true;
From whose, I prayl fo having nam’d the man,
I find him ?-Why, in such a place. Away goes he, and having found him out, Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt, Then to his last informant he referr'd, And begg’d to know, if true what he had heard; Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow?--Not I!Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here I find all comes at last to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all? Crow_Crow-perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over- And pray, Sir, what was’t?Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, Something that was as black, Sir, as a crow.
And many a bubble on its breast it bore, Which, quickly bursting, vanish'd from my eye,
And scarcely was created, ere no more. I saw the western sky with gold o'erspread,
Glowing with purple and with crimson bright; A minute pass’d-and every tint was fled
And lost, and blended with oblivious night.
On thee, O wretched man! my thought was turn'd;
For thee th' involuntary tear did flow; Thy fleeting happiness I inly mourn'd;
For, ah! by lad experience, well I know, Life's fairelt views are but an airy dream, Frail as the transient cloud, or bubble on thé ftream.
THE SAILOR-AN ELEGY.
"HË Sailor fighs as sinks his native shore, He climbs the maft to feast his eyes once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.
Recallid and cherish'd in a foreign clime;
Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This the last wish with which its warmth could part,
To meet the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve’s grey cloud descends to drink the wave; When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, ftill he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hov’ring o’er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows sound him roar,
Whispers sweet Hope to soothe his troubled foul. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain foreit, waving wide ; Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o’er-arch the yellow tide. But, lo! at last, he comes with crowded fail!
Lo! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And, hark! what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furld; Soon, through the whit’ning surge, he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
ELL me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found?
THE FROGS-AN ODE.
Were sporting midst the funny ray,
In a large pool reflecting ev'ry face;
And gambol?d through the water with a grace.
Observant of their harmless joys,