And round the baby fast and close Her trembling arms she folds, And with a strong convulsive grasp The little infant holds. "Now help me, Jesus!" loud she cries, And loud he shriek'd, for now his frame The huge black arms clasp'd round, And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger Adown the dark profound. DONICA. In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshow either the death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water. It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said: Fair Maids, why keep you company with this dead Virgin, whom you suppose to be alive? when, taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion. The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635. HIGH on a rock whose castled shade The fisher in the lake below The cattle from its ominous banks In wild alarm would run, And when the tempest from its base And ever then when death drew near The Lord of Arlinkow was old, A bloom as bright as opening morn Flush'd o'er her clear white cheek; The music of her voice was mild, Her full dark eyes were meek. Far was her beauty known, for none Together did they hope to tread The pleasant path of life, For now the day drew near to make The eve was fair and mild the air, And brightly o'er the water stream'd And gamboll'd at her side. Youth, health, and love bloom'd on her ches Her soul's meek tenderness. Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale Sigh'd through the long lank sedge; The air was hush'd, no little wave Dimpled the water's edge. Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth And slowly o'er the waters sail'd As those deep sounds of death arose, Though parch'd with thirst, and faint beneath And in the arms of Eberhard The summer's scorching sun. For sometimes when no passing breeze The long lank sedges waved, All white with foam and heaving high Its deafening billows raved; The lifeless maiden fell. Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd, And with a wild and eager look MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. The subject of the following ballad was related to me, when a school-boy, as a fact which had happened in the north of England. Either Furnes or Kirkstall-Abbey (I forgot which) was named as the scene. It seems, howover, to have been founded upon a story related in Dr. Plot's History of Staffordshire. "Amongst the unusual accidents," says this amusing author, "that have attended the female sex in the course of their lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escapes they have made from death. Whereof I met with one mentioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that happened not far off at the Black Meer of Morridge which, though famous for nothing for which it is commonly reputed so (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or birds fly over or settle upon it, all which I found false;) yet is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman, enticed thither in a dismal stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who had first gotten her with child, and intended in this remote inhospitable place to have dispatched her by drowning. The same night (Providence so ordering it) there were several persons of inferior rank drinking in an ale-house at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a stout man indeed that would venture to go to the Black Meer of Morridge in such a night as that to which one of them replying, that for a crown or some such sum he would undertake it, the rest joining their purse, said he should have his demand. The bargain being struck, away he went on his journey with a stick in his hand, which he was to leave there as a testimony of his performance. At length coming near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at first put him to a stand; but being a man of great resolution and some policy, he went boldly on, however, counterfeiting the presence of divers other persons, calling Jack, Dick, and Tom, and crying Here are the rogues we look'd for, which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman and fled; whom the other man found by the Meer side almost stript of her clothes, and brought her with him to Leck, as an ample testimony of his having been at the Meer, and of God's providence too." Wao is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildlyfix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress. No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek; Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair. Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, delight Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with | O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid As she welcomed them in with a smile; Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, | Through the gate-way she enter’d, she felt And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night not afraid, When the wind whistled down the dark Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. aisle. She loved, and young Richard had settled And she hoped to be happy for life: say That she was too good for his wife. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was And fast were the windows and door. 'Tis pleasant, cried one, seated by the fire-side To hear the wind whistle without. All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough; She paused, and she listen'd all eager to What a night for the Abbey! his comrade The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over replied, Methinks a man's courage would now be Who should wander the ruins about. I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear her head, She listen'd-nonght else could she hear The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Behind a wide column, half breathless with Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead! 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 Again the rough wind hurried by,- She felt, and expected to die. Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come an The dead body, his comrade replies. |