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And round the baby fast and close

And when the tempest from its base Her trembling arms she folde,

The rooted pine would shake, And with a strong convulsive grasp

The powerless storm unruffling swept The little infant holds.

Across the calm dead lake.

“Now help me, Jesus!” loud she cries,

And loud on God she calls; Then from the grasp of Rudiger

The little infant falls.

And ever then when death drew near

The house of Arlinkow,
Its dark unfathom'd waters sent

Strange music from below.

'The Lord of Arlinkow was old, And loud he shriek'd, for now his frame

One only child had he, The huge black arms clasp'd round,

Donica was the maiden's name, And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger

As fair as fair might be. Adown the dark profound.

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. D O N I CA. In Finland there is a Castle which is called the Far was her beauty known, for none New Rock, moated about with a river of un- So fair could Finland boast; sounded depth, the water black, and the fish Her parents loved the maiden much, therein very distasteful to the palate. In this

Young EBERHARD loved her most. are spectres often seen, which foreshow either the death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belonging to the place; and most com

Together did they hope to tread monly it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweeily singing and dallying and playing under

The pleasant path of life, the water. It is reported of one Donica, that For now the day drew near to make after she was dead, the Devil walked in her Donica Eberhard's wife. 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 in

The eve was fair and mild the air, she had a deep paleness on her countenance, Along the lake they stray ; which was the only sign of death. At length a The eastern hill reflected bright Magician coming by where she was then in the

The tints of fading day. 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 sup- And brightly o'er the water stream*d pose to be alive? when, taking away the magic | The liquid radiance wide; Charm which was tied under her arm, the body | Donica's little dog ran on fell down lifeless and without motion.

The following Ballad is founded on these sto And gambollid at her side. ries. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels; a Poem by

Youth, health, and love bloom'd on her che
Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam
Islip, 1635.

Her full dark eyes express
In many a glance to Eberhard

Her soul's meek tenderness.
High on a rock whose castled shade
Darken'd the lake below,

Nor sonnd was heard, nor passing gale In ancient strength majestic stood

Sigh'd through the long lank sedge; The towers of Arlinkow.

The air was hush'd, no little wave

Dimpled the water's edge.
The fisher in the lake below
Durst never cast his net,

Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth Nor ever swallow in its waves

Its music from beneath, Her passing wing would wet.

And slowly o’er the waters sail'd

The solemn sounds of death. The cattle from its ominous banks

As those deep sounds of death arose, In wild alarm would run,

Donica's cheek grew pale,
Though parch'd with thirst, and faint beneath

And in the arms of Eberhard
The summer's scorching sun.

The lifeless maiden fell.

For sometimes when no passing breeze

The long lank sedges waved,
All white with foam and heaving high

Its deafening billows raved;

Loudly the youth in terror shriek d.

And loud he call'd for aid,
And with a wild and eager look

Gazed on the lifeless maid.


But soon again did better thoughts

In Eberhard arise, And he with trembling hope beheld

The maiden raise her eyes.


And on his arm reclined she moved

With feeble pace and slow, And soon with strength recover'd reach'd

The towers of Arlinkow.

Yet never to Donica's cheek

Return'd the lively hue; Her cheeks were deathy white and wan,

Her lips a livid blue.

Her eyes so bright and black of yore

Were now more black and bright, And beam'd strange lustre in her face

So deadly wan and white:

The dog that gambollid by her side,

And loved with her to stray, Now at his alter'd mistress howld,

And fled in fear away.

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 Furneg 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 80, 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 ehild, 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; whoin 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."

Yet did the faithful Eberhard

Not love the maid the less; He gazed with sorrow, but he gazed

With deeper tenderness.

And when he found her health unharm'd,

He would not brook delay,
But press'd the not unwilling maid

To fix the bridal day.

And when at length it came, with joy

He hail'd the bridal day,
And onward to the house of God

They went their willing way.

But when they at the altar stood,

And heard the sacred rite, The hallow'd tapers dimly stream'd

A pale sulphureous light.

Wao is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly

fix'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.

And when the Youth with holy warmth

Her hand in his did hold, Sudden he felt Donica's hand

Grow deadly damp and cold.

And loudly did he shriek, for lo!

A Spirit met his view,
And Eberhard in the angel-form

His own Donica knew.

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 weather

worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

That instant from her earthly frame

Howling the Daemon fled, And at the side of Eberhard

The livid form fell dead.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the Maniac hath been; The Traveller remembers who journey'd

this way No damsel 60 lovely, no damisel so gay, 1 As Mary the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address filld the guests with O'er the path so well known still proceeded delight

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 fel 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 aisle.


Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night She loved, and young Richard had settled

the day, And she hoped to be happy for life:

All around her was silent, save when the

rude blast But Richard was idle and worthless, and they

Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Who knew him would pity poor Mary and

Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlesals say

past, That she was too good for his wife.

And arrived at the innermost rain at last.

Where the elder-tree grew in the aiske. 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was

the night,

Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly And fast were the windows and door.

drew near, Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt

And hastily gather'd the bough; bright,

When the sound of a voice seem'd to ris And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight

on her ear, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

She paused, and she listend all eager !


And her heart panted fearfully now. "Tis pleasant, cried one, seated by the fire-side

To hear the wind whistle without. What a night for the Abbey! his comrade The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook ere

replied, Methinks a man's courage would now be

her head, She listen'd-nonght else could she bee well tried

The wind fell, her heart sunk in her boutin Who should wander the ruins about.

with dread, For she heard in the rains distinctly the

tread I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble of footsteps approaching her near.

to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Rohindar

fear, Behind a wide column, half breathless with Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear,

fear, For this wind might awaken the dead!

She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark clou

shone clear, I'll wager a dinner, the other one cried,

And she saw in the moon-light two rufia That Mary would venture there now.

appear, Then wager and lose! with a sneer he replied, And between them a corpse did they bec I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood cards

cold ! Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? Again the rough wind hurried by

His companion exclaim'd with a smile; It blew off the hat of the one, and, behall I shall win,- for I know she will venture Even close to the feet of poor Marsi there now,

roll'd, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough! She felt, and expected to die.

From the elder that grows in the aisle.

Curse the hat! he exclaims; nay come e With fcarless good-humour did Mary comply,

till we hide And her way to the Abbey she bent; The dead body, his comrade replies. The night it was dark,and thewind it was high, She beholds them in safety pass on by het And as hollowly howling it swept through

side, the sky,

She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplies She shiver'd with cold as she went. | And fast through the Abbey she flies

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at He listen'd_and he heard the wind

the door,

| That waved the willow-tree; She gazed horribly eager around, He heard the waters flow along, • Then her limbs could support their faint And murmur quietly.

burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on He listend for the traveller's tread.

the floor,

The nightingale sung sweet, --Unable to utter a sound.

He started up, for now he heard

The sound of coming feet ;

Ere yet her pale lips could the story He started up and graspt a stake,


And waited for his prey; For a moment the hat met her view ;- There came a lonely traveller, Her eyes from that object convulsively And Jaspar crost his way.

start, For — what a cold horror then thrill'a Rut

But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd

through her heart! The traveller to appal, When the name of her Richard she we

she He would not lightly yield the purse knew!

Which held his little all.

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common Awhile he struggled, but he strove

hard by,

With Jaspar's strength in vain; His gibbet is now to be seen ;

Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd, His irons you still from the road may espy, And never spake again. The traveller beholds them and thinks with

a sigh

Jaspar raised up the murder'd man, Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. And plunged him in the flood,

And in the running water then

He cleansed his hands from blood.

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