"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 it was gloomy, the wind it 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 still fearless she 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 to hear,
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 fell-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,

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 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.

BRUCE

TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE

BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.—Burns.

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE-Wordsworth.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild moor,—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green :
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, father! will I gladly do ;
'Tis scarcely afternoon-
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot band ;
He plied his work ;-and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time;
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents, all that night,
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood,
That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

And, turning homeward, now they cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet!"*
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small:
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.-Goldsmith.

BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew..