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Here hails har baten! Welcome the dreai teor,
The marfny plain, the briar-entangled wood,
And all the perils of a world unknown.
For Elinor has nothing new to fear
From fickle Fortune ! all her ranking shafts
Barb'd with disgrace, and renom'd with difcafe,
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death
Has lok its terrors to a wretch like me.

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Weleome ye marthy beaths' ye pathlefs woods,
Where the rude native rekts his wearier frare
Beneath the theltering flade; where, when the fiore,
As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky,
Benumbs his naked limbs, he tries to seek
The dripping Thelter. Welcome ye wild plains
Unbroken by the plough, undelo'd by hand
Of patient raftie; where for loving herds,
And for the music of the bleating flocks,
Alone is heard the kangaroo's fad fote
Deepeniog in diftance. Welcome ye rude climes,
The realm of Natare ! for as yet unknown
The crimes and comforts of luxurious life,
Nature benignly gives to all enough,
Denies to all a fuperfluity.
What tho the garb of infamy I wear,
Tho' day by day along the echoing beach
I call the wave-worn thells, yet day by day
I earn in honefty my frigal food,
And lay me down at night to calm report,
No more condemn’d the mercenary tool
Of brutal luft, while heaves the indignant heart
With Vinue's stifled figh, to fold my arms
Round the rank felon, and for daily bread
To hug contagion to my poison'd breatt;
On there wild Thores Repentance' faviour hand
Shall probe my fecret foul, thall cleanse its wounds
And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven.

Mary the diaid of the Inx.

(From the same Work. ]



JHO is she, the poor Maniac, whole wildly-fix'd cyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply the fighs : She never complains, but her filence implies

The compofure of settled distrets.




No aid, no compaflion the Maniac will seek;

Cold and hunger awake not her care :
Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her shoek

Has the deathly pale hue of despair.


Yet chearful and happy, nor diftant the day,

Poor Mary the maniac has been ;
The traveller remembers who journeyed this way
No damsel so lovely, no damsel fo gay

As Mary the Maid of the Ina.

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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 aille.


She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And the 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 formy and dark was the night,

And faft were the windows and door ;.
Two guests fat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence with tranquil delight

They liften'd to hear the wind roar,


« 'Tis pleasant,” cried one, “ seated by the fire fide

“ 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.

M 3

« I myself


I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear.

“ The hoarse ivy shake over my head; “ And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, “ Some ugly old Abbot's white fpirit appear,

For this wind might awaken the dead !"

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“ I'll wager a dinner," the other onc 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 carn 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 the bent :
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept thro' the lky

She fhiver'd with cold as she went.


O'er the path so well known ftill proceeded the Maid

Where the Abbey rose dim on the light,
Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade

Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.


All around her was filent, fave when the rude blaft

Howl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless fhe past,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last

Where the elder tree grew in the aisle.

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Well-pleas'a did the reach it, and quickly drew near

And haftily gather'd the bough;
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,
She paus'd, and the listen'd, all eager to hear,

And her heart panted fearfully now.


The wind blew, the hoarse ivy Mook over her head,

She liften'd, — nought elfe could she hear,
The wind ceas'a, her heart sunk in her bofomn with dread
For she heard in the ruins diftin&ly 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 moon-light two rutfians appear

And between them a corple 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 rollid, -

She felt, and expected to die.


" Curse the hat !” he exclaims, “ nay come on here, and hide

“ The dead body,” his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her fide, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast thro' the Abbey the flies.


She ran with wild speed, me rufh'd in at the door,

She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless the sunk on the floor Unable to utter a found.


Ere yet ber pale lips could the story impart,

For a moment the hat met her view ;Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For-roh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart,

When the naine 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 road it engages the eye,
The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a ligh

Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.

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