I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom

I saw that grief had deck'd it out—an offering for the tomb! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone

I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone

I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living gold

I knew that bounding grace of step-that symmetry of mould!

Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle,
I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile-
Even now I see her bursting forth upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!
Alas! the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne,
And on the scaffold now she stands-beside the block
alone!

The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bow'd!

Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul has pass'd

away;

The bright—the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay! The dog is moaning piteously; and, as it gurgles o'er, Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor!

The blood of beauty, wealth, and power-the heart-blood of a queen

The noblest of the Stuart race-the fairest earth hath

seen

Lapp'd by a dog! Go, think of it, in silence and alone; Then weigh against a grain of sand, the glories of a throne. H. G. BELL.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.

WHO is she, the 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.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek
Has the deadly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day,)
Poor Mary the maniac hath been;

The traveller remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the maid of the inn.

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 aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she 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 stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, "To hear the wind whistle without.'

"What a night for the abbey !" his comrade replied; 'Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, "Who should wander the ruins about.

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'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 grim spirit appear,

"For this wind might awaken the dead."

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one 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 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 alder 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 shiver'd 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 enter'd-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-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,

Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;

When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew-the hoarse ivy shook over her head-
She listen'd-nought else could she hear;

The wind ceased, 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's 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 roll'd;
She fell-and expected to die.

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Plague the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on and

fast 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 rush'd in at the door,
She cast her eyes horribly round;

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, O God! what cold horror thrill'd 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;

Not far from the road it engages the eye,

The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.

SOUTHEY

MESSIAH-A SACRED ECLOGUE.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.

The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian maids,
Delight no more. O thou my voice inspire,
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun :
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son!
From Jesse's root behold a Branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies.
The etherial Spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic Dove.
Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower.
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade;
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail;
Returning justice lift aloft her scale;

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn!
Oh spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring;
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance;
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies.
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears!
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply;
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.
So, earth receives him from the bending skies!
Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise!
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay!
Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods give way
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold:
Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day:
'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:

D

!