With fearless good humor did Mary comply, And her way to the abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid, All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle. Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear- And her heart panted fearfully now! The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head; Of footsteps approaching her near. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood curdle cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and behold! Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled! "Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay come on, and first hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view; eyes from that object convulsively start, Her For, O God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart When the name of her Richard she knew. Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, Not far from the inn it engages the eye, The traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, SOUTHEY ARNOLD WINKELRIED. "MAKE way for liberty!". he cried; Made way for liberty, and died!- It did depend on one indeed; There sounds not to the trump of fame Unmarked he stood amid the throng, Till you might see, with sudden grace, And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. Swift to the breach his comrades fly: Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all: An earthquake could not overthrow Thus Switzerland again was free; MONTGOMERY THE MANIAC STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe! I am not mad, I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer: He smiles in scorn, and turns the key; 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ; Which never more my heart must glad, Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away; They 'll make me mad, they 'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone: None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free! unbar the door! I am not mad; I am not mad. ? Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? He comes, I see his glaring eyes; Help! help!-- He's gone! Oh! fearful woe, I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon; - for, lo you !— while I speak - Your task is done - I'm mad! I'm mad! THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND THE spearmen heard the bugle sound, And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer Come, Gelert, thou wert ne'er the last Lewellyn's horn to hear. Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, The flower of all his race? So true, so brave, a lamb at home, A lion in the chase!" 'T was only at Lewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentineled his bed. In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now, no Gelert could be found, And all the chase rode on. And now, as o'er the rocks and dells LEWIS |