She thought at first it was the rain,

That dripped so loud upon the floor;
But soon she heard a voice complain,
'Pray MARY wake, and chase my pain,
Thy lover waits thee at the door.'

Quick did she rise, and quick did fly

The creaking door its hinge about ;

She strangely felt, yet knew not why,

She felt, as tho she then should die,

AS WILLIAM shivering stood without.

'Ah welcome, WILLIAM,' soon she cried,

'Thy clothes are wet, thy cheeks are cold;

'Ah very cold,' a voice replied,

'But MARY, thou shalt be my bride,

'My narrow house both us can hold.

'My journey has been long opprest,

'And perils I have undergone ;

'But, MARY, lay thee down to rest,

' And sleep upon my clay cold breast, 'We soon again shall be but one.'

Then, tho she thought so strange the sound,

So hollow, dismal, the reply,

That she would sometimes look around,

And feared each noise, that stirred the ground,

With WILLIAM's wish she did comply.

So to his breast he did her fold,

And round her neck his arms entwine;

Yet oft she said, as since she told,

'Sweet love, thy limbs are marble cold ;

And he, 'Oh MARY, thou art mine.”

At length she sunk in deepest sleep,

And never woke, till break of day;

Yet then she might both shake and weep,

And true, she felt some horrors creep,

For at her side no WILLIAM lay!

But MARY thought, that he might choose
To welcome all the rustics near ;

So dressed; and still no time to lose,
Ran round to tell the curious news;

Yet scarce she dared, opprest by fear.

She said her WILLIAM had come back,

And asked, if they had marked his tread;

The neighbors all looked blue and black,

And cried; Ah no, alack, alack,'

For well they knew, that he was dead.

I will not wound your gentle soul,

To tell how MARY stood aghast ;
Her eyeballs seemed no more to roll,
She groaned; and if you knew her dole,

You well might wish, it were her last.

The neighbors say, that she must die,

She neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps,

But all the time in fits will cry,

'Poor WILLIAM to thy MARY fly ;'

And then by turns she laughs and weeps.

ODE,

WRITTEN FOR THE BOSTON FEMALE ASYLUM, AND SUNG AT THE ANNIVERSARY, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

BLEST is the meekened spirit given

To hush affliction's piercing throe; Soft, as the dews distilled from heaven,

Yet purer, than the printless snow.

to

And blest religion's light benign,

Whose charm arrests the embrio care,

Leads the young mind to mercy's shrine,
And wins the infant's grateful prayer.

To save from ruin's hurrying flame,

Or ravish from the whelming wave,

How bright the tributary fame!

How rich the meed, that waits the brave!

Nor shall the muse forget the power,
Whose secret gifts, to pity paid,

Protect the modest, opening flower,

And shelter in its fostering shade.

Sweet Charity, thy voice divine

Can every balm of care impart ;

The praise of rescued want is thine,

The incense of the feeling heart.