Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our COUNTRY yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear, for her to live!—with her to die!

He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm!
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or DEATH!—the watchword and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm!-

In vain-alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your vollied thunder flew: Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo! Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell!

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails! the rampart yields awayBursts the wild cry of horror and dismay! Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! Earth shook!-red meteors flash'd along the sky! And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry!

O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God?

That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar?
Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
And heaved an ocean on their march below?

Departed spirits of the MIGHTY DEAD!-
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!

Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own!
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return

The patriot TELL-the BRUCE of BANNOCKBURN!

Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Campbell.

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 the 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, has 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 burn'd 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."

"A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied:
Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,
Who would wander the ruins about.

"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 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 exclaim'd, 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
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd 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-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!

"Curse the hat!"-he exclaims-" Nay, come on, and fast The dead body!" his comrade replies.

She beheld 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 look'd horribly eager around:

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,

[hide

For, Ó Heaven! what cold horror thrill'd thro' 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 inn it engages the eye;

The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Lord Ullin's Daughter.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry!"

Southey

""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, "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 would wander the ruins about.

"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 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 exclaim'd, 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
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd 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!