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,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered 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 entered, 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-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle.
Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough-
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear-
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now!
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head;
She listened; - naught 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 rolled!
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay come on, and first
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 rushed in at the door,
She gazed horribly eager around;
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And 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; eyes from that object convulsively start,
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,
His gibbet is now to be seen;
Not far from the inn it engages the eye,
The traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.
Made way for liberty, and died!-
It must not be this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power!
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she cannot yield ·
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he,
On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed;
Behold him Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And, by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 't was no sooner thought than done!
The field was in a moment won:-
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp ;
Ten spears he swept within his
grasp:
"Make way for liberty!" he cried,
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly:
"Make way for liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all:
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free;
Thus death made way for liberty!
STAY, jailer, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now, too well I know,
And what I was, and what should be.
I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad:
But yet I firmly, truly swear,
I am not mad, I am not mad.
My tyrant husband forged the tale
Which chains me in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown my friends bewail-
Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell :
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer:
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad, I am not mad.
He smiles in scorn, and turns the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, stili, still I see
'Tis gone! and all is gloom again.
Cold, bitter cold! - No warmth no light!-
Life, all thy comforts once I had ;
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ;
What! 1, the child of rank and wealth,-
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,
Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head;
But 'tis not mad; no, 't is not mad.
Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with her you sued to stay;
Nor how that suit your sire forbade ;
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?
His chain some furious madman breaks;
He comes, I see his glaring eyes;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Help! help!-- He's gone! Oh! fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain, I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes, soon; - for, lo you !— while I speak -
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air.
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay, laugh, ye fiends; - I feel the truth;
Your task is done - I'm mad! I'm mad!
THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND
THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a dog and many a hound
Obeyed Lewellyn's horn.
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
The gallant chidings rise,
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