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The pitying Duchess praised its chime,

And gave him heart, and gave him time,

Till every string's according glee

Was blended into harmony.

And then, he said, he would full fain

He could recall an ancient strain

He never thought to sing again.

It was not framed for village churls,

But for high dames and mighty earls;

He had played it to King Charles the Good

When he kept court in Holyrood;

And much he wished, yet feared, to try,

The long-forgotten melody.

Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made—
And oft he shook his hoary head:
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled;
And lighted up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy!
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost;
Each blank in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied;
And while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.

DOOMSDAY.—Shakspeare.

Our revels now are ended: these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind! We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

THERE'S A GOOD TIME COMING.—Mackay.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray

Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid—

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord

In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,

And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming;

Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger,

Nor slaughter men for glory's sake—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed

In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,

And flourish all the stronger,
And Charity shall trim her lamp ;—

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,

The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger;
'Twill be strong enough one day;—

Wait a little longer.

MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.—Southey.

Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express 1
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies ,

The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;

Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that withered breast, and her weather-worn cheek

Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,

Poor Mary the maniac hath been; The Traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address filled 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 listened to hear the wind roar.

"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside,

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.

"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."

G

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow 1"

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 elder 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 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 elder-tree grew 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 intently to hear,

And her heart panted painfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,

She listened—nought else could she hear, The wind fell, 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.

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