"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid, 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 Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear, The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, 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, It blew off the hat of the one, and behold! "Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on till we hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beholds 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, But, exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For what a cold horror then 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; His irons you still from the road may espy; The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.—Burns. SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Or to victory! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See approach proud Edward's power- Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha for Scotland's King and law By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE-Wordsworth. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; You yet may spy the fawn at play, "To-night will be a stormy night "That, father! will I gladly do ; At this the father raised his hook Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time; The wretched parents, all that night, At daybreak on a hill they stood, And thence they saw the bridge of wood, And, turning homeward, now they cried, Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed; They followed from the snowy bank Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.-Goldsmith. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way, |