MARY, THE MATH OF THE INN.
Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fixed 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 a" ake not her care;
Thro’ the rags do the winds of 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 welcom’d 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 lov’d— and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hop’d to be happy for life ;
But Richard was 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.
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