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Mary, The Maid Of The Inn

Creator: Robert Southey (author)
Date: 1846
Publisher: T.W. Strong
Source: American Antiquarian Society


Page 1:

1  

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes
Seem a heart over charg'd to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains -- but silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

2  

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care;
Thro' 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.

3  

Yet cheerful and happy (nor distant the day,)
Poor Mary, the Maniac, has been;
The trav'ller remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the maid of the Inn.

4  

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 isle.

5  

She lov'd -- and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hop'd 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 to -sic- good for his wife.

6  

'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 silent and tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.

7  

'Twas 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.

8  

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.

9  

'I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried,
That Mary would venture there now:
Then wager and loose with a sneer he replied
I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow.

10  

'Will Mary this charge on her courage allow,
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 alder that grows in the aisle.

11  

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

12  

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight:
Tho' the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and the 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 whole pile;
Over wood-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd,
And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.

13  

Well pleas'd did she reach it and quickly drew near,
And hastly gather'd the bough;
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,
She paus'd and she listen'd, all eager to hear
And her heart panted fearfully now.

14  

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head;
She listened -- 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.

15  

Behind a white 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.

16  

Then Mary could feel her heart's blood curdled 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,
She fell -- and expected to die.

17  

'Curse the hat,' he exclaims. 'Nay, come on and first hide
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.

18  

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,
She cast her eyes horribly round;
Her limbs could support her faint burthen no more;
But exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.

19  

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start --
For, O'God! what cold horror thrill'd thro' her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew.

20  

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to been 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.

[END]