No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; Cold and hunger awake not her care. Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way, As Mary, the maid of the inn. Her cheerful address fill'd her guests with delight She loved; and young Richard had settled the day, But Richard was idle and worthless, and they '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, 66 66 They listen'd to hear the wind roar. "Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, 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 should wander the ruins about. "I myself, like a schoolboy, would tremble to hear "I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?" "I shall win,-for I know she will venture there now, With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent. The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid; All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, 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 ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, Of footsteps approaching her near. Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdled cold! It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd She felt, and expected to die. "Curse the hat!" he exclaimed; "Nay, come on here, and hide The dead body," his comrade replied. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, And fast through the abbey she flies. She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no raore, Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For-O God! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart Where the old Abbey stands on the common hard by, His irons you still from the road may espy, The traveller beholds them, and thinks, with a sigh, THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. THOMAS NOEL. THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none- Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing and din! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed- And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. THOMAS DAVIS. [Thomas Davis was one of that band of advanced Irish patriots who thought that they could supersede in Ireland, "Moore's Irish Melodies," because they did not go far enough for them. Fortunately for Davis's chance of future fame, he did not confine his lyrics to political ones. We are told that he wrote the greater portion of them in a single year, 1844; and this, too, in addition to a great quantity of other writing for the journal with which he was connected "The Nation." Apart from his political songs, he wrote with great tenderness. He was born in 1814, and died in 1854.] THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles- A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; Must trust their oars-methinks not few-against the ebbing tide. * Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster, It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.-See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i, p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.-AUTHOR'S NOTE. All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street: And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet.A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame!" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawlThe yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roarOh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child; But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steelThough virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore! Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to singThey see not now the milking-maids-deserted is the spring! Midsummer day-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's townThese hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly wentThen dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed- 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, |