n them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by--
It blew off the hat of the one,[C] and, behold,
Even close to the foot of poor Mary it roll'd--
She felt, and expected to die.

"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.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,
She gaz'd horribly eager around:
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her cold lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view--[D]
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For, oh! God! what cold horror then thrill'd 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:
Not far from the road it engages the eye,
The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The hat of one of the ruffians.

[D] She knew it to be Richard's hat.

GILES THE SHEPHERD,

_AND SPECTRE_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell.
From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies,
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And down a narrow lane, well known by day,
With all his speed pursues his sounding way,
In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold,
When, lo! an object frightful to behold,
A grisly _spectre_, cloth'd in silver grey,
Around whose feet the waving shadows play,
Stands in his path! He stops, and not a breath
Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death.
Loud the owl hallooes o'er his head unseen;
All else is silence, dismally serene:
Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low,
Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe;
And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly,
Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye.
"'Tis