The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 35

The stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides by them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light!

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear'd To guard each hallow'd wall!

And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its G.o.d!

_F. Hemans_

CIV

_MARY THE MAID OF THE INN_

Who is yonder 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 pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac hath 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 loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped 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 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 listen'd to hear the wind roar.

''Tis pleasant,' cried one, 'seated by the fireside To hear the wind whistle without.'

'What a 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, should tremble to hear The hoa.r.s.e ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead!'

'I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried, 'That Mary would venture there now.'

'Then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied, 'I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.'

'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 elder that grows in the aisle.'

With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; The night was dark, and the wind was high, And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, She shiver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their 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 old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly pa.s.sed, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, She paus'd, and she listen'd intently, in fear, And her heart panted painfully now.

The wind blew, the hoa.r.s.e ivy shook over her head, She listen'd, nought else could she hear; The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

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 they did bear.

Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle 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 roll'd,-- She felt, and expected to die.

'Curse the hat!' he exclaims. 'Nay, come on till we hide The dead body,' his comrade replies.

She beholds them in safety pa.s.s 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 gazed in her terror around, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

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--what a 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; His irons you still from the road may espy; The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

_R. Southey_

CV

_THE WITCHES' MEETING_

_1st Witch._ When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

_2d Witch._ When the hurly-burley's done, When the battle's lost or won:

_3d Witch._ That will be ere set of sun.

_1st Witch._ Where the place?

_2d Witch._ Upon the heath;

_3d Witch._ There to meet with Macbeth.

_1st Witch._ I come Grimalkin!