O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight.
Through the gate-way she entered, 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 still fearless she past,
And arriv'd in 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 all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd—nought else could she hear;
The wind ceas'd; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
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 moon-light two ruffians appear,
And between 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.