MAUD MULLER.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

Then said the Judge, "A sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

165

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked, and sighed: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat;

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day,

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MAUD MULLER.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet;

"And her modest and graceful air Shows her wise and good as she is fair.

66

'Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay;

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds, And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

MAUD MULLER.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,

Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside rill instead,

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, "Ah, that I was free again!

"Free as when I rode that day

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door;

But care and sorrow and childbirth pain
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring-brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

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168

MAUD MULLER.

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with tender grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned.

And for him who sat by the chimney log,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

HOW TO LIVE.

And in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away.

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HOW TO LIVE.

BRYANT.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go, not like the quarry slave at night
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him. and lies down to pleasant dreams.

ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise.

Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.