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Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whisper'd, “ Thou must go to rest.”
“I go,” he said ; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound !
Then gazed affrightened; but she caught
A last, a dying look of love, and all was past !
Maud MÜLLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she had hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadows across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup;
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
“ Thanks !” 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 ;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-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 á vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Müller 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 broad-cloth 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.
" 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 Müller standing still.
“A form more fair, a face more sweet,
No'er hath it been my lot to meet.
“ And her modest answer and graceful air,
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
“Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her a harvester of hay.
« No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
And weary lawyers with endless tongues,
“ But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health of 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.
He edded 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 Müller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead ;
And closed his eyes on the garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover blooms.
And the proud man sighed with a secret pain :
Ah, that I were 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 child-birth 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,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein;
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls.;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
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 ;
And in the hereafter angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
T. G. Whittier.
My wife is a woman of mind,
And Fowler, who examined her bumps,
Vowed that never were found in a woman
Such large intellectual lumps :
“ Ideality” big as an egg,
With “ Causality” great was combined.
He charged me ten shillings, and said,
“Sir, your wife is a woman of mind.”
She's too clever to care how she looks,
And will horrid blue spectacles wear,
Not because she supposes they give her
A fine intellectual air !
No! she pays no regard to appearance,
And combs all her front hair behind,
Not because she is proud of her forehead,
But because she's a woman of mind.
She makes me a bushel of verses,
But never a pudding or tart;
If I hint I should like one, she vows
I'm an animal merely at heart;
Though I've noticed she spurns not the pastry
Whene'er at a friend's we have din'd,
And has always had two plates of pudding-
Such plates ! for a woman of mind.
Not a stitch does she do bụt a distich,
Mends her pen, too, instead of my clothes ;
I haven't a shirt with a button,
Nor a stocking that's sound at the toes ;
If I ask her to darn me a pair,
She replies she has work more refined ;
Besides, to be seen darning stockings !
Is it fit for a woman of mind ?
The children are squalling all day,
For they're left to the care of a maid ;
My wife can't attend to “the units,"
The “millions” are wanting her aid;