228 MAUD MÜLLER. Nor one that day did he to mind recall A last, a dying look of love, and all was past! G. Crabbe. MAUD MÜLLER. MAUD MÜLLER, on a summer's day, Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee But, when she glanced to the far-off town, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest A wish, that she had hardly dared to own, The judge rode slowly down the lane, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, MAUD MÜLLER. And blushed as she gave it, looking down "Thanks!" said the judge, ". a sweeter draught He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Maud Müller looked and sighed-" Ah me! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, "My father should wear a broad-cloth coat; "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, "A form more fair, a face more sweet, "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. 229 230 MAUD MÜLLER. "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, "But low of cattle and song of birds, But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, And the young girl mused beside the well, He wedded a wife of richest dower, Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, And sweet Maud Müller's hazel eyes Oft when the wine in his glass was red, And closed his eyes on the garnished rooms, And the proud man sighed with a secret pain: 66 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, But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain- MAUD MÜLLER. And oft when the summer sun shone hot And she heard the little spring-brook fall In the shade of the apple-tree again And, gazing down with timid grace, Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, And for him who sat by the chimney lug, A manly form at her side she saw, Then she took up her burden of life again, Alas! for maiden, alas! for judge, God pity them both! and pity us all, 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 231 And in the hereafter angels may ! J. G. Whittier. 232 A WOMAN OF MIND. A WOMAN OF MIND. My wife is a woman of mind, And Fowler, who examined her bumps, Ideality" big as an egg, With "Causality" great was combined. She's too clever to care how she looks, No! she pays no regard to appearance, She makes me a bushel of verses, Though I've noticed she spurns not the pastry Not a stitch does she do but a distich, Mends her pen, too, instead of my clothes; Nor a stocking that's sound at the toes; She replies she has work more refined; The children are squalling all day, The "millions" are wanting her aid; |