MAUD MULLER. 257 Thought the elders, grave and doubting, "She is Papist born and bred;" Thought the young men, “'Tis an angel in Mary Garvin's stead!" MAUD MULLER. MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 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 hardly dared to own, The Judge rode slowly down the lane, He drew his bridle in the shade And ask a draught from the spring that flowed She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And blushed as she gave it, looking down "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And listened, while a pleased surprise At last, like one who for delay Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, MAUD MULLER. The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'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, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "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, 259 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 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, But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 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, THE RANGER. 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, Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies And, in the hereafter, angels may THE RANGER. ROBERT RAWLIN!-Frosts were falling Faint and fainter hope is growing Where the lion, crouching high on 261 |