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“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 Muller standing still,
"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 sister, 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 Muller's hazel eyes
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
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
But care and sorrow, and child-birth 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 a 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,
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
And, in the hereafter, angels may
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Vows this heart to thee;
That were pain to me,
Tranquil see thee go;
I must never know."
He with silent anguish listens,
Though his heart-strings bleed; Clasps her in his last embraces,
Springs upon his steed;
From his Alpine home;
Seeks the Holy Tomb.
There full many a deed of glory
Wrought the hero's arm; Foremost still his plumage floated
Where the foemen swarm;
Quailed before his name ;-
Lives at heart the same.
One long year he bears his sorrow,
But no more can bear;
Leaves the army there;
Which, with swelling sail,
Mingles with the gale.
At her father's castle-portal
Hark! his knock is heard : See! the gloomy gate uncloses
With the thunder-word :
Is the bride of heaven;
Then his old ancestral castle
He forever flees;
Never more he sees.
Forth unknown he glides ;
Now the sackcloth hides.
There beside that hallowed region
He hath built his bower,
Looked the convent-tower;
Till the day was done, Tranquil hope in every feature,
Sat he there alone.
Gazing upward to the convent
Hour on hour he passed ; Watching still his lady's lattice
Till it oped at last; Till that form looked forth so lovely,
Till the sweet face smiled Down into the lonesome valley,
Then he laid him down to slumber,
Cheered by peaceful dreams, Calmly waiting till the morning
Showed again its beams. Thus for days he watched and waited,
Thus for years he lay, Happy if he saw the lattice
Open day by day