"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, 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.

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 well 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 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 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,

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!

COVENTRY PATMORE.

["The Angel in the House." 1856.]

THE ESPOUSALS.

BY THE SEA.

I, WHILE the shop-girl fitted on

The sand-shoes, looked where, down the bay, The sea glowed with a shrouded sun.

"I'm ready, Felix; will you pay?" That was my first expense for this

Sweet stranger whom I called my How light the touches are that kiss

The music from the chords of life!

Her feet, by half a mile of sea,

Wife:

In spotless sand, left shapely prints; Then, from the beach, she loaded me

With agate-stones, which turned out flints;

And, after that, we took a boat:

She wished to see the ships-of-war,

At anchor, each a lazy mote

Dotting the brilliance, miles from shore.

A vigorous breeze the canvas filled,

Lifting us o'er the bright-ridged gulf,

And every lurch my darling thrilled

With light fear smiling at itself:

And, dashing past the Arrogant,
Asleep upon the restless wave
After its cruise in the Levant,

We reached the Wolf; and signal gave
For help to board: with caution meet,

My bride was placed within the chair, The red flag wrapped about her feet,

And so swung laughing through the air.

"Look, Love," she said, "there's Frederick Graham, My Cousin, whom you met, you know.”

And, seeing us, the brave man came,

And made his frank and courteous bow, And gave my hand a sailor's shake,

And said, "You asked me to the Hurst: I never thought my luck would make

You and your wife my guests the first." And Honor, cruel, "Nor did we:

Have you not lately changed your ship?" "Yes: I'm commander, now," said he,

With a slight quiver of the lip.

We saw the vessel, shown with pride;

Took luncheon; I must eat his salt! Parting he said, (I think my bride

Found him unselfish to a fault,) His wish he saw had come to pass,

(And so, indeed, her face expressed,) That that should be, whate'er it was, Which made his Cousin happiest.

We left him looking from above,

Rich bankrupt! for he could afford

To say most proudly that his love

Was virtue and its own reward.

But others loved as well as he,

(Thought I, half-angered,) and, if fate,

Unfair, had only fashioned me

As hapless, I had been as great.