The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast A wish, that she hardly dared to own, The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 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 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Then talked of the haying and wondered wheather At last, like one who for delay Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me? That I the Judge's bride might be ! "He would dress me up in silk so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. "My father should wear a broadcloth 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 Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath 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, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow 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, 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 In the shade of the apple-tree again The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both Doth surest suit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why? I find No wealth is like a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease; My conscience clear my chief defence; I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so well as I! -William Byrd. My Lost Self. YOU wonder why my eyes are dim with tears! So long ago, years piled on weary years, And every day and night and every hour We took life's gift together, sun and shade, We thought the world was ours to come and go Ah, now I find the world a desert wild; Her brave, true courage and her faith divine. Dead? changed? I know not, sweet; I only know You will no longer wonder that I weep, My little girl with eyes so grave and clear; Whatever treasures we may hold or keep, To lose one's happy self is saddest, dear. -Anonymous. O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud. [The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterward he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend "I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain." He was told, in 1864.] O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? The infant a mother attended and loved, The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed For we are the same that our fathers have been ; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, They loved, but their story we cannot unfold, They died,-ay! they died; and we things that are now 'Tis the twinkle of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath [The MSS. of this poem, which appeared during the first quarter of the present century, was said to have been found in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, in London, near a perfect human skeleton, and to have been sent by the curator to the Morning Chronicle for publication. It excited so much attention that every effort was made to discover the author, and a responsible party went so far as to offer a reward of fifty guineas for information that would discover its origin. The author preserved his incognito, and, we believe, has never been discovered]. EHOLD this ruin! 'Twas a skull Bonce of ethereal spirit full. This narrow cell was Life's retreat; Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye; But start not at the dismal void, If social love that eye employed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, Within this hollow cavern hung And when it could not praise was chained; |