Maud Muller, on a summer's day,Raked the meadow sweet with hay.Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealthOf simple beauty and rustic health.Singing, she wrought, and her merry gleeThe mock-bird echoed from his tree.But when she glanced to the far-off town,White from its hill-slope looking down,The sweet song died, and a vague unrestAnd a nameless longing filled her breast,—A wish, that she hardly dared to own,For something better than she had known.The Judge rode slowly down the lane,Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.He drew his bridle in the shadeOf the apple-trees, to greet the maid,And asked a draught from the spring that flowedThrough the meadow across the road.She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,And filled for him her small tin cup,And blushed as she gave it, looking downOn her feet so bare, and her tattered gown."Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draughtFrom a fairer hand was never quaffed."He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,Of the singing birds and the humming' bees;Then talked of the haying, and wondered whetherThe cloud in the west would bring foul weather.And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,And her graceful ankles bare and brown;And listened, while a pleased surpriseLooked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.At last, like one who for delaySeeks a vain excuse, he rode away.Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!That I the Judge's bride might be!"He would dress me up in silks 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 it been my lot to meet,"And her modest answer and graceful airShow 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, wrongsNor 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 wellTill 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 eyesLooked 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 roomsTo 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 hotOn the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,And she heard the little spring brook fallOver the roadside, through the wall,In the shade of the apple-tree againShe saw a rider draw his rein.And, gazing down with timid grace,She felt his pleased eyes read her face.Sometimes her narrow kitchen wallsStretched 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 liesDeeply buried from human eyes;And, in the hereafter, angels mayRoll the stone from its grave away!John G. Whittier.
We were hunting for wintergreen berries,One May-day, long gone by,Out on the rocky cliff's edge,Little sister and I.Sister had hair like the sunbeams;Black as a crow's wing, mine;Sister had blue, dove's eyes;Wicked, black eyes are mine.Why, see how my eyes are faded—And my hair, it is white as snow!And thin, too! don't you see it is?I tear it sometimes; so!There, don't hold my hands, Maggie,I don't feel like tearing it now;But—where was I in my story?Oh, I was telling you howWe were looking for wintergreen berries;'Twas one bright morning in May,And the moss-grown rocks were slipperyWith the rains of yesterday.But I was cross that morning,Though the sun shone ever so bright—And when sister found the most berries,I was angry enough to fight!And when she laughed at my pouting—We were little things, you know—I clinched my little fist up tight,And struck her the biggest blow!I struck her—I tell you—I struck her,And she fell right over below—There, there, Maggie, I won't rave now;You needn't hold me so—She went right over, I tell you,Down, down to the depths below!'Tis deep and dark and horridThere where the waters flow!She fell right over, moaning,"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad,That, when I looked down affrighted,It drove memad—mad!Only her golden hair streamingOut on the rippling wave,Only her little hand reachingUp, for someone to save;And she sank down in the darkness,I never saw her again,And this is a chaos of blacknessAnd darkness and grief since then.No more playing togetherDown on the pebbly strand;Nor building our dolls stone castlesWith halls and parlors grand;No more fishing with bent pins,In the little brook's clear waves;No more holding funeralsO'er dead canaries' graves;No more walking togetherTo the log schoolhouse each morn;No more vexing the masterWith putting his rules to scorn;No more feeding of white lambsWith milk from the foaming pail;No more playing "see-saw"Over the fence of rail;No more telling of storiesAfter we've gone to bed;Nor talking of ghosts and goblinsTill we fairly shiver with dread;No more whispering fearfullyAnd hugging each other tight,When the shutters shake and the dogs howlIn the middle of the night;No more saying "Our Father,"Kneeling by mother's knee—For, Maggie, Istrucksister!And mother is dead, you see.Maggie, sister's an angel,Isn't she? Isn't it true?For angels have golden tressesAnd eyes like sister's, blue?Nowmyhair isn't golden,My eyes aren't blue, you see—Now tell me, Maggie, if I were to die,Could they make an angel of me?You say, "Oh, yes"; you think so?Well, then, when I come to die,We'll play up there, in God's garden—We'll play there, sister and I.Now, Maggie, you needn't eye meBecause I'm talking so queer;Because I'm talking so strangely;You needn't have the least fear,Somehow I'm feeling to-night, Maggie,As I never felt before—I'm sure, I'm sure of it, Maggie,I never shall rave any more.Maggie, you know how these long yearsI've heard her calling, so sad,"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so mournful?It always drives memad!How the winter wind shrieks down the chimney,"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" oh! oh!How the south wind wails at the casement,"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so low,But most of all when the May-daysCome back, with the flowers and the sun,How the night-bird, singing, all lonely,"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" doth moan;You know how it sets me raving—Forshemoaned, "Oh, Bessie!" just so,That time Istrucklittle sister,On the May-day long ago!Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you—You know May-day is here—Well, this very morning, at sunrise,The robins chirped "Bessie!" so clear—All day long the wee birds singing,Perched on the garden wall,Called "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sweetly,I couldn't feel sorry at all.Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you—Let me lean up to you close—Do you see how the sunset has floodedThe heavens with yellow and rose?Do you see o'er the gilded cloud mountainsSister's golden hair streaming out?Do you see her little hand beckoning?Do you hear her little voice calling out"Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so gladly,"Bessie, oh, Bessie! Come, haste"?Yes, sister, I'm coming; I'm coming,To play in God's garden at last!