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 ask 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 poorAnd 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 sweetNe'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 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,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 graceShe 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!
No more these simple flowers belongTo Scottish maid and lover;Sown in the common soil of song,They bloom the wide world over.In smiles and tears, in sun and showers,The minstrel and the heather,The deathless singer and the flowersHe sang of five together.Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns!The moorland flower and peasant!How, at their mention, memory turnsHer pages old and pleasant!The gray sky wears again its goldAnd purple of adorning,And manhood's noonday shadows holdThe dews of boyhood's morning.The dews that washed the dust and soilFrom off the wings of pleasure,The sky, that flecked the ground of toilWith golden threads of leisure.I call to mind the summer day,The early harvest mowing,The sky with sun and clouds at play,And flowers with breezes blowing.I hear the blackbird in the corn,The locust in the haying;And, like the fabled hunter's horn,Old tunes my heart is playing.How oft that day, with fond delay,I sought the maple's shadow,And sang with Burns the hours away,Forgetful of the meadow!Bees hummed, birds twittered, overheadI heard the squirrels leaping;The good dog listened while I read,And wagged his tail in keeping.I watched him while in sportive moodI read "The Two Dogs" story,And half believed he understoodThe poet's allegory.Sweet day, sweet songs!—The golden hoursGrew brighter for that singing,From brook and bird and meadow flowersA dearer welcome bringing.New light on home-seen Nature beamed,New glory over Woman;And daily life and duty seemedNo longer poor and common.I woke to find the simple truthOf fact and feeling betterThan all the dreams that held my youthA still repining debtor:That Nature gives her handmaid, Art,The themes of sweet discoursing;The tender idyls of the heartIn every tongue rehearsing.Why dream of lands of gold and pearl,Of loving knight and lady,When farmer boy and barefoot girlWere wandering there already?I saw through all familiar thingsThe romance underlying;The joys and griefs that plume the wingsOf Fancy skyward flying.I saw the same blithe day return,The same sweet fall of even,That rose on wooded Craigie-burn,And sank on crystal Devon.I matched with Scotland's heathery hillsThe sweet-brier and the clover;With Ayr and Doon, my native rills,Their wood-hymns chanting over.O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen,I saw the Man uprising;No longer common or uncleanThe child of God's baptizing!With clearer eyes I saw the worthOf life among the lowly;The Bible at his Cotter's hearthHad made my own more holy.And if at times an evil strain,To lawless love appealing,Broke in upon the sweet refrainOf pure and healthful feeling,It died upon the eye and ear,No inward answer gaining;No heart had I to see or hearThe discord and the staining.Let those who never erred forgetHis worth, in vain bewailings;Sweet Soul of Song!—I own my debtUncancelled by his failings!Lament who will the ribald lineWhich tells his lapse from duty,How kissed the maddening lips of wineOr wanton ones of beauty;But think, while falls that shade betweenThe erring one and Heaven,That he who loved like Magdalen,Like her may be forgiven.Not his the song whose thunderous chimeEternal echoes render,—The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme,And Milton's starry splendor!But who his human heart has laidTo Nature's bosom nearer?Who sweetened toil like him, or paidTo love a tribute dearer?Through all his tuneful art, how strongThe human feeling gushes!The very moonlight of his songIs warm with smiles and blushes!Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time,So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry;Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme,But spare his Highland Mary
"O Fox a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear;My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!"O for the white plume floatingSad Zutphen's field above,The lion heart in battle,The woman's heart in love!"O that man once more were manly,Woman's pride, and not her scornThat once more the pale young motherDared to boast 'a man is born'!"But, now life's slumberous currentNo sun-bowed cascade wakes;No tall, heroic manhoodThe level dulness breaks."O for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear!My light glove on his casque of steelMy love-knot on his spear!"Then I said, my own heart throbbingTo the time her proud pulse beat,"Life hath its regal natures yet,—True, tender, brave, and sweet!"Smile not, fair unbeliever!One man, at least, I know,Who might wear the crest of BayardOr Sydney's plume of snow."Once, when over purple mountainsDied away the Grecian sun,And the far Cyllenian rangesPaled and darkened, one by one,—"Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,Cleaving all the quiet sky,And against his sharp steel lightningsStood the Suliote but to die."Woe for the weak and halting!The crescent blazed behindA curving line of sabresLike fire before the wind!"Last to fly, and first to rally,Rode he of whom I speak,When, groaning in his bridle path,Sank down like a wounded Greek."With the rich Albanian costumeWet with many a ghastly stain,Gazing on earth and sky as oneWho might not gaze again!"He looked forward to the mountains,Back on foes that never spare,Then flung him from his saddle,And place the stranger there."'Allah! hu!' Through flashing sabres,Through a stormy hail of lead,The good Thessalian chargerUp the slopes of olives sped."Hot spurred the turbaned riders;He almost felt their breath,Where a mountain stream rolled darkly downBetween the hills and death."One brave and manful struggle,—He gained the solid land,And the cover of the mountains,And the carbines of his band!""It was very great and noble,"Said the moist-eyed listener then,"But one brave deed makes no hero;Tell me what he since hath been!""Still a brave and generous manhood,Still and honor without stain,In the prison of the Kaiser,By the barricades of Seine."But dream not helm and harnessThe sign of valor true;Peace bath higher tests of manhoodThan battle ever knew."Wouldst know him now? Behold him,The Cadmus of the blind,Giving the dumb lip language,The idiot clay a mind."Walking his round of dutySerenely day by day,With the strong man's hand of laborAnd childhood's heart of play."True as the knights of story,Sir Lancelot and his peers,Brave in his calm enduranceAs they in tilt of spears."As waves in stillest waters,As stars in noonday skies,All that wakes to noble actionIn his noon of calmness lies."Wherever outraged NatureAsks word or action brave,Wherever struggles labor,Wherever groans a slave,—"Wherever rise the peoples,Wherever sinks a throne,The throbbing heart of Freedom findsAn answer in his own."Knight of a better era,Without reproach or fear!Said I not well that BayardsAnd Sidneys still are here?
O friends! with whom my feet have trodThe quiet aisles of prayer,Glad witness to your zeal for GodAnd love of man I bear.I trace your lines of argument;Your logic linked and strongI weigh as one who dreads dissent,And fears a doubt as wrong.But still my human hands are weakTo hold your iron creeds;Against the words ye bid me speakMy heart within me pleads.Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?Who talks of scheme and plan?The Lord is God! He needeth notThe poor device of man.I walk with bare, hushed feet the groundYe tread with boldness shod:I dare not fix with mete and boundThe love and power of God.Ye praise His justice; even suchHis pitying love I deemYe seek a king; I fain would touchThe robe that hath no seam.Ye see the curse which overbroodsA world of pain and loss;I hear our Lord's beatitudesAnd prayer upon the cross.The wrong that pains my soul belowI dare not throne above:I know not of His hate,—I knowHis goodness and His love.I dimly guess from blessings knownOf greater out of sight,And, with the chastened Psalmist, ownHis judgments too are right.I long for household voices gone,For vanished smiles I long,But God bath led my dear ones on,And He can do no wrong.I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.And if my heart and flesh are weakTo bear an untried pain,The bruised reed He will not break,But strengthen and sustain.No offering of my own I have,Nor works my faith to prove;I can but give the gifts He gave,And plead His love for love.And so beside the Silent SeaI wait the muffled oar;No harm from Him can come to meOn ocean or on shore.I know not where His islands liftTheir fronded palms in air;I only know I cannot driftBeyond His love and care.O brothers! if my faith is vain,If hopes like these betray,Pray for me that my feet may gainThe sure and safer way.And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seenThy creatures as they be,Forgive me if too close I leanMy human heart on Thee!
Pipes of the misty moorlandsVoice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,Have heard your sweetest strain!Dear to the Lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe Pipes at Lucknow played.Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled, and nearer crept;Round and round the jungle-serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said;"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread."O, they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;As her mother's cradle-crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,She knew the droning pibroch,She knew the Campbell's call"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,—The grandest o' them all!"O, they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's"God be praised!—the March of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust-cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithesomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne.O'er the cruel roll of war-drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turban,As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.Dear to the corn-land reaperAnd plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear.Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade,But the sweetest of all musicThe Pipes at Lucknow played!
The beaver cut his timberWith patient teeth that day,The minks were fish-wards, and the crowsSurveyors of high way,—When Keezar sat on the hillsideUpon his cobbler's form,With a pan of coals on either handTo keep his waxed-ends warm.And there, in the golden weather,He stitched and hammered and sung;In the brook he moistened his leather,In the pewter mug his tongue.Well knew the tough old TeutonWho brewed the stoutest ale,And he paid the good-wife's reckoningIn the coin of song and tale.The songs they still are singingWho dress the hills of vine,The tales that haunt the BrockenAnd whisper down the Rhine.Woodsy and wild and lonesome,The swift stream wound away,Through birches and scarlet maplesFlashing in foam and spray,—Down on the sharp-horned ledgesPlunging in steep cascade,Tossing its white-maned watersAgainst the hemlock's shade.Woodsy and wild and lonesome,East and west and north and south;Only the village of fishersDown at the river's mouth;Only here and there a clearing,With its farm-house rude and new,And tree-stumps, swart as Indians,Where the scanty harvest grew.No shout of home-bound reapers,No vintage-song he heard,And on the green no dancing feetThe merry violin stirred."Why should folk be glum," said Keezar,"When Nature herself is glad,And the painted woods are laughingAt the faces so sour and sad?"Small heed had the careless cobblerWhat sorrow of heart was theirsWho travailed in pain with the births of GodAnd planted a state with prayers,—Hunting of witches and warlocks,Smiting the heathen horde,—One hand on the mason's trowelAnd one on the soldier's sword!But give him his ale and cider,Give him his pipe and song,Little he cared for Church or State,Or the balance of right and wrong."'Tis work, work, work," he muttered—"And for rest a snuffle of psalms!"He smote on his leathern apronWith his brown and waxen palms."O for the purple harvestsOf the days when I was young!For the merry grape-stained maidens,And the pleasant songs they sung"O for the breath of vineyards,Of apples and nuts and wine!For an oar to row and a breeze to blowDown the grand old river Rhine!"A tear in his blue eye glistenedAnd dropped on his beard so gray."Old, old am I," said Keezar,"And the Rhine flows far away!"But a cunning man was the cobbler;He could call the birds from the trees,Charm the black snake out of the ledges,And bring back the swarming bees.All the virtues of herbs and metals,All the lore of the woods, he knew,And the arts of the Old World mingledWith the marvels of the New.Well he knew the tricks of magic,And the lapstone on his kneeHad the gift of the Mormon's gogglesOr the stone of Doctor Dee.For the mighty master AgrippaWrought it with spell and rhymeFrom a fragment of mystic moonstoneIn the tower of Nettesheim.To a cobbler MinnesingerThe marvellous stone gave he,And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar,Who brought it over the sea.He held up that mystic lapstone,He held it up like a lens,And he counted the long years coming,By twenties and by tens."One hundred years," quoth Keezar."And fifty have I toldNow open the new before me,And shut me out the old!"Like a cloud of mist, the blacknessRolled from the magic stone,And a marvellous picture mingledThe unknown and the known.Still ran the stream to the river,And river and ocean joined;And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line.And cold north hills behind.But the mighty forest was brokenBy many a steepled town,By many a white-walled farm-house,And many a garner brown.Turning a score of mill-wheels,The stream no more ran free;White sails on the winding river,White sails on the far-off sea.Below in the noisy villageThe flags were floating gay,And shone on a thousand facesThe light of a holiday.Swiftly the rival ploughmenTurned the brown earth from their shares;Here were the farmer's treasures,There were the craftsman's wares.Golden the good-wife's butter,Ruby her currant-wine;Grand were the strutting turkeys,Fat were the beeves and swine.Yellow and red were the apples,And the ripe pears russet-brown,And the peaches had stolen blushesFrom the girls who shook them down.And with blooms of hill and wildwood,That shame the toil of art,Mingled the gorgeous blossomsOf the garden's tropic heart."What is it I see?" said Keezar:"Am I here or am I there?Is it a fete at Bingen?Do I look on Frankfort fair?"But where are the clowns and puppets,And imps with horns and tail?And where are the Rhenish flagons?And where is the foaming ale?"Strange things, I know, will happen,—Strange things the Lord permits;But that droughty folk should be dollyPuzzles my poor old wits."Here are smiling manly faces,And the maiden's step is gay;Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking,Nor mopes, nor fools, are they."Here's pleasure without regretting,And good without abuse,The holiday and the bridalOf beauty and of use."Here's a priest and there is a Quaker,Do the cat and the dog agree?Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood?Have they cut down the gallows-tree?"Would the old folk know their children?Would they own the graceless town,With never a ranter to worryAnd never a witch to drown?"Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,Laughed like a school-boy gay;Tossing his arms above him,The lapstone rolled away.It rolled down the rugged hillside,It spun like a wheel bewitched,It plunged through the leaning willows,And into the river pitched.There, in the deep, dark water,The magic stone lies still,Under the leaning willowsIn the shadow of the hill.But oft the idle fisherSits on the shadowy bank,And his dreams make marvellous picturesWhere the wizard's lapstone sank.And still, in the summer twilights.When the river seems to runOut from the inner glory,Warm with the melted sun,