Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
At last, like one who for delay
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
Saying only, "It might have been."
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
And many children played round her door.
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
Alas for the maiden, alas for the Judge,
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
"Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught
"Free as when I rode that day,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
Roll the stone from its grave away!
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Over the roadside, through a wall,
Through the meadow across the road.
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And all should bless me who left our door."
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
And health and quiet and loving words."
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
A manly form at her side she saw,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
Deeply buried from human eyes;
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
"But low of cattle and song of birds,
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
And the young girl mused beside the well
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
And she heard the little spring brook fall
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
He watched a picture come and go;
The tallow candle an astral burned,
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
And Maud was left in the field alone.
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And asked a draught from the spring that flowed
He drew his bridle in the shade
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
"Ah, that I were free again!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
She saw a rider draw his rein;
My brother should sail a pointed boat.
"And her modest answer and graceful air
And joy was duty and love was law.
And the proud man sighed, and with a secret pain,
God pity them both and pity us all,
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
And a nameless longing filled her breast,-
Maud Muller on a summer's day
And praise and toast me at his wine.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
And, gazing down with timid grace,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
And, in the hereafter, angels may
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown
Stretched away into stately halls;
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
For something better than she had known.
But when she glanced to the far-off town
Like her, a harvester of hay.
Show her wise and good as she is fair.