MAUD MULLEE. 
[We republish the following poem of the season, by 
John Gr. Whittier, the Quaker poet, at the request of a 
lady friend who esteems it the most perfect specimen of 
ballad poetry ever penned by an American author. Even 
those of our readers who may have seen it before, will j 
rejoice in the possession of a fresh and perfect copy.] 
Maud Muller, on a summer’s day, 
Baked the meadow sweet with hay. 
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from every tree. 
But when she glanced to the far-off town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And 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 shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through 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 down 
On her feet so bare and her tattered gown. 
“Thanks!” said the Judge; “a sweeter draught 
hrom a fairer hand was never quaffed.” 
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
Of the singing birds and humming bees; 
Themtalked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather; 
Till Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown; 
And listened, while a nleased surprise 
Looked from her loT^%«shed hazel eyes. 
At last like one who for delay 
Seeks 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 ooat; 
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 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 sister, 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. 
For he hummed in the 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; 
Till the proud man sighed with a secret pain: 
“Ah, would that I were free again! 
“Free as I was when I rode that day, 
Where the barefoot maiden raked the 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 herdieart and brain; 
And oft, when the summer'sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. 
And she,heard theJ^Kfepring,brook fall 
vver tue roadside .'■pfogh the wall ; 
In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein; 
And, gazing down with a 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 and law. 
Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, “It might have been.” 
Alas! for maiden; alas! forjudge, 
For rich repiner and household drudge! 
Hod 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 nave been!” 
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 
And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Boll the stone from its grave away. 
