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