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When everything smiles, should a beauty look Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth

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But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught

cowld,

Och hone! widow machree!

With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled;

From 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 whether | And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 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;

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed 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 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 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,
When he hummed in 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;

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"Free as 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 heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through 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 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 lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

QUAKERDOM.

THE FORMAL CALL.

THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet

Flashed the soul of frolic riot,

When the noonday woods are ringing,

All the birds of summer singing,

Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a

serpent nigh:

So upon the door a rattle

Stopped our animated tattle,

And a most malicious laughter lighted up her And the stately mother found us prim enough to

downcast eyes;

All in vain I tried each topic,

Ranged from polar climes to tropic, Every commonplace I started met with yes-orno replies.

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suit her eye.

CHARLES G. HALPINE

THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember,

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes?

Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight;

Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight.

Our fingers touch; our glances meet, And falter; falls your golden hair

Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow, her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done : Disperst is all its chivalry.

Full many a move since then have we Mid life's perplexing checkers made, And many a game with fortune played; What is it we have won?

This, this at least, if this alone:

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KITTY OF COLERAINE.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,

And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.

"O, what shall I do now?'t was looking at you now!

Sure, sure, sucha pitcher I 'll ne'er meet again! 'T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.

'T was hay-making season- I can't tell the rea

son

Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE.

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