Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of tuft and slanting branches: who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,

Edged round with dark tree-tops? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A little cloud would move across the blue.

Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy fantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawnèd light in
pomp receive.
For 'twas the morn; Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him: cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains: and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold,
To feel this sun rise, and its glories old.

22.-JANUARY WIND.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

[Mr. Buchanan was educated at Glasgow University, and came to London in 1859. For the first four years of his London life he had a hard time of it, working as a nameless contributor to certain cheap periodicals, but he did find employment, and in the meantime was storing up those poetic treasures which culminated in the publication of his "Undertones" (1863), a volume which was acknowledged to be "the most remarkable first volume of poems, perhaps, ever written." He has published two volumes sir.ce-"The Idyls of Inverburn," and recently, "London Poems." They have more than justified the high praise that was bestowed upon his maiden venture.]

THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows;

It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it

crows:

It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry,

Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high;

And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call,

The wind, wife; the wind, wife: the wind that did it all.

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blew, how it blew ;

The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it screamed, it crew;

And while you moan'd upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright,

I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night; It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still,— The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that blew us ill!

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows;

It changes, shifts, without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes;
And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold—
For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold;
But ah! the wind, the changeful wind, was more in the blame
than he :

The wind, wife; the wind, wife; that blew him out to sea!

The wind, wife, the wind; now 'tis still, now 'tis still;
And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill;
"Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here,
We listen'd to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear;
We longed to hear the wind again, and to hold our David's hand-
The wind, wife; the wind, wife; that blew him out from land.

The wind, wife, the wind: up again, up again!

It blew our David round the world, yet shrieked at our windowpane;

And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow, Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow,

It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and

cry

The wind, wife; the wind, wife; may it blow him home to die. (From "Idyls and Legends of Inverburn." By permission of Mr. Strahan.)

23.-MAUD MÜLLER.

J. G. WHITTIER.

[Mr. Whittier is an American poet of some standing, still living.]

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked 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 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 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 meadows 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.

66

“Thanks!” said the Judge, a sweeter draught 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
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-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 Müller 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 broad-cloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.

gay,

"I'd dress my mother so grand and 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 Müller 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, And weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds, And health of 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 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 Müller'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.

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 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 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 works 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!

24.-KILLED AT THE FORD.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

[Mr. Longfellow is a native of Portland, Maine, United States, born Feb. 27, 1807. After passing three years and a half in travelling through France, Spain, Germany, Holland, and England, he returned to America, and became Professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin College, Brunswick (where he was himself educated), in 1829. Resigning this appointment in 1835, he made another tour through Europe, was appointed Professor of Languages and Relles-Lettres, in Harvard College, and has since resided at Cambridge, U.S.A