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.

"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 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 lics

Deeply buried from human eyes:

And, in the hereafter, angels may

Roll the stone from its grave away!

THE SAILOR'S JOURNAL.

BY CHARLES DIBDIN.

'TWAS post meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted;
At six she lingered on the shore,
With uplift hands and broken-hearted.
At seven, while taughtening the forestay,
I saw her faint or else 'twas fancy;
At eight we all got under way,

And bade a long adieu to Nancy.

Night came, and now eight bells had rung,
While careless sailors ever cheery,
On the mid watch so jovial sung,

With tempers labour cannot weary.
I, little to their mirth inclined,

While tender thoughts rushed on my fancy, And my warm sighs increased the wind, Looked on the moon, and thought of Nancy!

And now arrived that jovial night

When every true-bred tar carouses; When o'er the grog, all hands delight

To toast their sweethearts and their spouses. Round went the can, the jest, the glee, While tender wishes filled each fancy; And when, in turn, it came to me,

I heaved a sigh, and toasted Nancy!

Next morn a storm came on at four,

At six the elements in motion Plunged me and three poor sailors more Headlong within the foaming ocean. Poor wretches! they soon found their graves; For me it may be only fancy,— But Love seemed to forbid the waves To snatch me from the arms of Nancy!

Scarce the foul hurricane was cleared,

Scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle, When a bold enemy appeared,

And, dauntless, we prepared for battle. And, now, while some loved friend or wife Like lightning rushed on every fancy, To Providence I trusted life,

Put up a prayer, and thought of Nancy!

At last, 'twas in the month of May,-
The crew, it being lovely weather,
At three a.m. discovered day,

And England's chalky cliffs together.
At seven up Channel how we bore,

While hopes and fears rushed on my fancy;

At twelve I gaily jumped ashore,

And to my throbbing heart pressed Nancy!