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 racking 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
retched 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!

-J. G. Whittier.

KING HENRY IV.

KING HENRY, EARL OF WORCESTER, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND, HOTSPUR, and SIR W. BLUNT.

King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, Unapt to stir at these indignities.

And you have found me; for, accordingly

You tread upon my patience; but be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition.

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down:
And therefore lost that title of respect,

Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.
Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;

And that same greatness, too, which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.

North. My lord,

King. Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye:

O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory;
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.

You have good leave to leave us when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.

(to Northumberland) You were about to speak. North.

[Exit Worcester.]

Yea, my good lord.

Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took,
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied,
As is delivered to your majesty.

Hot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners,
But I remember, when the fight was done.
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd,
Shew'd like a stubble-land at a harvest home:
He was perfumèd like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
and took't away again;

He

his gave

nose,

And still he smil'd, and talk'd:

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them-untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms

He question'd me; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.

I, then all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what:

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad,

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds,-heaven save the mark !—

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villainous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answer'd indirectly, as I said:
And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

Blunt. The circumstance consider'd, good my lord,
Whate'er Harry Percy then had said

To such a person, and in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest re-told,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach
What he then said, so he unsay it now.

King. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners;
But with proviso and exception,-

That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer;
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray'd
The lives of those that he did lead to fight
Against the great magician, bold Glendower;
Whose daughter, as we hear, that Earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home?
Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve;
For I shall never hold that man my friend,
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.

Hot. Revolted Mortimer!

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,

But by the chance of war: to prove that true,

Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,
Those mouth'd wounds, which valiantly he took
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,

In single opposition, hand to hand,

He did confound the best part of an hour

In changing hardiment with great Glendower:

Three times they breath'd, and three times they did drink,

Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,

H

1

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did base and rotten policy

Colour her working with such deadly wounds;
Nor never could the noble Mortimer
Receive so many, and all willingly ;—

Then let him not be slander'd with revolt.

King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him,-He never did encounter with Glendower;

I tell thee,

He durst as well have met the fiend alone,
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art not asham'd? But, sirrah, henceforth,
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your prisoners with the speediest means,
Or
you shall hear in such a kind from me

As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland,
We will license your departure with your son.—
Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it,

Hot. And, if the army come and roar for them,
I will not send them :-I will after straight,

And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,

Albeit I make a hazard of my head.

North. What, drunk with choler? Stay and pause awhile;

Here comes your uncle.

Hot. He said he would not ransom Mortimer;

Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;

But I will find him when he lies asleep.

And in his ear I'll holla "Mortimer!"

Nay,

I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but "Mortimer," and give it him,

To keep his anger still in motion.

North. Farewell, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust. Hot. Uncle, adieu:-O, let the hours be short,

Till fields, and blows, and groans applaud our sport?

-Shakespeare.

THE CROSSING SWEEPER'S DEATH.

SAYS the Coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is not here. Says the Coroner, go and fetch him then. Oh! here's the boy, gentlemen.