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 Muller'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 childbirth 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 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!
1854.
MARY GARVIN.
FROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, from the lake that never fails, Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's intervales; There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam and flow, As when Darby Field first saw them, two hundred years ago.
But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, dams, and mills, How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom of the hills, Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately Champernoon Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet of the loon!
With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of fire and steam, Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him like a dream.
Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward far and fast The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the past.
But human hearts remain unchanged: the sorrow and the sin, The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own akin;
And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs our mothers sung, Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always young.
O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks today!
O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's restless play!
Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand beguile, And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or smile!
The evening gun had sounded from gray Fort Mary's walls; Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and plunged the Saco's' falls.
And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and gusty grew, Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spurwink blew.
On the hearth of Farmer Garvin, blazed the crackling walnut log; Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between them lay the dog,
Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him on her mat, Sitting drowsy in the firelight, winked and purred the mottled cat.
"Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, speaking sadly, under breath, And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks of death.
The goodwife dropped her needles: "It is twenty years to-day, Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child away."
Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the other's thought, Of a great and common sorrow, and words were, needed not.
"Who knocks?" cried Goodman Garvin. The door was open thrown; On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and furred, the fire-light shone.
One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from his head; "Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" "I am he," the goodman said.
"Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is chill with rain."
And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire amain.
The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the firelight glistened fair In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds of dark brown hair.
Dame Garvin looked upon her: "It is Mary's self I see!"
"Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, has my child come back to me?"