East and West: Poems Part 9

Maud Muller, all that summer day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay;

Yet, looking down the distant lane, She hoped the judge would come again.

But when he came, with smile and bow, Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"

And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether He'd give consent they should wed together.

Old Muller burst in tears, and then Begged that the judge would lend him "ten;"

For trade was dull, and wages low, And the "c.r.a.ps," this year, were somewhat slow.

And ere the languid summer died, Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.

But, on the day that they were mated, Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;

And Maud's relations, twelve in all, Were very drunk at the judge's hall.

And when the summer came again, The young bride bore him babies twain.

And the judge was blest, but thought it strange That bearing children made such a change:

For Maud grew broad and red and stout; And the waist that his arm once clasped about

Was more than he now could span. And he Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

How that which in Maud was native grace In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

And thought of the twins, and wished that they Looked less like the man who raked the hay

On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain Of the day he wandered down the lane.

And, looking down that dreary track, He half regretted that he came back.

For, had he waited, he might have wed Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

For there be women fair as she, Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

Alas for maiden! alas for judge!

And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge;"

For Maud soon thought the judge a bore, With all his learning and all his lore.

And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face For more refinement and social grace.

If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, "It might have been,"

More sad are these we daily see: "It is, but hadn't ought to be."

Avitor.

An Aerial Retrospect.

What was it filled my youthful dreams, In place of Greek or Latin themes, Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?

Avitor?

What visions and celestial scenes I filled with aerial machines,-- Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!

Avitor.

What fairy tales seemed things of course!

The rock that brought Sindbad across, The Calendar's own winged-horse!

Avitor!

How many things I took for facts,-- Icarus and his conduct lax, And how he sealed his fate with wax!

Avitor!

The first balloons I sought to sail, Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, Or kites,--but thereby hangs a tail.

Avitor!

What made me launch from attic tall A kitten and a parasol, And watch their bitter, frightful fall?

Avitor?

What youthful dreams of high renown Bade me inflate the parson's gown, That went not up, nor yet came down?

Avitor?

My first ascent, I may not tell: Enough to know that in that well My first high aspirations fell, Avitor!

My other failures let me pa.s.s: The dire explosions; and, alas!

The friends I choked with noxious gas, Avitor!

For lo! I see perfected rise The vision of my boyish eyes, The messenger of upper skies, Avitor!

A White-Pine Ballad.

Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved, Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved; But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine, Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.

Johnson's folly--to be candid--was a wild desire to treat Every able male white citizen he met upon the street; And there being several thousand--but this subject why pursue?

'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.