SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS.

MAUD MULLER. .
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
AUD 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 i'ague 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 meadow 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.

-And I'd fe
And all sh

d clothe the poor,
o left our door."

"Would she were mine, an
Like her, a harvester of 11
"No doubtful balance of ri
Nor weary lawyers with c
"But low of cattle, and sor
And health, and quiet, an
But he thoght of his sist
And his mother, vain of h
So, closing his heart, the '
And Maud was left in the