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196

ABOUT FEET.

And whene'er he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay;

We're far too low to vote the tax,
But not too low to pay.

We're low, we're low, mere rabble we know,
But at our plastic power,

The mould at the lordling's feet will grow,
Into palace, church, and tower.

Then prostrate fall in the rich man's hall,
And cringe at the rich man's door;
We're not too low to build the wall,
But too low to tread the floor.

We're low, we're low, we're very, very low,
Yet from our fingers glide

The silken flow and the robes that glow
Round the limbs of the sons of pride.
And what we get, and what we give,
We know, and we know our share:
We're not too low the cloth to weave,
But too low the cloth to wear.

We're low, we're low, we're very, very low,
And yet when the trumpets ring,
The thrust of a poor man's arm will go

Through the heart of the proudest king.
We're low, we're low, our place we know,
We're only the rank and file;

We're not too low to fight the foe,

But too low to touch the spoil.

IN

ABOUT FEET.

N commencing at the head and going down to the foot, I don't wish to set an example for you to follow, for it is much more honorable and praiseworthy, in most conditions of life, to begin at the foot and gradually work up to the head. only corn-growing section in the human frame.

The foot is the In all the walks

MAUD MULLER.

197

of life, to say nothing about the runs, the foot plays an important part. Without it, there wouldn't be any promising shoemakers. The light fantastic toe could have no existence, and dancing would be unknown, unless people danced upon their heads, which, for obvious reasons, couldn't be indulged in conveniently.

A foot in long measure is twelve inches, but I have seen it where it overran twenty. Big feet have been a serious puzzle to scientific men before now. Some of them have contended that they are live things, with breathing apparatus and bowels. The propensity that feet often exhibit to go astray and walk in forbidden paths, shows that they are more than half human.

In romances of the chivalric period, we frequently read of a feat of arms, which is not only ungrammatical, but is manifestly inconsistent. It is no more paradoxical, however, than to say a dancing-master is a good hand with his feet, as you sometimes

hear.

Fleet-footed people don't run the best always. I know a man that can run half a mile in a minute, and yet he was beaten in a race for the office of postmaster of a small village by a woodenlegged man; and I have seen a splendid run of billiards made by a man with but one leg.

My hearers, let me entreat you to pause often and scan closely the path in which your feet are walking.

MAU

MAUD MULLER.-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 vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

198

MAUD MULLER.

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.
"Thanks!" said the Judge: "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,

And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller 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 broadcloth 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 Muller standing still :

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,

Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet,

MAUD MULLER.

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,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
But low of cattle and song of birds,

And health, and 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 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 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 summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow-lot,

199

200

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

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 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.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.-GEN. LYTLE.

AM dying, Egypt, dying,

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast;

Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me!
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear,
Listen to the great heart-secrets,

Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

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