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!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Knight Toggenburg.
"KNIGHT, to love thee like a sister

Vows this heart to thee;

Ask no other, warmer feeling-
That were pain to me,

Tranquil would I see thy coming,

Tranquil see thee go;

What that starting tear would tell me,
I must never know."

KNIGHT TOGGENBURG.

He with silent anguish listens,
Though his heart-strings bleed;
Clasps her in his last embraces,
Springs upon his steed;
Summons every faithful vassal
From his Alpine home;
Binds the cross upon his bosom,

Seeks the Holy Tomb.

There full many a deed of glory
Wrought the hero's arm;
Foremost still his plumage floated
Where the foemen swarm;
Till the Moslem, terror-stricken,
Quailed before his name ;-
But the pang that wrings his bosom
Lives at heart the same.

One long year he bears his sorrow,
But no more can bear;

Rest he seeks, but finding never,
Leaves the army there;

Sees a ship by Joppa's haven,

Which, with swelling sail,

Wafts him where his lady's breathing
Mingles with the gale.

At her father's castle-portal

Hark! his knock is heard:

See the gloomy gate uncloses - grow

With the thunder-word:

"She thou seek'st is veiled

Is the bride of her g must
arth can rot; forever,

Yester-eve th

She

e needs no stone

ching that I loved can;
e vows were plighted—

to God is given.”

7*

153

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!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Knight Toggenburg.
"KNIGHT, to love thee like a sister

Vows this heart to thee;

Ask no other, warmer feeling-
That were pain to me,

Tranquil would I see thy coming,

Tranquil see thee go;

What that starting tear would tell me,
I must never know."

KNIGHT TOGGENBURG.

He with silent anguish listens,
Though his heart-strings bleed ;
Clasps her in his last embraces,
Springs upon his steed;
Summons every faithful vassal
From his Alpine home;
Binds the cross upon his bosom,

Seeks the Holy Tomb.

There full many a deed of glory
Wrought the hero's arm;
Foremost still his plumage floated
Where the foemen swarm;
Till the Moslem, terror-stricken,
Quailed before his name ;-

But the pang that wrings his bosom
Lives at heart the same.

One long year he bears his sorrow,
But no more can bear;

Rest he seeks, but finding never,
Leaves the army there;

Sees a ship by Joppa's haven,

Which, with swelling sail,
Wafts him where his lady's breathing
Mingles with the gale.

At her father's castle-portal
Hark! his knock is heard:

See the gloomy gate uncloses

With the thunder-word:

"She thou seek'st is veiled forever, Is the bride of hearn;

Yester-eve the vows were plighted

She to God is given."

153

Then his old ancestral castle

He forever flees;

Battle-steed and trusty weapon
Never more he sees.

From the Toggenburg descending
Forth unknown he glides;

For the frame once sheathed in iron
Now the sackcloth hides.

There beside that hallowed region
He hath built his bower,
Where from out the dusky lindens
Looked the convent-tower;
Waiting from the morning's glimmer
Till the day was done,
Tranquil hope in every feature,

Sat he there alone.

Gazing upward to the convent
Hour on hour he passed;
Watching still his lady's lattice
Till it oped at last;

Till that form looked forth so lovely,

Till the sweet face smiled

Down into the lonesome valley,
Peaceful, angel-mild.

Then he laid him down to slumber,
Cheered by peaceful dreams,
Calmly waiting till the morning

Showed again its beams.

Thus for days he watched and waited,

Thus for years he lay,

Happy if he saw the lattice

Open day by day