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Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air ;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!


God of the earth's extended plains!

The dark-green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky;
The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,
Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;
Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;

But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their airy might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All—'from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry

Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs The tented doñie, of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star that sparkles through,

Each gilded cloud that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives

The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,

Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,

Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world I the hour must come,

And Nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn; But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow; For hearts grow holier as they trace

The beauty of the world below.

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And asked 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.

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“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 would 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 the 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 has it been my lot to meet.

“ 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,

And she heard the little spring-brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,

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