"For a kiss, or an apple, now come you to-day ?"

86

Why, for both!" said the shrewd boy to Anne Hathaway.

The Farmer he sat on the steps of her door

"I've kine, sheep, and homestead ;-what can you want more?"
The little boy answer'd-ne'er dreaming how true,—
"When I am her sweetheart, she cannot want you!"
Anne stooped down and kiss'd him, and said, in mere play,
"Yes; Willie's the sweetheart for Anne Hathaway."
The Farmer laugh'd loud-" What a fine man you be!-
You may kiss the wee laddie, and ne'er jealous me!"
Willie blushing replied, "You're a fool, it is plain,
Or you'd not want No!' said more than once and again."
The Farmer trudged off, and scarce bade them good-day,
-And the boy ate sour apples with Anne Hathaway.
Then ten years went o'er-"Ah! Anne's hard to please!"
Said yeoman at stacking-said shepherd on leas:
Till she went o'er to Welford, to see the May Queen,
And met there lithe Willie, just agèd eighteen;
Who, slighting young lasses, was heard oft to say,
"That the Queen of all queens there was Anne Hathaway."
At sundown, the shortest way home he could show-
O'er the ford, and by field-paths (much longer, we know)—
But he talked all the way with such marvellous skill,
Anne doubted her eyes when they reached Baudon-hill;
And at Shottery-brook she'd no power to say nay,

When he said, "You're my sweetheart, proud Anne Hathaway.'
He came o'er the fields at the next even-song,

And Anne, half-ashamed, stole to meet him along:
But the full-breasted passion of Shakespeare's love-dream,
Swept her will where it will'd, like a waif on a stream:
"It was wooing and wedding at once!" the folks say,
"For the green callant Willie, with Anne Hathaway."
Soon Anne with a husband in years but a score,
Full blest with three children, thought sadly of more:
For, though quick in jest, or to fashion a rhyme,
Willie's earnings were not those of men in their prime;
And she sighed half assent when she heard the folks say-
"That more nice than wise had been Anne Hathaway!"
Now a matron demure, Anne a formal life led;
She got up betimes, and went early to bed:
But Willie at sundown, when staid folks went home,
Hied up Welcomb-hill through the wild woods to roam,
Or would sit by the fire till the first blush of day,
Writing "sonnets "-sheer nonsense to Anne Hathaway!
A store of old saws Anne could speak off by rote,
And oft wanted Willie their wisdom to note;
And he listened at times, but provokingly smiled,
Like a sage brought to book by an overwise child;
Or, strangely perverting, with new rhymes, each say,
Took the wind from the sails of poor Anne Hathaway.

In the woods around Charlcote, the moon thought one night
'Twas Endymion again singing hymns to her light;
But the Park-keepers knew it was Will; and one swore
That the buck some sly poacher had just tumbled o'er,
Had been slain by his hand! and, for all Will could say,
He was stock'd as a scape-grace!-Sad Anne Hathaway!
Then Willie, who chafed under sense of deep wrong,
From Apollo's own bow sent a shaft, in a song;
Which so stung and venomed the Knight Lucy's breast,
That his frowns and his threats all the Shakespeares oppress'd:
So Will for their sakes, fled from Stratford away,
And left a grass-widow in Anne Hathaway.

To her father's home then Anne as housekeeper went,
And sad months, and years, half dependent, there spent;
For the old folks, in hard times, were testy, cross-grained,
And oft of her children as burdens complained:
And in their best tempers were sti he ard to say,
That "amiss was the marriage of Anne Hathaway!"
By the waggon from London a small packet came-
"For ye Mistress Anne, Hymen Shakespeare did name."
In it were kind words, and of high hopes a store,
But good moneys too, and a promise of more-
Which was kept in due season, and made the folks say,
That" some wives were worse off than Anne Hathaway!"
Next came down rich dresses that made poor Anne stare,
She was fearful to handle and much more to wear.
When to church, in the plainest, she one Sunday went,
All eyes in astonishment on her were bent;
But Anne tossed her head! for she heard the folks say,
That "a far-seeing wench had been Anne Hathaway!"
The newsmongers, now that the Scots' Queen was dead,
And the Spanish Armada thrashed, captured, or fled,
And laid up were Frobisher Hawkins, and Drake,
Of Shakespeare's new fortunes much marvel did make;
And when the truth failed them would whisper and say-
That "the Queen was thought jealous of Anne Hathaway!"
With faith in broad acres, full barns, flocks, and herds,
Anne doubted much profit from rhymes and fine words:
She saw no work done to ensure wealth of gold;
In the distance, its growth but a dream-life could hold;
From which waking up, her boy-husband, one day,
Might come home broken-hearted to Anne Hathaway.
One evening in autumn, deep sadness came o'er,
As her pitcher she filled in the well near the door;
For an over-ripe apple she found by the brim,
And she thought what a gift it had once been for him!
A drop specked its bloom, and it came, spite of "Nay!"
From thy heart, not the cold well, proud Anne Hathaway!
It was warm, and spread over the fruit the rich dye
Of a heart-mist exhaled by Love's roseate sky:

Like gems on the pitcher the cold drops shone clear,
But the gem of all gems was that quick-wasting tear:
She put up the apple to kiss it next day-

"I must call-in the children," said Anne Hathaway.
She set down the pitcher, and lean'd o'er the gate,
To tell the young truants that supper did wait:
Susannah was spelling for Judith a book,

And Hamet was paddling about in the brook;

When she saw, near the bridge, just a stone's throw away,
One who seemed a great lord unto Anne Hathaway!

His doublet and trunks were of velvet, that shone
Like the mellow-green moss on an old coping stone:
A plume of white feathers his felt hat did grace,
And his collar and ruffles were broad Flanders lace:
With his buff boots and spurs he looked gallant and gay,
Yet were tears in his eyes then-cold Anne Hathaway!
Susannah stopped reading, and bade Judith look,
For Hamet stuck fast in the mud of the brook,

With his eyes wonder-fix'd, and his mouth open wide:
Then the stranger advanced; and when close by Anne's side,
Though his bearded lip quivered, did smilingly say,
“Will you give me that apple, dear Anne Hathaway?"

Anne started, and trembled, and look'd in his face,
"Oh! could it be Willie with majesty's grace?"

Though it beamed youthful still, there the boy was no more; For the full front of power and command it now wore: And she shrank back afraid, when she heard Shakespeare say, "Don't you know your own husband, dear Anne Hathaway?" “”Tis my father!" cried Susan, and sprang to his breast,

From that moment ever belov'd there the best;

But the others he called, and with hand and lip graced,
And tenderly then their coy mother embraced:
"When I asked for an apple, you never said nay,
But a kiss was a great gift from Anne Hathaway!"
He went o'er to Stratford the very next morn,

And bought the great house where the Clopton was born;
And rich lands around Welcomb he purchas'd right out,
And a "propertied" gentleman was, past all doubt;
And, though the poor title his fame flouts to-day,
Still, she married an "Esquire," did Anne Hathaway!

XXXII.-MAUD MULLER. -J. G. Whittier.

MAUD 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!

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 meadows 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 quaff'd."- -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 briar-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 Müller 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 broad-cloth 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 Müller standing still. A form more fair, a face more sweet, ne'er hath 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, and weary lawyers with endless tongues; but low of cattle, and song of birds, and health of quiet and loving words." Then 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 Müller'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 a 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 unlearn'd and poor, and many children played round her door. But care, and sorrow, and household pain, left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot on the new-mown hay in the meadow-lot, and she heard the little springbrook 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, 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!

XXXIII.-CASA WAPPY.-David M. Moir.

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, our fond, dear boy? The realms where sorrow dare not come, where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, thy spirit caught no taint from earth; even by its bliss we mete our dearth,-Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell, as closed thine eye; tears all our anguish may not tell, when thou didst die; words may not paint our grief for thee; sighs are but bubbles on the sea of our unfathomed agony,-Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight, to bless us given; beauty embodied to our sight, a type of heaven; so dear to us thou wert, thou art even less thine own self, than a part of mine and of thy mother's heart,-Casa Wappy!

Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 'twas cloudless joy; sunrise and night alone were thine, beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; that, found thee prostrate in decay; and, ere a third shone, clay was clay,-Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, earth's undefiled; could love have saved, thou hadst not died, our dear, sweet child! humbly we bow to fate's decree; yet had we hoped that time should see thee mourn for us, not us for thee,-Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will, thou meet'st my sight; there dost thou glide before me still-a form of light! I feel thy breath upon my cheek-I see thee smile, I hear thee speak-till, oh! my heart is like to break,-Casa Wappy!

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, thy bat, thy bow, thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; but where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; thy playthings, idly scattered there, but speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy!

Snows muffled Earth when thou didst go, in life's spring bloom, down to the appointed house below-the silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, the cuckoo and the "busy bee," return-but with them bring not thee,-Casa Wappy!

'Tis so; but can it be (while flowers revive again) man's doom, in death that we and ours for aye remain? Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, the grass renewed should yearly wave, yet God forget our child to save ?-Casa Wappy!

It cannot be for were it so, could man thus die, life were a mockery, thought were woe, and truth a lie; heaven were a coinage of the brain, religion frenzy; virtue vain, and all our hopes to meet again,-Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, oh! dear lost child! with beam of love, a star, death's uncongenial wild smiling above; soon, soon thy little feet have trod the skyward path, the seraph's road, that led thee back from man to God,Casa Wappy!