'And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly,

Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,

Cried aloud: 'God save us,
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lützen's blood,
With the brave Gustavus?'

'Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine,' said Ury's lord. 'Put it up, I pray thee:

Passive to his holy will,

Trust I in my Master still,

Even though He slay me.

'Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed.'

Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.

'Woe's the day!' he sadly said, With a slowly shaking head,

And a look of pity;

'Ury's honest lord reviled,

Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!

'Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line,

And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we 'll teach Civil look and decent speech

To these boyish prancers!'

'Marvel not, mine ancient friend.
Like beginning, like the end,'
Quoth the Laird of Ury;
'Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

Give me joy that in his name
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?

'Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,
Riding out from Aberdeen,

With bared heads to meet me.

'When each goodwife, o'er and o'er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,

Through her casement glancing down,
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.

'Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friend's falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.

'Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light

Up the blackness streaking;

Knowing God's own time is best,

In a patient hope I rest

For the full day-breaking!'

796

So the Laird of Ury said,

Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison,
Where, through iron gates, he heard
Poor disciples of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told

Of thy day of trial;
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its seven-fold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,

O'er the rabble's laughter;
And while Hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set

In the world's wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,

Must the moral pioneer

From the Future borrow;

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight's sky of rain,

Paint the golden morrow!

MAUD MULLER

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 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.

'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.

'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.