Within his arms the child he took, And thought of home and life with men; And all his pilgrim feet forsook Returned again. The palmy shadows cool and long, The eyes that smiled through lavish locks, Home's cradle-hymn and harvest-song, And bleat of flocks. "O child!" he said, "thou teachest me There is no place where God is not; That love will make, where'er it be, A holy spot." He rose from off the desert sand, And, leaning on his staff of thorn, Went with the young child hand in hand, Like night with morn. They crossed the desert's burning line, And heard the palm-tree's rustling fan, The Nile-bird's cry, the low of kine, And voice of man. Unquestioning, his childish guide He followed, as the small hand led To where a woman, gentle-eyed, Her distaff fed. She rose, she clasped her truant boy, She thanked the stranger with her eyes; The hermit gazed in doubt and joy And dumb surprise. And to!--with sudden warmth and light A tender memory thrilled his frame; New-born, the world-lost anchorite A man became. "O sister of El Zara's race, Behold me!--had we not one mother?" She gazed into the stranger's face "Thou art my brother!" "And when to share our evening meal, She calls the stranger at the door, She says God fills the hands that deal Food to the poor." "O kin of blood! Thy life of use And patient trust is more than mine; And wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine. "For, taught of him whom God hath sent, That toil is praise, and love is prayer, I come, life's cares and pains content With thee to share." Even as his foot the threshold crossed, The hermit's better life began; Its holiest saint the Thebaid lost, And found a man! 1854. MAUD MULLER. The recollection of some descendants of a Hessian deserter in the Revolutionary war bearing the name of Muller doubtless suggested the somewhat infelicitous title of a New England idyl. The poem had no real foundation in fact, though a hint of it may have been found in recalling an incident, trivial in itself, of a journey on the picturesque Maine seaboard with my sister some years before it was written. We had stopped to rest our tired horse under the shade of an apple-tree, and refresh him with water from a little brook which rippled through the stone wall across the road. A very beautiful young girl in scantest summer attire was at work in the hay-field, and as we talked with her we noticed that she strove to hide her bare feet by raking hay over them, blushing as she did so, through the tan of her cheek and neck. 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.