THE BAR-MAID.
She was a pretty, gentle girl—a farmer's orphan daughter, and the landlord's niece—whom I strongly suspected of being engaged to be married very shortly, to the writer of the letter that I saw her reading at least twenty times, when I passed the bar, and which I more than believe I saw her kiss one night. She told me a tale of that country which went so pleasantly to the music of her voice, that I ought rather to say it turned itself into verse, than was turned into verse by me.
A little past the village
The inn stood, low and white,
Green shady trees behind it,
And an orchard on the right,
Where, over the green paling
The red-cheeked apples hung,
As if to watch how wearily
The sign-board creaked and swung.
The heavy-laden branches
Over the road hung low,
Reflecting fruit or blossom
In the wayside well below;
Where children, drawing water,
Looked up and paused to see,
Amid the apple branches
A purple Judas Tree.
The road stretch' d winding onward
For many a weary mile—
So dusty footsore wanderers
Would pause and rest awhile;
And panting horses halted,
And travellers loved to tell
The quiet of the wayside inn.
The orchard, and the well.
Here Maurice dwelt; and often
The sunburned boy would stand
Gazing upon the distance.
And shading with his hand
His eyes, while watching vainly
For travellers, who might need
His aid to loose the bridle,
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