And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the maiden, day and night What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature played? So kind and so forlorn! But now the pleasant dream was gone; Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore ; But, when they thither came, the Youth Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more. "God help thee, Ruth!"-Such pains she had" That she in half a year was mad And in a prison housed; And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, -They all were with her in her cell; And a wild brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the banks of Tone*, There did she rest; and dwell alone The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her. *The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods. A Barn her winter bed supplies; But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, Be broken down and old. Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is pressed by want of food, And there she begs at one steep place, That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, Or thrown away; but with a flute This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, The Quantock Woodman hears. I, too, have passed her on the hills By spouts and fountains wild Such small machinery as she turned Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, A young and happy Child! Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould Thy corpse shall buried be; For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. |