Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; "It was a fresh and glorious world, I looked upon those hills and plains, "But wherefore speak of this? For now, Sweet Ruth! with thee, I know not how, I feel my spirit burn Even as the east when day comes forth; And, to the west, and south, and north, The morning doth return." Full soon that purer mind was gone; New objects did new pleasure give, Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, But, when they thither came, the Youth 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 she sang tumultuous songs, By recollection of her wrongs, To fearful passion rouzed. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May, 1 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; But of the Vagrant none took thought; Among the fields she breathed again : And, coming to the banks of Tone, There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree. 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. A Barn her winter bed supplies; (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 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, up The horsemen-travellers ride. That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 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, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. |