Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent:

For passions linked to forms so fair

And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw,
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived,

These wild men's vices he received
And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:

A Man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn:

What could he less than love a Maid
Whose heart with so much nature played?
So kind and so forlorn!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,

"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, Encompassed me on every side

When first, in confidence and pride,
I crossed the Atlantic Main.

It was a fresh and glorious world,
A banner bright that was unfurled
Before me suddenly:

I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.

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;
No hope, no wish remained, not one, -
They stirred him now no more:
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished to live

As lawless as before.

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.

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 roused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May.

-They all were with her in her cell; And a wild brook with cheerful kneel 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
Her shelter and her bread.

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 dwelt 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;

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 prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road side;

And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.

That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:

This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock Woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills,
Setting her little water-mills

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,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

LAODAMIA.

"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud,
Her countenance brightens and her eye expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?- O joy! What doth she look on?-whom doth she behold? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?

His vital presence

It is if sense deceive her not 'tis He!

And a God leads him-winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake - and touched her with his wand That calms all fear, "Such grace hath crowned thy

prayer,

Laodamia! that at Jove's command

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"