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.

"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,

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
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 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;
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,

She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side;

And there she begs at one steep place,
Where and down with easy pace

up

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

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.