Whatever in those climes he found A kindred impulse, seemed allied Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The breezes their own languor lent; Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes there did intervene For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he lived, much evil saw His genius and his moral frame A man who without self-control And yet he with no feigned delight 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! But now the pleasant dream was gone; No hope, no wish remained, not one,- As lawless as before. Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, But, when they thither came, the youth God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had And in a prison housed; And there, exulting in her wrongs, Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, -They all were with her in her cell; When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 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 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. * 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. If she is pressed by want of food, And there she begs at one steep place, That oaten pipe of hers is mute, I, too, have passed her on the hills Farewell! and when thy days are told, Thy corpse shall buried be; For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. XVI. THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY A FEMALE FRIEND. * THE days are cold, the nights are long, The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; Nay! start not at that sparkling light; And wake when it is day. * See page 3. XVIL THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime : And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; When from these lofty thoughts I woke, I said to her, "Beneath your cloak, What's that which on your arm you bear?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burden, sir,—a little singing-bird." And thus continuing, she said, "I had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas; but he is dead : In Denmark he was cast away; And I have travelled far as Hull, to see What clothes he might have left, or other property. "The bird and cage they both were his; 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This singing-bird hath gone with him; When last he sailed he left the bird behind, As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, I found it when my son was dead; And now-God help me for my little wit- I trail it with me, sir! he took so much delight in it." XVIII THE CHILDLESS FATHER. "UP, Timothy, up, with your staff, and away! -Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, The basin of boxwood,* just six months before, Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, XIX. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET WHERE art thou, my beloved son, Seven years, alas! to have received To have despaired, and have believed, He was among the prime in worth, If things ensued that wanted grace, OF In several parts of the north of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. |