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 a 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 knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.

When Ruth three scasons 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.

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.

Come to regions solitary,

Where the eagle builds her aery,

Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell!"
She comes! behold

That Figure, like a ship with silver sail!
Nearer she draws-a breeze uplifts her veil
Upon her coming wait

As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale
As e'er on herbage covering earthly mould,
Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold

His richest splendour, when his veering gait
And every motion of his starry train
Seem governed by a strain

Of music, audible to him alone.

O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest throne!
Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit
Beside an unambitious hearth to sit
Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown;
What living man could fear

The worst of Fortune's malice, wert thou near,
Humbling that lily stem, thy sceptre meek,
That its fair flowers may brush from off his cheek
The too, too happy tear?

Queen and handmaid lowly!

Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares,
And banish melancholy

By all that mind invents or hand prepares;
O thou, against whose lip, without its smile,
And in its silence even, no heart is proof;
Whose goodness sinking deep, would reconcile
The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace
To the bare life beneath the hawthorn roof
Of Sherwood's archer, or in caves of Wallace-
Who that hath seen thy beauty could content
His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day?
Who that hath loved thee, but would lay
His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent
To take thee in thy majesty away?
-Pass onward (even the glancing deer
Till we depart intrude not here;)

That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws
A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose!

She hastens to the tents

Of nature, and the lonely eleinents.

Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen, And mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green And, as if wishful to disarm

Or to repay the potent charm,

She bears the stringed lute of old romance,
That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy,
And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall,
How light her air! how delicate her glee!
So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance;
So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne!

Nor interrupts her frolic graces

When she is, far from these wild places, Encircled by familiar faces.

O the charm that manners draw,
Nature, from thy genuine law!
If from what her hand would do,

Her voice would utter, there ensue
Aught untoward or unfit,

She, in benign affections pure,

In self-forgetfulness secure,

Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance

A light unknown to tutored elegance:

Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken,

But her blushes are joy-flushes

And the fault (if fault it be)
Only ministers to quicken
Laughter-loving gaiety,

And kindle sportive wit—

Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free
As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary,
And heard his viewless bands

Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.

-Her brow hath opened on me see it there,
Brightening the umbrage of her hair;
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
-Tenderest bloom is on her cheek;
Wish not for a richer streak -

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye;
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage offered up in purity.—

What would'st thou more? In sunny glade
Or under leaves of thickest shade,
Was such a stillness e'er diffused
Since earth grew calm while angels mused?
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
To crush the mountain dew-drop, soon to melt
On the flowers breast; as if she felt

That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,

Assist me to detain

The lovely fugitive:

Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.
Here let me gaze enwrapt upon that eve,
The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort
Of contemplation, the calm port
By reason fenced from winds that sigh
Among the restless sails of vanity.
But if no wish be hers that we should part,
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.
Where all things are so fair,
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air
Of this Elysian weather;

And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy
Shade upon the sunshine lying

Faint and somewhat pensively;
And downward image gaily vying
With its upright living tree
Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.

Nor less the joy with many a glance

Cast up the stream or down at her beseeching,
To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest
By ever-changing shape and want of rest;

Or watch, with mutual teaching,
The current as it plays

In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps
Adown a rocky maze;

Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance
In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright,
Stones of all hucs, gem emulous of gem,
So vivid that they take from keenest sight
The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.