"But wherefore speak of this? For now, Even as the east when day comes forth; Full soon that purer mind was gone; Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, But, when they thither came, the Youth "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 roused. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor pastimes of the May, -They all were with her in her cell ; And a wild brook with cheerful knell 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, The engines of her pain, the tools 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 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 Such small machinery as she turned Farewell! and when thy days are told, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, No man like him the horn could sound, The halloo of Simon Lee, In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reeled and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, But, oh the heavy change!-bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left In liveried poverty. His Master's dead,-and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. One prop he has, and only one, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her husband's side, And though you with your utmost skill Alas! 'tis very little-all Which they can do between them. D |