And yet he with no feign'd delight Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night Had lov'd her, night and morn; What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature play'd So kind and so forlorn? But now the pleasant dream was gone, New objects did new pleasure give, 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 hous'd, And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs 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 chearful 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, Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breath'd again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free, And to the pleasant Banks of Tone* She took her way, to dwell alone The engines of her grief, the tools And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Which had been done to her. * The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great disdistance 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. A Barn her winter bed supplies, But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And in this tale we all agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. If she is press'd by want of food And there she begs at one steep place, That oaten pipe of hers is mute This flute made of a hemlock stalk I, too have pass'd her on the hills By spouts and fountains wild, Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd Farewel! and when thy days are told For thee a funeral bell shall ring, |