Even so they did; and I may say Through dream and vision did she sink, But, as you have before been told, So beautiful, through savage lands The wind, the tempest roaring high, Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth-so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seemed allied Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers; The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those gorgeous bowers. Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 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 Were thus impaired, and he became A man who without self-control And yet he with no feigned delight, Had wooed the maiden, day and night 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! Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; "It was a fresh and glorious world, I looked upon those hills and plains, "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; 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, -They all were with her in her cell; When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, But of the vagrant none took thought; Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breathed again : Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the banks of Tone, The engines of her pain, the tools 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 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, |