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Pure hopes of high intent :
For passions, link'd to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share

Of noble sentiment.
But ill he lived, much evil saw,

145 With men to whom no better law

Nor better life was known ;
Deliberately and undeceived
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own.

150 His genius and his moral frame Were thus impair’d, and he became

The slave of low desires :
A man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul

Unworthily admires.
And yet he with no feign'd delight
Had woo'd the maiden, day and night

Had loved her, night and morn :
What could he less than love a maid 160
Whose heart with so much nature play'd—

So kind and so forlorn ?
Sometimes most earnestly he said,
O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ;

False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 165-
Encompass'd me on every side
When Ì, in confidence and pride,

Had cross'd the Atlantic main. ' Before me shone a glorious world Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd

170 To music suddenly : I look'd upon those hills and plains, And seem'd as if let loose from chains

To live at liberty. No more of this—for now, by thee, 175 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free,



With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released
Like the whole sky when to the east
The morning doth return.'

180 Full soon that better mind was gone ; No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,

They stirr'd him now no more ;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wish'd to live

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 housed ;
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong

She fearfully caroused.
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 clear brook with cheerful 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 ;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.

210 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 tax'd them with the ill

Which had been done to her.


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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, 230

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

235 She from her dwelling in the wood

Repairs to a road-side ;
And there she begs at one steep place.
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.

240 That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away : but with a flute

Her loneliness she cheers ;
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk

245 The Quantock woodman hears. I, too, have pass'd her on the hills

Setting her little water-mills


By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turn'd
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d,

A young and happy child !
Farewell ! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallow'd mould

Thy corpse shall buried be ;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.








Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above, the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind, the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as ever still
Longing with divided will,



But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on
O’er the unreposing wave,
To the haven of the grave.




Aye, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony :
To such a one this morn was led
My bark, by soft winds piloted.

Mid the mountains Euganean
I stood listening to the paean
With which the legion'd rooks did hail
The sun's uprise majestical :
Gathering round with wings all hoar,
Through the dewy mist they soar
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then,-as clouds of even,
Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,-

40 So their plumes of purple grain Starr'd with drops of golden rain Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale

45 Through the broken mist they sail ; And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still Round the solitary hill.


Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair ;
Underneath Day's azure eyes,
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,-
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite's destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.



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