And then he said, 'How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or in shade To wander with an easy mind, And build a household fire, and find A home in every glade! What days and what bright years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with Thee So pass'd in quiet bliss ; And all the while,' said he, 'to know That we were in a world of woe, And then he sometimes interwove Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, Beloved Ruth!'-No more he said. She thought again—and did agree And drive the flying deer. 'And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, Even so they did; and I may say Through dream and vision did she sink, But, as you have before been told, This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And with his dancing crest So beautiful, through savage lands Had roam'd about with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The wind, the tempest roaring high, 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 Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween For passions link'd to forms so fair But ill he lived, much evil saw Those wild men's vices he received, His genius and his moral frame Were thus impair'd, and he became A man who without self-control And yet he with no feign'd delight Had loved 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? Sometimes most earnestly he said, 'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; Before me shone a glorious world I look'd upon those hills and plains, No more of this- for now, by thee, My soul from darkness is released Full soon that better mind was gone; Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 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 exulting in her wrongs, Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 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, 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 tax'd them with the ill Which had been done to her. |