Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

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
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent:

For passions linked to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw
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.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, 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 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!

But now the pleasant dream was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one,-
They stirred him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wished 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, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs,
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 wild 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.

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 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.

*The Tone is a river of Somersetshire, at no great distance 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.

If she is pressed by want of food,
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 horseman-travellers ride.

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
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould

Thy corpse shall buried be;

For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

XVI.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND.

*

THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.

* See page 3.

XVII.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime :
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, With the first word I had to spare,

I said to her, "Beneath your cloak,

What's that which on your arm you bear?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burden, sir,-a little singing-bird."

And thus continuing, she said,
"I had a son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas; but he is dead:

In Denmark he was cast away;

And I have travelled far as Hull, to see

What clothes he might have left, or other property.

"The bird and cage they both were his;

'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages

This singing-bird hath gone with him;

When last he sailed he left the bird behind,

As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
Till he came back again; and there

I found it when my son was dead;

And now-God help me for my little wit-

I trail it with me, sir! he took so much delight in it."

XVIII.

THE CHILDLESS FATHER.

"UP, Timothy, up, with your staff, and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

-Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

The basin of boxwood,* just six months before,
Had stood on the table at Timothy's door;

A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

XIX.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET

WHERE art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh, find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;

To have despaired, and have believed,
And be for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss,
I catch at them, and then I miss :
Was ever darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:

If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

OF

* In several parts of the north of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.