But ill he lived, much evil saw, Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own. His genius and his moral frame A man who without self-control And yet he with no feigned delight What could he less than love a maid Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, When first, in confidence and pride, "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, 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; 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 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, 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 passed her on the hills Such small machinery as she turned 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, A Christian psalm for thee. SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, No man like him the horn could sound, In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. IIe all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming hounds are out, |