New objects did new pleasure give, 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 she sang tumultuous songs, By recollection of her wrongs, To fearful passion rouzed. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, -They all were with her in her cell; Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain; 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 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. * 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. 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. If she is pressed by want of food, She from her dwelling in the wood And there she begs at one steep place, and down with easy pace Where up The horsemen-travellers ride. That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, The Quantock Woodman hears. I, too, have passed her on the hills 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, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, XVI. LAODAMIA. "WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!" So speaking, and by fervent love endowed O terror! what hath she perceived?— O joy! What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold? Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence-his corporeal mold? |