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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 she sang tumultuous songs,

By recollection of her wrongs,

To fearful passion rouzed.

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.

* 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
Repairs to a road-side;

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,
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.

LAODAMIA.

"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn
Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required;
And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn,
Him of the infernal Gods have I desired :
Celestial pity I again implore ; —

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heaven-ward lifts her hands;
While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud,
Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows,
And she expects the issue in repose.

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?

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