-They all were with her in her cell; And a wild brook with cheerful knell When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, But of the Vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Among the fields she breathed again; 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, * 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. 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. If she is pressed 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 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, Thy corpse shall buried be; For thee a funeral bell shall ring, XVI. THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY A FEMALE FRIEND. See page 8. THE days are cold, the nights are long, 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? 5 Nay! start not at that sparkling light; And wake when it is day. 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; 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, I said to her," Beneath your Cloak VOL. I. M |