Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury. 1875.
William Wordsworth CCLXXIII. Ruth, or the Influences of NatureW
Her father took another mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.
She seem’d to live; her thoughts her own,
Herself her own delight:
Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
She pass’d her time, and in this way
Grew up to woman’s height.
A military casque he wore
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees:
The feathers nodded in the breeze
And made a gallant crest.
But no! he spake the English tongue
And bore a soldier’s name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He ’cross the ocean came.
In finest tones the youth could speak.
While he was yet a boy
The moon, the glory of the sun,
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as, told to any maid
By such a youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues;
With budding, fading, faded flowers,
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire;
Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.
And many an endless, endless lake
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
To wander with an easy mind,
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade!
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So pass’d in quiet bliss;
And all the while,” said he, “to know
That we were in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this!”
Fond thoughts about a father’s love—
“For there,” said he, “are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.
My helpmate in the woods to be,
Our shed at night to rear;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer!
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear;
She thought again—and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife.”
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.
Delighted all the while to think
That, on those lonesome floods
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.
This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And with his dancing crest
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roam’d about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.
The tumult of a tropic sky
Might well be dangerous food
For him, a youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem’d allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.
The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,—
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favour’d bowers.
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
For passions link’d to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.
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.
Were thus impair’d, and he became
The slave of low desires—
A man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.
Had woo’d 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 play’d—
So kind and so forlorn?
“O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
Encompass’d me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride,
Had cross’d the Atlantic main.
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl’d
To music suddenly:
I look’d upon those hills and plains,
And seem’d as if let loose from chains
To live at liberty!
Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is releas’d,
Like the whole sky when to the east
The morning doth return.”
No hope, no wish remain’d, not one,—
They stirr’d him now no more;
New objects did new pleasure give,
And once again he wish’d to live
As lawless as before.
They for the voyage were prepared,
And went to the seashore;
But when they thither came the youth
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.
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.
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May—
They all were with her in her cell;
And a clear brook with cheerful knell
Did o’er the pebbles play.
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.
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.
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves—she loved them still,
Nor ever tax’d them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
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.
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.
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a roadside;
And there she begs at one steep place,
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.
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.
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild—
Such small machinery as she turn’d
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d—
A young and happy child!
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.