And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw
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.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires:

A man who without self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight
Had wooed 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 played?
So kind and so forlorn!

But now the pleasant dream was gone;
No hope, no wish remained, not one,-
They stirred him now no more;

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 exulting in her wrongs,

Among the music of her songs,

She fearfully caroused.

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 ner 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.

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,
Where up and down with easy pace
The horseman-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.

The Tone is a river of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantocs Hills. These hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas below, are extremely beauti ful and in most places richly covered with coppice woods.

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 heavenward 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?
His-if sense deceive her not-'tis he!

And a god leads him-winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake-and touched her with his wand
That calms all fear, "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer
Laodamia, that at Jove's command

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours'
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"

space;

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp,
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to re-unite,
And re-assume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon,-and blest a sad abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect :-Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;

But in reward of thy fidelity.

And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat did not withold:
A generous cause a victim did demand;