WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, | |
Her father took another mate; | |
And Ruth, not seven years old, | |
A slighted child, at her own will | |
Went wandering over dale and hill, | 5 |
In thoughtless freedom, bold. | |
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And she had made a pipe of straw, | |
And music from that pipe could draw | |
Like sounds of winds and floods; | |
Had built a bower upon the green, | 10 |
As if she from her birth had been | |
An infant of the woods. | |
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Beneath her father's roof, alone | |
She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own, | |
Herself her own delight: | 15 |
Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, | |
She pass'd her time, and in this way | |
Grew up to woman's height. | |
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There came a youth from Georgia's shore | |
A military casque he wore | 20 |
With splendid feathers drest; | |
He brought them from the Cherokees: | |
The feathers nodded in the breeze | |
And made a gallant crest. | |
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From Indian blood you deem him sprung: | 25 |
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. | 30 |
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With hues of genius on his cheek, | |
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, | 35 |
Had been his dearest joy. | |
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He was a lovely youth! I guess | |
The panther in the wilderness | |
Was not so fair as he; | |
And when he chose to sport and play, | 40 |
No dolphin ever was so gay | |
Upon the tropic sea. | |
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Among the Indians he had fought; | |
And with him many tales he brought | |
Of pleasure and of fear; | 45 |
Such tales as, told to any maid | |
By such a youth, in the green shade, | |
Were perilous to hear. | |
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He told of girls, a happy rout! | |
Who quit their fold with dance and shout, | 50 |
Their pleasant Indian town, | |
To gather strawberries all day long | |
Returning with a choral song | |
When daylight is gone down. | |
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He spake of plants that hourly change | 55 |
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. | 60 |
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He told of the magnolia, spread | |
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 | 65 |
To set the hills on fire. | |
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The youth of green savannahs spake, | |
And many an endless, endless lake | |
With all its fairy crowds | |
Of islands, that together lie | 70 |
As quietly as spots of sky | |
Among the evening clouds. | |
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And then he said: "How sweet it were | |
A fisher or a hunter there, | |
In sunshine or in shade | 75 |
To wander with an easy mind, | |
And build a household fire, and find | |
A home in every glade! | |
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"What days and what bright years! Ah me! | |
Our life were life indeed, with thee | 80 |
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!" | |
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And then he sometimes interwove | 85 |
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. | 90 |
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"Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me, | |
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, | 95 |
And drive the flying deer! | |
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"Beloved Ruth!"No more he said. | |
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed | |
A solitary tear; | |
She thought againand did agree | 100 |
With him to sail across the sea, | |
And drive the flying deer. | |
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"And now, as fitting is and right, | |
We in the church our faith will plight, | |
A husband and a wife." | 105 |
Even so they did; and I may say | |
That to sweet Ruth that happy day | |
Was more than human life. | |
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Through dream and vision did she sink, | |
Delighted all the while to think | 110 |
That, on those lonesome floods | |
And green savannahs, she should share | |
His board with lawful joy, and bear | |
His name in the wild woods. | |
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But, as you have before been told, | 115 |
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. | 120 |
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The wind, the tempest roaring high, | |
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, | 125 |
And such impetuous blood. | |
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Whatever in those climes he found | |
Irregular in sight or sound | |
Did to his mind impart | |
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied | 130 |
To his own powers, and justified | |
The workings of his heart. | |
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Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, | |
The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, | |
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; | 135 |
The breezes their own languor lent; | |
The stars had feelings, which they sent | |
Into those favour'd bowers. | |
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Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween | |
That sometimes there did intervene | 140 |
Pure hopes of high intent; | |
For passions link'd to forms so fair | |
And stately, needs must have their share | |
Of noble sentiment. | |
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But ill he lived, much evil saw, | 145 |
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. | 150 |
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His genius and his moral frame | |
Were thus impair'd, and he became | |
The slave of low desires | |
A man who without self-control | |
Would seek what the degraded soul | 155 |
Unworthily admires. | |
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And yet he with no feign'd delight | |
Had woo'd the maiden, day and night | |
Had loved her, night and morn: | |
What could he less than love a maid | 160 |
Whose heart with so much nature play'd | |
So kind and so forlorn? | |
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Sometimes most earnestly he said, | |
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead; | |
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain | 165 |
Encompass'd me on every side | |
When I, in confidence and pride, | |
Had cross'd the Atlantic main. | |
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"Before me shone a glorious world, | |
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd | 170 |
To music suddenly: | |
I look'd upon those hills and plains, | |
And seem'd as if let loose from chains | |
To live at liberty! | |
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"No more of thisfor now, by thee, | 175 |
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." | 180 |
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Full soon that better mind was gone; | |
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 | 185 |
As lawless as before. | |
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Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, | |
They for the voyage were prepared, | |
And went to the seashore; | |
But when they thither came the youth | 190 |
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth | |
Could never find him more. | |
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God help thee, Ruth!Such pains she had | |
That she in half a year was mad | |
And in a prison housed; | 195 |
And there, exulting in her wrongs, | |
Among the music of her songs | |
She fearfully caroused. | |
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Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, | |
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, | 200 |
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. | |
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When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, | 205 |
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. | 210 |
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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 | 215 |
Under the greenwood tree. | |
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The engines of her pain, the tools | |
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, | |
And airs that gently stir | |
The vernal leavesshe loved them still, | 220 |
Nor ever tax'd them with the ill | |
Which had been done to her. | |
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A barn her winter bed supplies; | |
But, till the warmth of summer skies | |
And summer days is gone, | 225 |
(And all do in this tale agree,) | |
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, | |
And other home hath none. | |
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An innocent life, yet far astray! | |
And Ruth will, long before her day, | 230 |
Be broken down and old. | |
Sore aches she needs must havebut less | |
Of mind, than body's wretchedness, | |
From damp, and rain, and cold. | |
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If she is prest by want of food, | 235 |
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. | 240 |
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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 | 245 |
The Quantock woodman hears. | |
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I, too, have pass'd her on the hills, | |
Setting her little water-mills | |
By spouts and fountains wild | |
Such small machinery as she turn'd | 250 |
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd | |
A young and happy child! | |
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Farewell! and when thy days are told, | |
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould | |
Thy corpse shall buried be; | 255 |
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, | |
And all the congregation sing | |
A Christian psalm for thee. | |
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