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-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 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,
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 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.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND.

See page 8.

THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;

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;
"Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again,

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;
Proud was I that my country bred

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,
With the first word I had to spare

I said to her," Beneath your Cloak

VOL. I.

M

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