And in a prison housed; And there, with many a doleful song Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, -They all were with her in her cell; When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, But of the Vagrant none took thought; Among the fields she breathed again : And, coming to the Banks of Tone,+ The engines of her pain, the tools * And there, exulting in her wrongs, She fearfully caroused.-Edit. 1815. The Tone is a river of Somersetshire, at no great distance from the Quantock hills. These hills are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with coppice woods. 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; (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, Sore aches she needs must have! but less From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is prest 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 Farewell! and when thy days are told, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, A Christian psalm for thee. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.* ONE morning (raw it was and wet— 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. * Written at Grasmere, February, 1802. In Miss Wordsworth's journal this poem is called "The Singing Bird." When from these lofty thoughts I woke, She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, “I had a Son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.t The bird and cage they both were his : The singing-bird had gone with him ; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;-there ‡ And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it.” * With the first word I had to spare I said to her, "Beneath your cloak What's that which on your arm you bear?"-Edit. 1815. And I have travelled far as Hull to see What clothes he might have left, or other property.-Edit. 1815. Till he came back again, and there.-Edit. 1815. I THE CHILDLESS FATHER. "UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away! -Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, Perhaps to himself at that moment he said; 1800. * In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. |