The Youth of green savannahs spake,
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.

And then he said, "How sweet it were
A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,

Still wandering with an easy mind
To build a household fire, and find

A home in every glade!

"What days and what sweet years! Ah me!

Our life were life indeed, with thee

So passed 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!"

And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a Father's love: "For there," said he,

66 are spun

Around the heart such tender ties,

That our own children to our eyes

Are dearer than the sun.

"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,

And drive the flying deer!

"And now, as fitting is and right,
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.

Through dream and vision did she sink,
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.

But, as you have before been told,
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And with his dancing crest

So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West,

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,

And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those Climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seemed allied
To his own powers, and justified
The workings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers;

The breezes their own languor lent; The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent :

For passions linked to forms so fair

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!

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompassed me on every side
When first, in confidence and pride,
I crossed the Atlantic Main.

"It was a fresh and glorious world,
A banner bright that was unfurled
Before me suddenly:

I looked upon those hills and plains,
And seemed as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.

"But wherefore speak of this? For now, Sweet Ruth! with thee, I know not how, I feel my spirit burn

Even as the east when day comes forth;
And, to the west, and south, and north,
The morning doth return."

Full soon that purer mind 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 a half a year was mad,

And in a prison housed;

And there she sang tumultuous songs,
By recollection of her wrongs

To fearful passion roused.

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 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.