Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
  “O Ruth!  I have been worse than dead;
  False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 165
  Encompassed me on every side
  When I, in confidence and pride,
  Had crossed the Atlantic main. [20]

“Before me shone a glorious world—­ Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 170 To music suddenly:  [21] I looked upon those hills and plains, And seemed as if let loose from chains, To live at liberty. [22] “No more of this; for now, by thee, 175 Dear Ruth! more happily set free With nobler zeal I burn; [23] My soul from darkness is released, Like the whole sky when to the east [24] The morning doth return.” 180 [25] Full soon that better mind was gone; [26] 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 185 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 190
  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; 195
  And there, with many a doleful song
  Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
  She fearfully caroused. [27]

  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 [28] with cheerful knell
  Did o’er the pebbles play.

  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

  Among the fields she breathed again: 
  The master-current of her brain
  Ran permanent and free;
  And, coming to the Banks of Tone, [I]
  There did she rest; and dwell alone [29] 215
  Under the greenwood tree.

  The engines of her pain, [30] the tools
  That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
  And airs that gently stir
  The vernal leaves—­she loved them still; 220
  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, 225
  (And all do in this tale agree) [31]
  She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
  And other home hath none.

  An innocent life, yet far astray! 
  And Ruth will, long before her day, [32] 230
  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. [33]