Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50) (166 page)

Ruth: Or the Influences of Nature

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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,
  
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In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw,
And music from that pipe could draw
Like sounds of wind and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
  
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As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her father’s roof, alone
She seem’d to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight:
  
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Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
She passed her time; and in this way
Grew up to woman’s height.

There came a youth from Georgia’s shore —
A military casque he wore
  
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With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze
And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
  
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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.
  
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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
  
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Had been his dearest joy.

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,
  
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No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought;
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear;
  
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Such tales as, told to any maid
By such a youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls, a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
  
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Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants that hourly change
  
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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.
  
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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
  
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To set the hills on fire.

The youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie
  
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As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

‘And,’ then he said, ‘how sweet it were
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
  
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To wander with an easy mind,
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade!

‘What days and what bright years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee
  
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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!’

And then he sometimes interwove
  
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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.
  
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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,
  
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And drive the flying deer!

‘Beloved Ruth!’ — No more he said.
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear:
She thought again — and did agree
  
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With him to sail across the sea,
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.’
  
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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
  
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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,
  
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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.
  
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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,
  
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And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to his mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem’d allied
  
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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 gorgeous flowers;
  
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The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favour’d bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
  
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Pure hopes of high intent:
For passions link’d to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.

But ill he lived, much evil saw,
  
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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.
  
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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
  
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Unworthily admires.

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
  
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Whose heart with so much nature play’d —
So kind and so forlorn?

Sometimes most earnestly he said,
‘O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
  
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Encompass’d me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride,
Had cross’d the Atlantic main.

‘Before me shone a glorious world
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl’d
  
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To music suddenly:
I look’d upon those hills and plains,
And seem’d as if let loose from chains
To live at liberty!

‘No more of this — for now, by thee,
  
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Dear Ruth! more happily set free,
With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released
Like the whole sky when to the east
The morning doth return.’
  
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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
  
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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
  
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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;
  
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And there, exulting in her wrongs
Among the music of her songs
She fearfully caroused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
  
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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.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
  
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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,
There did she rest; and dwell alone
  
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Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves — she loved them still,
  
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Nor ever tax’d 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,
  
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(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,
  
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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 prest by want of food
  
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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.
  
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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
  
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The Quantock woodman hears.

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
  
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Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d,
A young and happy child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
  
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For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

A Lesson

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
And the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun himself, ’tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
  
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Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
And recognized it, though an alter’d form,
  
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Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopp’d and said, with inly-mutter’d voice,
‘It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
This neither is its courage nor its choice,
  
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But its necessity in being old.

‘The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
It cannot help itself in its decay;
Stiff in its members, wither’d, changed of hue,’ —
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
  
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To be a prodigal’s favourite — then, worse truth,
A miser’s pensioner — behold our lot!
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

List of Poets in Alphabetical Order