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,
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,
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;

Such tales as told to any maid

By such a Youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear.

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The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed A solitary tear:

She thought again—and did agree 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."

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.

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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 I, in confidence and pride,
Had crossed the Atlantic main.

"Before me shone a glorious world Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled To music suddenly:

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

“No more of this; for now, by thee
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."

Full soon that better 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,

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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;

And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of wrong
She fearfully caroused.

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 clear 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.

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