And she had made a pipe of straw, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods. Beneath her father's roof, alone Ten thousand lovely hues ! He told of the magnolia spread High as a cloud, high over head! The cypress and her spire; She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Herself her own delight; Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay; And passing thus the live-long day, She grew to woman's height. Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire. The youth of green savannas spake, There came a youth from Georgia's shore- With all its fairy crowds 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, But, as you have before been told, So beautiful, through savage lands The wind, the tempest roaring high, Whatever in those climes he found A kindred impulse, seemed allied Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The breezes their own languor lent : Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween Pure hopes of high intent : For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill be 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. Protesilàus, lo! thy guide is gone! A river in Somersetshire, at no great dis- Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: tance from the Quantock Hills This is our palace,-vonder is thy throne: Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will | And surely as they vanish.-Earth destroys rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon,-and blest a sad abode." Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains: Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains. "Be taught, O faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; A fervent, not ungovernable love. |