Ruth

Composed 1799.—Published 1800

The Poem

[Written in Germany, 1799. Suggested by an account I had of a wanderer in Somersetshire.—I. F.]

Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections" in the editions of 1815 and 1820. In 1827 it was transferred to the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

The Poem

text variant footnote line number

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,
In thoughtless freedom, bold.

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

Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore—
A military casque he wore,
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:
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.

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.

He told of girls—a happy rout!
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
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
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,

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
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
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

"How pleasant," then he said, "it were
A fisher or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
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
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, "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!

"Belovèd Ruth!"—No more he said.
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.

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

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.

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;
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,
(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,
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,
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.

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
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild—
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

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

Note
Contents

A

B

C

D

E
F

G

H

I

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

50

55

60

65

70

75

80

85

90

95

100

105

110

115

120

125

130

135

140

145

150

155

160

165

170

175

180

185

190

195

200

205

210

215

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225

230

235

240

245

250

255

Variant 1:

1802

And so, not seven years old,
The slighted Child ...

1800

Variant 2:

1836

And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds ...

1800

Variant 3:

This stanza was added in the edition of 1802.

Variant 4:

1827

She pass'd her time; and in this way
Grew up to Woman's height.

1802

Variant 5:

1836

Ah no! ...

1800

Variant 6:

1805

... bare ...

1800

Variant 7:

1836

He spake of plants divine and strange
That ev'ry day their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues!

1800

... every hour ...

1802

Variant 8:

Of march and ambush, siege and fight,
Then did he tell; and with delight
The heart of Ruth would ache;
Wild histories they were, and dear:
But 'twas a thing of heaven to hear
When of himself he spake!

Only in the editions of 1802 and 1805.

The following is the order of the stanzas in the edition of 1802.

The first, fifth, and last had not appeared before.

Sometimes most earnestly he said;
"O Ruth! I have been worse than dead:
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
Encompass'd me on every side
When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
Had cross'd the Atlantic Main.

Whatever in those Climes I found
Irregular in sight or sound
Did to my mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
To my own powers, and justified
The workings of my heart.

Nor less to feed unhallow'd 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 magic bowers.

Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween,
That often there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent;
My passions, amid forms so fair
And stately, wanted not their share
Of noble sentiment.

So was it then, and so is now:
For, 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.

It is a purer better mind:
O Maiden innocent and kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!"
—And he again began to speak
Of Lands where he had been.

The last stanza is only in the editions of 1802-1805

a

Variant 9:

1836

And then he said "How sweet it were

1800

Variant 10:

1845

A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind
To build ...

1800

In sunshine or through shade
To wander with an easy mind;
And build ...

1836

Variant 11:

1836

... sweet ...

1800

Variant 12:

1832

Dear ...

1800

Variant 13:

1820

Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed

1800

Variant 14:

1800

... unhallow'd ...

1802 and MS.

The edition of 1805 returns to the reading of 1800.

Variant 15:

1845

... lovely ...

1800

Variant 16:

1845

... magic ...

1800

... gorgeous ...

1815

Variant 17:

1800

That often ...

1802

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.

Variant 18:

1800

For passions, amid forms so fair
And stately, wanted not their share

1802

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.

Variant 19:

1800

Ill did he live ...

1802

The text of 1805 returns to that of 1800.

Variant 20:

1805

When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,
Had crossed ...

1802

When first, in confidence and pride,
I crossed ...

1820

C., and the edition of 1840, revert to the reading of 1805.

Variant 21:

1840 and C.

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

1805

A banner bright that shone unfurled

1836

Variant 22:

Lines 163-168, and 175-180, were added in 1802. Lines 169-174 were added in 1805. All these were omitted in 1815, but were restored in 1820.

Variant 23:

1845

So was it then, and so is now:
For, Ruth! with thee I know not how
I feel my spirit burn

1802

"But wherefore speak of this? for now,
Sweet Ruth! with thee, ...

1805

Dear Ruth! with thee ...

1836

Variant 24:

1836

Even as the east when day comes forth;
And to the west, and south, and north,

1802

Variant 25:

It is my purer better mind
O maiden innocently kind
What sights I might have seen!
Even now upon my eyes they break!
And then the youth began to speak
Of lands where he had been.

MS.

Variant 26:

1845

But now the pleasant dream was gone,

1800

Full soon that purer mind ...

1820

Variant 27:

1836

And there, exulting in her wrongs,
Among the music of her songs
She fearfully carouz'dib.

1800

And there she sang tumultuous songs,
By recollection of her wrongs,
To fearful passion rouzed.

1820

Variant 28:

1836

wild brook....

1800

Variant 29:

1802

And to the pleasant Banks of Tone
She took her way, to dwell alone

1800

Variant 30:

1802

... grief, ...

1800

Variant 31:

1805

(And in this tale we all agree)

1800

Variant 32:

1805

The neighbours grieve for her, and say
That she will ...

1802

Variant 33:

This stanza first appeared in the edition of 1802.

Footnote A:

Taken from the portrait of the chief in Bartram's frontispiece.—Ed.

return to footnote mark

Footnote B:

"The tall aspiring Gordonia lacianthus ... gradually changing colour, from green to golden yellow, from that to a scarlet, from scarlet to crimson, and lastly to a brownish purple, ... so that it may be said to change and renew its garments every morning throughout the year."

See Travels through North and South Carolina, Georgia, East Florida, the Cherokee Country, etc., by William Bartram (1791), pp. 159, 160.—Ed.

Footnote C:

"Its thick foliage of a dark green colour is flowered over with large milk-white, fragrant blossoms, ... renewed every morning, and that in such incredible profusion that the tree appears silvered over with them, and the ground beneath covered with the fallen flowers. It, at the same time, continually pushes forth new twigs, with young buds on them."

(Bartram's Travels, etc., p. 159.)—Ed.

Footnote D:

Magnolia grandiflora.—W. W. 1800;

and Bartram's Travels, p. 8. —Ed.

Footnote E:

"The Cypressus distichia stands in the first order of North American trees. Its majestic stature, lifting its cumbrous top towards the skies, and casting a wide shade upon the ground, as a dark intervening cloud," etc.

(Bartram's Travels, p. 88).—Ed.

Footnote F:

The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his

Travels

.—W. W. 1800.

Footnote G:

Mr. Ernest Coleridge tells me he

"has traced, to a note-book of Coleridge's in the British Museum, the source from which Wordsworth derived his description of Georgian scenery in Ruth. He does, I know, refer to Bartram, but the whole passage is a poetical rendering, and a pretty close one, of Bartram's poetical narrative. I have a portrait—the frontispiece of Bartram's Travels—of Mico Chlucco, king of the Seminoles, whose feathers nod in the breeze just as did the military casque of the 'youth from Georgia's shore.'"

Ed.

Footnote H:

"North and south almost endless green plains and meadows, embellished with islets and projecting promontories of high dark forests, where the pyramidal Magnolia grandiflora ... conspicuously towers."

(Bartram's Travels, p. 145).—Ed.

Footnote I:

The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods. W. W. 1800.

Sub-Footnote a:

The edition of 1805 substitutes the stanzas beginning,

'It was a fresh and glorious world'

for stanzas 2, 3, and 4 of the above six in this note, but it inserts these omitted stanzas later on as Nos. 27, 28, 29.—Ed.

Sub-Footnote b:

Wordsworth wrote to Barren Field in 1828 that this stanza

"was altered, Lamb having observed that it was not English. I like it better myself;'

(i.e. the version of 1800)

"but certainly to carouse cups—that is to empty them—is the genuine English."

Ed.

Note:

The following extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal gives the date of the stanzas added to Ruth in subsequent editions:

"Sunday, March 8th, 1802.—I stitched up The Pedlar, wrote out Ruth, read it with the alterations.... William brought two new stanzas of Ruth."

The transpositions of stanzas, and their omission from certain editions and their subsequent re-introduction, in altered form, in later ones, make it extremely difficult to give the textual history of Ruth in footnotes. They are even more bewildering than the changes introduced into Simon Lee.—Ed.

1799 Contents
Main Contents

1798 ← end of Volume II: 1799 → 1800

Main Contents