Upon Helvellyn's side:

He loved the pretty Barbara died,

And thus he makes his moan:

A COMPLAINT.

THERE is a change-and I am poor;

laid

When thus his moan he made:

"Oh move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!

Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart :

I look-the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;

But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,

When will that dying murmur be supprest?
Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
It robs my heart of rest.

Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free,

Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;

A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Bless'd was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortles and hidden Well.

A Well of love-it may be deep-
I trust it is, and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
-Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

RUTH.

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 from that oaten pipe could draw
And she had made a pipe of straw,
All sounds of wind 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

Herself her own delight:
She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;

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
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 :
Ah 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.

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.

And then he said: How sweet it were

A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,

Still wandering with an easy mind

To build a household-fire, and find

A home in every glade!

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.

Beloved Ruth!-No more he said.
Sweet Ruth alone 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.

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 Dear thoughts about a father's love, For there, said he, are spun

The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those gorgeous 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.