Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/219

159 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.