A Barn her _winter_ bed supplies, But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And in this tale we all agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. If she is press'd 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 pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild, Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd A young and happy Child! Farewel! and when thy days are told Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mold Thy corpse shall buried be, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee. _LINES Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale_. Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little dome Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.-- The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd With all his ancestry. Then peace to him And for the outrage which he had devis'd Entire forgiveness.--But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose, There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.