Henry Alford

Sonnet XVI. Recollection Of Wordsworth’s "Ruth."

Here are the brows of Quantock, purple--clad With lavish heath--bloom: there, the banks of Tone. Where is that woman, love--forlorn and sad, Piping her flute of hemlock all alone? I hear the Quantock woodman whistling home,-- The sunset flush is over Dunkery:-- I fear me much that she hath ceased to roam Up the steep path, and lie beneath the tree. I always fancied I should hear in sooth That music,--but it sounds not!--wayward tears Are filling in mine eyes for thee, poor Ruth;-- I had forgotten all the lapse of years Since thy deep griefs were hallowed by the pen Of that most pure of poesy--gifted men.