 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
295
WRITTEN IN RUTH'S ALBUM.
What's in a name? the merry minstrel asks—
An idle question—idler my reply,—
And vain,—for who his plodding brain that tasks,
Can the bard's comment on those words deny?
The flower and thou would seem as sweet, in sooth,
Without the lovely names of Rose and Ruth.
An idle question—idler my reply,—
And vain,—for who his plodding brain that tasks,
Can the bard's comment on those words deny?
The flower and thou would seem as sweet, in sooth,
Without the lovely names of Rose and Ruth.
Yet feel I well there is a charm in thine,
Tender and soft, as it is plain and short,
So will I rhyme it with my simple line,
And thus upon the laughing bard retort.
Devoted constancy, and faith, and truth,
Dwell with that syllable of sweetness—“Ruth.”
Tender and soft, as it is plain and short,
So will I rhyme it with my simple line,
And thus upon the laughing bard retort.
Devoted constancy, and faith, and truth,
Dwell with that syllable of sweetness—“Ruth.”
Oh! who can hear it, and remember not
That lovely story of the olden-time,
Of her who joined her own fair blooming lot
With the sad wanderer's of the eastern clime;
Forgetting home, and hope, and love, and youth,
At duty's call,—the pure and patient Ruth!
That lovely story of the olden-time,
Of her who joined her own fair blooming lot
With the sad wanderer's of the eastern clime;
Forgetting home, and hope, and love, and youth,
At duty's call,—the pure and patient Ruth!
296
And who that looks on thee, can fail to own
In thy dark, earnest eyes—that all but speak—
And in the pleading witchery of thy tone,
A tenderness like hers, as soft and meek,
And feel, remembering her unfaltering truth,
There's more than music in the name of Ruth?
In thy dark, earnest eyes—that all but speak—
And in the pleading witchery of thy tone,
A tenderness like hers, as soft and meek,
And feel, remembering her unfaltering truth,
There's more than music in the name of Ruth?
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |