Ruth

I

Surrounded by unvarying rows of corn,
She gleans in silence; soft her measured tread,
Her look, her carriage – soft the tender hand
That pauses from its labor to adorn
Her rustic dress, and tuck a wayward strand
Behind the band that clasps her mild head;
From underneath her gently arching brow
Gleam two dark eyes that, with her raven hair,
Set off a face made pale with toil and care;
Her bearing is both innocent and wise:
Exquisite lips now murmur soft and low,
And now her chaste bosom heaves with bitter sighs.

II

Simple faith springing from a tender heart
That blossomed into firm and solid trust
And quick became a hope unshakeable;
A ready intellect embraced by Art;
A keen awareness of the Good, the Just;
All folded in a soft, womanly form,
And clasped by a spirit meek and warm –
Submissive, unassuming, dutiful,
Eager to pacify and quick to yield;
Undying love; domestic gentleness;
Rare beauty meet within the humble field,
And quietly crown the tender Moabitess.

III

What is it in the maiden’s graceful motion
That strikes a wistful vein in Boaz’ breast?
He looks on the form – ah, but can he see the rest –
The mingling of passive duty with devotion –
And read in the mien of her all-too-lovely face
Strength tempered with softness – beauty matched with grace?

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