1
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
2
In truth you'd find it hard to say,
3
How it could ever have been young,
4
It looks so old and grey.
5
Not higher than a two-years' child,
6
It stands erect this aged thorn;
7
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
8
It is a mass of knotted joints,
9
A wretched thing forlorn.
10
It stands erect, and like a stone
11
With lichens it is overgrown.
1
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
2
With lichens to the very top,
3
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
5
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
6
And this poor thorn they clasp it round
7
So close, you'd say that they were bent
8
With plain and manifest intent,
9
To drag it to the ground;
10
And all had joined in one endeavour
11
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
1
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
2
Where oft the stormy winter gale
3
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
4
It sweeps from vale to vale;
5
Not five yards from the mountain-path,
6
This thorn you on your left espy;
7
And to the left, three yards beyond,
8
You see a little muddy pond
10
I've measured it from side to side:
11
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
1
And close beside this aged thorn,
2
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
3
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
4
Just half a foot in height.
5
All lovely colours there you see,
6
All colours that were ever seen,
7
And mossy network too is there,
8
As if by hand of lady fair
9
The work had woven been,
10
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
11
So deep is their vermilion dye.
1
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
2
Of olive-green and scarlet bright,
3
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
4
Green, red, and pearly white.
5
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss
6
Which close beside the thorn you see,
7
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
8
Is like an infant's grave in size
9
As like as like can be:
10
But never, never any where,
11
An infant's grave was half so fair.
1
Now would you see this aged thorn,
2
This pond and beauteous hill of moss,
3
You must take care and chuse your time
4
The mountain when to cross.
5
For oft there sits, between the heap
6
That's like an infant's grave in size,
7
And that same pond of which I spoke,
8
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
9
And to herself she cries,
10
"Oh misery! oh misery!
11
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
1
At all times of the day and night
2
This wretched woman thither goes,
3
And she is known to every star,
4
And every wind that blows;
5
And there beside the thorn she sits
6
When the blue day-light's in the skies,
7
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
8
Or frosty air is keen and still,
9
And to herself she cries,
10
"Oh misery! oh misery!
11
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
1
"Now wherefore thus, by day and night,
2
"In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
3
"Thus to the dreary mountain-top
4
"Does this poor woman go?
5
"And why sits she beside the thorn
6
"When the blue day-light's in the sky,
7
"Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
8
"Or frosty air is keen and still,
9
"And wherefore does she cry?—
10
"Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
11
"Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
1
I cannot tell; I wish I could;
2
For the true reason no one knows,
3
But if you'd gladly view the spot,
4
The spot to which she goes;
5
The heap that's like an infant's grave,
6
The pond—and thorn, so old and grey,
7
Pass by her door—'tis seldom shut—
8
And if you see her in her hut,
9
Then to the spot away!—
10
I never heard of such as dare
11
Approach the spot when she is there.
1
"But wherefore to the mountain-top
2
"Can this unhappy woman go,
3
"Whatever star is in the skies,
4
"Whatever wind may blow?"
5
Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain,
6
I'll tell you every thing I know;
7
But to the thorn, and to the pond
8
Which is a little step beyond,
9
I wish that you would go:
10
Perhaps when you are at the place
11
You something of her tale may trace.
1
I'll give you the best help I can:
2
Before you up the mountain go,
3
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
4
I'll tell you all I know.
5
Tis now some two and twenty years,
6
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
7
Gave with a maiden's true good will
8
Her company to Stephen Hill;
9
And she was blithe and gay,
10
And she was happy, happy still
11
Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill.
1
And they had fix'd the wedding-day,
2
The morning that must wed them both;
3
But Stephen to another maid
4
Had sworn another oath;
5
And with this other maid to church
6
Unthinking Stephen went—
7
Poor Martha! on that woful day
8
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
9
Into her bones was sent:
10
It dried her body like a cinder,
11
And almost turn'd her brain to tinder.
1
They say, full six months after this,
2
While yet the summer-leaves were green,
3
She to the mountain-top would go,
4
And there was often seen.
5
'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
6
As now to any eye was plain;
7
She was with child, and she was mad,
8
Yet often she was sober sad
9
From her exceeding pain.
10
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather
11
That he had died, that cruel father!
1
Sad case for such a brain to hold
2
Communion with a stirring child!
3
Sad case, as you may think, for one
4
Who had a brain so wild!
5
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
6
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
7
That in her womb the infant wrought
8
About its mother's heart, and brought
10
And when at last her time drew near,
11
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
1
No more I know, I wish I did,
2
And I would tell it all to you;
3
For what became of this poor child
4
There's none that ever knew:
5
And if a child was born or no,
6
There's no one that could ever tell;
7
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
8
There's no one knows, as I have said,
9
But some remember well,
10
That Martha Ray about this time
11
Would up the mountain often climb.
1
And all that winter, when at night
2
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
3
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
4
The church-yard path to seek:
5
For many a time and oft were heard
6
Cries coming from the mountain-head,
7
Some plainly living voices were,
8
And others, I've heard many swear,
9
Were voices of the dead:
10
I cannot think, whate'er they say,
11
They had to do with Martha Ray.
1
But that she goes to this old thorn,
2
The thorn which I've described to you,
3
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
4
I will be sworn is true.
5
For one day with my telescope,
6
To view the ocean wide and bright,
7
When to this country first I came,
8
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
9
I climbed the mountain's height:
10
A storm came on, and I could see
11
No object higher than my knee.
1
'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
2
No screen, no fence could I discover,
3
And then the wind! in faith, it was
4
A wind full ten times over.
5
I looked around, I thought I saw
6
A jutting crag, and oft' I ran,
7
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
8
The shelter of the crag to gain,
10
Instead of jutting crag, I found
11
A woman seated on the ground.
1
I did not speak—I saw her face,
2
Her face it was enough for me;
3
I turned about and heard her cry,
5
And there she sits, until the moon
6
Through half the clear blue sky will go,
7
And when the little breezes make
8
The waters of the pond to shake,
9
As all the country know,
10
She shudders and you hear her cry,
11
"Oh misery! oh misery!
1
"But what's the thorn? and what's the pond?
2
"And what's the hill of moss to her?
3
"And what's the creeping breeze that comes
4
"The little pond to stir?"
5
I cannot tell; but some will say
6
She hanged her baby on the tree,
7
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
8
Which is a little step beyond,
9
But all and each agree,
10
The little babe was buried there,
11
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
1
I've heard the scarlet moss is red
2
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
3
But kill a new-born infant thus!
4
I do not think she could.
5
Some say, if to the pond you go,
6
And fix on it a steady view,
7
The shadow of a babe you trace,
8
A baby and a baby's face,
9
And that it looks at you;
10
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
11
The baby looks at you again.
1
And some had sworn an oath that she
2
Should be to public justice brought;
3
And for the little infant's bones
4
With spades they would have sought.
5
But then the beauteous hill of moss
6
Before their eyes began to stir;
7
And for full fifty yards around,
8
The grass it shook upon the ground;
10
The little babe is buried there,
11
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
1
I cannot tell how this may be,
2
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
3
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
4
To drag it to the ground.
5
And this I know, full many a time,
6
When she was on the mountain high,
7
By day, and in the silent night,
8
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
9
That I have heard her cry,
10
"Oh misery! oh misery!
|
