All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be : But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair.
Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'
At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?- O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
"I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant's grave,
The pond-and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door-'tis seldom shutAnd, if you see her in her hut
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there."
"But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go? Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" "Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved.
And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid.
Had sworn another oath;
And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went- Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent;
A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest.
They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go,
And there was often seen.
What could she seek?-or wish to hide ?
Her state to any eye was plain;
She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad
From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father-would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith!
Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again:
And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay-if a child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.
And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were ; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray.
But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height :- A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee.
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