Sad case, as you may think, for one

Her face it was enough for me;

A woman in a scarlet cloak,

In truth youd ?nd it hard to say,

As now to any eye was plain;

About its mothers heart, and brought

They had to do with Martha Ray.

The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

VI.

V.

And when the whirlwinds on the hill,

You something of her tale may trace.

"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

Into her bones was sent:

By day, and in the silent night,

Ill give you the best help I can:

Who had a brain so wild!

Where oft the stormy winter gale

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

"Or when the whirlwinds on the hill,

The pond--and thorn, so old and grey,

III.

"Can this unhappy woman go,

And that same pond of which I spoke,

Since she (her name is Martha Ray)

The spot to which she goes;

XX.

"Oh misery! oh misery!

The thorn which Ive described to you,

And with this other maid to church

Had sworn another oath;

I.

High on a mountains highest ridge,

Tis said, a child was in her womb,

And if twas born alive or dead,

And if you see her in her hut,

IV.

But all do still aver

XIV.

I did not speak--I saw her face,

A cruel, cruel ?re, they say,

As like as like can be:

To view the ocean wide and bright,

An infants grave was half so fair.

The little babe is buried there,

So close, youd say that they were bent

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

Ere I had heard of Marthas name,

This read.99csw.comthorn you on your left espy;

I cannot tell; I wish I could;

But plain it is, the thorn is bound

IX.

But to the thorn, and to the pond

I cannot tell how this may be,

I will be sworn is true.

And for full ?fty yards around,

"Thus to the dreary mountain-top

The shadow of a babe you trace,

The grass it shook upon the ground;

I cannot think, whateer they say,

Which is a little step beyond,

With plain and manifest intent,

Some say, if to the pond you go,

VII.

A wretched thing forlorn.

"Oh misery! oh misery!

How it could ever have been young,

There is a thorn; it looks so old,

And to the left, three yards beyond,

And almost turnd her brain to tinder.

Or frosty air is keen and still,

No object higher than my knee.

Theres no one knows, as I have said,

With drops of that poor infants blood;

"Now wherefore thus, by day and night,

It looks so old and grey.

Her senses back again:

And that it looks at you;

But some remember well,

"And whats the hill of moss to her?

She shudders and you hear her cry,

It stands erect, and like a stone

Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

It is a mass of knotted joints,

Green, red, and pearly white.

And then the wind! in faith, it was

With spades they would have sought.

With heavy tufts of moss, that strive

Wheneer she thought of Stephen Hill.

Ill tell you all I know.

VIII.

The morning that must wed them both;

XII.

And all th九九藏書at winter, when at night

Unthinking Stephen went--

And she was happy, happy still

You see a little muddy pond

Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,

This wretched woman thither goes,

To bury this poor thorn for ever.

And there beside the thorn she sits

As all the country know,

All colours that were ever seen,

And when the little breezes make

XXIII.

A wind full ten times over.

And cups, the darlings of the eye,

The baby looks at you again.

The little babe was buried there,

Is like an infants grave in size

"The little pond to stir?"

From her exceeding pain.

"Does this poor woman go?

Which is a little step beyond,

And I would tell it all to you;

No screen, no fence could I discover,

Approach the spot when she is there.

"Whatever wind may blow?"

"And wherefore does she cry?--

And she was blithe and gay,

Some plainly living voices were,

That he had died, that cruel father!

I do not think she could.

For one day with my telescope,

And, as I am a man,

"Or frosty air is keen and still,

Ive heard the scarlet moss is red

With lichens it is overgrown.

I looked around, I thought I saw

XXII.

"But wherefore to the mountain-top

"When the blue day-lights in the sky,

For oft there sits, between the heap

It dried her body like a cinder,

"In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

Then to the spot away!--

And there sits in a scarlet cloak,

Instead of jutting crag, I found

Were voices of rｅad•９9cｓw.cｏｍthe dead:

Sad case for such a brain to hold

Pass by her door--tis seldom shut--

A melancholy crop:

"Whatever star is in the skies,

"Oh misery! oh misery!

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

I wish that you would go:

A storm came on, and I could see

Theres no one that could ever tell;

She to the mountain-top would go,

When to this country ?rst I came,

"Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why

And this I know, full many a time,

"O misery! O misery!"

Ah me! what lovely tints are there!

The mountain when to cross.

"And whats the creeping breeze that comes

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

That Martha Ray about this time

All lovely colours there you see,

Yet often she was sober sad

When she was on the mountain high,

Ill tell you every thing I know;

It stands erect this aged thorn;

And when at last her time drew near,

But all and each agree,

A woman seated on the ground.

XIII.

"And why sits she beside the thorn

Of water, never dry;

But Stephen to another maid

"O woe is me! oh misery!"

Just half a foot in height.

XI.

No more I know, I wish I did,

"Oh misery! oh misery!

Ive measured it from side to side:

They say, full six months after this,

The work had woven been,

X.

She was with child, and she was mad,

Communion with a stirring child!

So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

And for the little infants bones

Should be to public justice brought;

A beauteous heap, a hill of htｔｐｓ://ｒｅaｄ.９９csw.ｃoｍmoss,

Head-foremost, through the driving rain,

While yet the summer-leaves were green,

It sweeps from vale to vale;

Gave with a maidens true good will

I never heard of such as dare

XVII.

And if a child was born or no,

And mossy network too is there,

You must take care and chuse your time

A baby and a babys face,

Cries coming from the mountain-head,

XVIII.

XIX.

And close beside this aged thorn,

And some had sworn an oath that she

And this poor thorn they clasp it round

And she is known to every star,

I cannot tell; but some will say

The heap thats like an infants grave,

Not ?ve yards from the mountain-path,

And there was often seen.

Up to the dreary mountain-top,

Before their eyes began to stir;

And ?x on it a steady view,

The waters of the pond to shake,

And all had joined in one endeavour

Nay rack your brain--tis all in vain,

Up from the earth these mosses creep,

"But whats the thorn? and whats the pond?

Perhaps when you are at the place

II.

That I have heard her cry,

So deep is their vermilion dye.

Which close beside the thorn you see,

For what became of this poor child

At all times of the day and night

To drag it to the ground.

No leaves it has, no thorny points;

This pond and beauteous hill of moss,

Twas worth your while, though in the dark,

XVI.

Theres none that ever knew:

She hanged her baby on the tree,

Through half the clear blue sky will go,

And others, Ive heard many swear,

That in her womb the infa九-九-藏-書nt wrought

Poor Martha! on that woful day

In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

Tis now some two and twenty years,

But then the beauteous hill of moss

There is a fresh and lovely sight,

When the blue day-lights in the skies,

And to herself she cries,

A jutting crag, and oft I ran,

Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,

Before you up the mountain go,

XXI.

Not higher than a two-years child,

Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

And to herself she cries,

I climbed the mountains height:

Wheneer you look on it, tis plain

And there she sits, until the moon

XV.

For many a time and oft were heard

Like rock or stone, it is oergrown

But that she goes to this old thorn,

Now would you see this aged thorn,

And they had ?xd the wedding-day,

Thats like an infants grave in size,

The shelter of the crag to gain,

But kill a new-born infant thus!

I turned about and heard her cry,

"Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

Oh me! ten thousand times Id rather

As if by hand of lady fair

The church-yard path to seek:

With lichens to the very top,

This heap of earth oergrown with moss

Last Christmas when we talked of this,

And every wind that blows;

Her company to Stephen Hill;

To drag it to the ground;

But if youd gladly view the spot,

Some say she drowned it in the pond,

Of olive-green and scarlet bright,

For the true reason no one knows,

Would up the mountain often climb.

But never, never any where,