THE THORN.
Through half the clear blue sky will go,
It dried her body like a cinder,
This pond and beauteous hill of moss,
And ?x on it a steady view,
"But wherefore to the mountain-top
And she is known to every star,
Of olive-green and scarlet bright,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
But then the beauteous hill of moss
Into her bones was sent:
With spades they would have sought.
And all that winter, when at night
XX.
I never heard of such as dare
And for full ?fty yards around,
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
The grass it shook upon the ground;
"Oh misery! oh misery!
XIII.
And almost turnd her brain to tinder.
Perhaps when you are at the place
And to herself she cries,
The pond--and thorn, so old and grey,
Ere I had heard of Marthas name,
As if by hand of lady fair
But some remember well,
XVIII.
Her company to Stephen Hill;
"Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
Had sworn another oath;
And that same pond of which I spoke,
It is a mass of knotted joints,
When the blue day-lights in the skies,
A jutting crag, and oft I ran,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
Of water, never dry;
And for the little infants bones
I.
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
V.
Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
"Does this poor woman go?
Then to the spot away!--
Should be to public justice brought;
A baby and a babys face,
For one day with my telescope,
But all do still aver
To drag it t99lib.neto the ground;
With plain and manifest intent,
"And why sits she beside the thorn
With lichens to the very top,
Oh me! ten thousand times Id rather
But never, never any where,
And there beside the thorn she sits
And there she sits, until the moon
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
With lichens it is overgrown.
The church-yard path to seek:
XI.
Thats like an infants grave in size,
A wretched thing forlorn.
VIII.
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
Not ?ve yards from the mountain-path,
And all had joined in one endeavour
A wind full ten times over.
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
From her exceeding pain.
That Martha Ray about this time
So close, youd say that they were bent
"Now wherefore thus, by day and night,
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
And others, Ive heard many swear,
Just half a foot in height.
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
XIX.
Not higher than a two-years child,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
As all the country know,
That I have heard her cry,
The thorn which Ive described to you,
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
You something of her tale may trace.
About its mothers heart, and brought
Sad case for such a brain to hold
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
And that it looks at you;
I will be sworn is true.
I cannot tell how this may be,
Ill tell you all I know.
And with this other maid to church
The little babe was buried there,
A woman seated on the ground.
Sad case, as you may think, for one
The little babe is buried there,
Is like an infants grave in size
No screen, no fence could I discover,
XXII.
The morning that must wed them both;
To view the ocean wide and bright,
"The little pond to stir?"
The shelter of the crag to gain,
"Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Her senses back again:
But that she goes to this old thorn,
Who had a brain so wild!
Wheneer she thought of Stephen Hill.
She was with child, and she was mad,
For the true reason no one knows,
Tis now some two and twenty years,
Before you up the mountain go,
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
They say, full six months after this,
X.
Some plainly living voices were,
"But whats the thorn? and whats the pond?
And I would tell it all to you;
The shadow of a babe you trace,
High on a mountains highest ridge,
III.
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
I looked around, I thought I saw
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
"Or frosty air is keen and still,
She shudders and you hear her cry,
The mountain when to cross.
To drag it to the ground.
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
IV.
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
I cannot tell; I wish I could;
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
Yet often she was sober sad
"Can this unhappy woman go,
This thorn you on your left espy;
It stands erect, and like a stone
A melancholy crop:
A storm came on, and I could see
九_九_藏_书_网Theres no one knows, as I have said,
But all and each agree,
At all times of the day and night
Now would you see this aged thorn,
And this I know, full many a time,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
Theres none that ever knew:
"And whats the creeping breeze that comes
When to this country ?rst I came,
By day, and in the silent night,
"Or when the whirlwinds on the hill,
And she was blithe and gay,
She hanged her baby on the tree,
This heap of earth oergrown with moss
Gave with a maidens true good will
VII.
XII.
The baby looks at you again.
They had to do with Martha Ray.
And if you see her in her hut,
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
In truth youd ?nd it hard to say,
For what became of this poor child
And there was often seen.
Green, red, and pearly white.
I cannot tell; but some will say
Approach the spot when she is there.
II.
All colours that were ever seen,
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
I did not speak--I saw her face,
That in her womb the infant wrought
XXI.
Before their eyes began to stir;
Tis said, a child was in her womb,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
And mossy network too is there,
THE THORN.
The heap thats like an infants grave,
Some say, if to the pond you go,
Which is a little step beyond,
"O woe is me! oh misery!"
It looks so old and grey.
The waters of the pond to shake,
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
"Whatever st九九藏书网ar is in the skies,
Which is a little step beyond,
Ive measured it from side to side:
Like rock or stone, it is oergrown
That he had died, that cruel father!
A cruel, cruel ?re, they say,
The work had woven been,
And they had ?xd the wedding-day,
All lovely colours there you see,
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
And then the wind! in faith, it was
"In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
I wish that you would go:
The spot to which she goes;
An infants grave was half so fair.
Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
And this poor thorn they clasp it round
And when the whirlwinds on the hill,
Poor Martha! on that woful day
And if twas born alive or dead,
For many a time and oft were heard
Would up the mountain often climb.
So deep is their vermilion dye.
For oft there sits, between the heap
This wretched woman thither goes,
No object higher than my knee.
Communion with a stirring child!
I do not think she could.
When she was on the mountain high,
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
Nay rack your brain--tis all in vain,
Theres no one that could ever tell;
IX.
Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Ill tell you every thing I know;
Her face it was enough for me;
But if youd gladly view the spot,
And if a child was born or no,
She to the mountain-top would go,
And when at last her time drew near,
And to the left, three yards beyond,
"Oh wherefore? wheref九*九*藏*书*网ore? tell me why
I climbed the mountains height:
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
But kill a new-born infant thus!
Which close beside the thorn you see,
But to the thorn, and to the pond
XVII.
While yet the summer-leaves were green,
Unthinking Stephen went--
Ill give you the best help I can:
You must take care and chuse your time
But Stephen to another maid
And when the little breezes make
Were voices of the dead:
Pass by her door--tis seldom shut--
I turned about and heard her cry,
"When the blue day-lights in the sky,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
Wheneer you look on it, tis plain
XV.
"And whats the hill of moss to her?
And, as I am a man,
No more I know, I wish I did,
Cries coming from the mountain-head,
And to herself she cries,
XVI.
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
VI.
"O misery! O misery!"
XXIII.
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
With drops of that poor infants blood;
And some had sworn an oath that she
And every wind that blows;
You see a little muddy pond
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Ive heard the scarlet moss is red
Or frosty air is keen and still,
"And wherefore does she cry?--
How it could ever have been young,
XIV.
And she was happy, happy still
And close beside this aged thorn,
It stands erect this aged thorn;
"Whatever wind may blow?"
As now to any eye was plain;
As like as like can be:
I cannot think, whateer they say,