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? - Oh 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 gray; Pass by her door-'tis seldom shut- And, if you see her in her hut- Then to the spot away! 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?"
"'Tis known, that twenty years are past 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. Alas! her lamentable state
Even to a careless eye was plain;
She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often she was 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.
'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain; No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in faith, it was A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag, - and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground.
I did not speak I saw her face; Her face! it was enough for me; I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the Pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!'"
"But what's the Thorn? and what the Pond?
And what the Hill of moss to her?
The little Pond to stir?"
And what the creeping breeze that comes
"I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her Baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the Pond, Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,
The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.
I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could !
Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again.
And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But then the beauteous Hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass - it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver
The little Babe is buried there, Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.
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