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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 :
Bụt '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 chuse your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits, between the Heap
That's like an infant's grave in size,
And that same Pond of which I spoko,
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 goess
And she is known to every star,
wind that blows;
And there beside the Thorn she sits
When the blue day-light'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 day-light'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 if you'd gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes ;
The Heap that's like an infant's grave,
The Pond-and Thorn, so old and grey,
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 ?"
Nay rack your brain-'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know ;
But to the Thorn, and to the Pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that
go: Perhaps, when you are at the place, You something of her tale may trace.
I'll give you the best help I can :
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
all I know. 'Tis now some two and twenty years, 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, And she was happy, happy still Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill,
And they had fix'd 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