XXVII. THE THORN. "THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say Not higher than a two years' child It is a mass of knotted joints, It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, Up from the earth these mosses creep, And all had joined in one endeavour High on a mountain's highest ridge, Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy Pond Of water, never dry; I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. And, close beside this aged Thorn, All lovely colours there you see, The work had woven been; Ah me! what lovely tints are there! In spikes, in branches, and in stars, This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 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 That's 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 And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there beside the Thorn she sits Or frosty air is keen and still, "Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!" "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Does this poor Woman go? And wherefore does she cry?— "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But if you'd gladly view the spot, The Heap that's like an infant's grave, I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." |