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!"

VII.

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 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!"

VIII.

"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? ?"

IX.

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 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.

X.

"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,

Perhaps, when you are at the place,

You something of her tale may trace.

6

XI.

I'll give you the best help I can:

Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
I'll tell you 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.

XII.

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

Unthinking Stephen went

Poor Martha! on that woeful day

A cruel, cruel fire, they say,

Into her bones was sent :

It dried her body like a cinder,

And almost turned her brain to tinder.

XIII.

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.

'Tis said, a child was in her womb,

As now to any eye was plain;

She was with child, and she was mad;

Yet often she was sober sad

From her exceeding pain.

Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather

That he had died, that cruel father !