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And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a Hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy net-work too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.

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:

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
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 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."

"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 you would 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,
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.

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 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.

'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!

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