There's no one that could ever tell

And if 'twas born alive or dead,

There's no one knows, as I have said,

But some remember well,

That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

XVI.

And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,

The church-yard 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.

XVII.

But that she goes to this old thorn,

The thorn which I've 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.

XVIII.

'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.

XIX. i

I did not speak-I saw her face,
In truth it was enough for me;

I turned about and heard her crys
"O misery! Q 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!

XX.

"But what's the thorn? and what's the pond? "And what's the hill of moss to her?

"And what's the creeping breeze that comes "The little pond to stir ?"

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.

XXI.

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.

XXII.

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;
But all do still aver

The little babe is buried there.

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.