« AnteriorContinuar »
Far less could this with proof be said ;
xv. “ And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, ’T was worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard 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.
“ But that she goes to this old Thorn,
XVI. 66 'T was mist and rain, and storm and rain : No screen, no fence, could I discover; And then the wind ! in sooth, 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.
“I did not speak, - I saw her face ;
XIX. “ But what's the Thorn? and what the pond ? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?” “I cannot tell ; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree;
xx. “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, 't is plain The baby looks at you again.
XXI. “ 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 instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir ! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass, it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
O misery! O misery!
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles
from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor,
“ Another horse!” —That shout the vassal heard,
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ;
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?