A jutting crag, and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, Instead of jutting crag, I found A woman seated on the ground. XIX. I did not speak—I saw her face, I turned about and heard her cry, 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 66 you hear her cry, "O misery! oh misery!" I XX. "But what's the thorn? and what's the pond? "And what's the hill of moss to her? 66 '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, The little babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXI. I've heard the scarlet moss is 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 A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; trace, Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain XXII. And some had sworn an oath that she With spades they would have sought. 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. XXIII. I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is, the thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss, that strive And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, "Oh misery! oh misery! THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. IN distant countries I have been, |