Puslapio vaizdai
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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 did not speak—I saw her face,
Her face it was enough for me;

I turned about and heard her cry,
"O misery! O 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

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,
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 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
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.

XXIII.

I cannot tell how this may

be,

But plain it is, the thorn is bound

With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground.

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!

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THE

LAST OF THE FLOCK.

IN distant countries I have been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad high-way, I met;
Along the broad high-way he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

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