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!" VII. At all times of the day and night And she is known to every star, And there beside the thorn she sits Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, "Oh misery! oh misery! "Oh woe is me! oh misery!" VIII. * Now wherefore thus, by day and night, " In rain, in tempest, and in snow, "And why sits she beside the thorn "Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, "And wherefore does she cry ? "Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why "Does she repeat that doleful cry?" IX. I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows, But if you'd gladly view the spot, The heap that's like an infant's grave, The pond-and thorn, so old and grey, 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. X. "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; XI. I'll give you the best help I can: Before you up the mountain go, 'Tis now some two and twenty years, Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, And she was happy, happy still Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. XII. 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 woful day A cruel, cruel fire, they say, Into her bones was sent : It dried her body like a cinder, And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. XIII. 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! |