But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
He told, that to these waters he had come To gather Leeches, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.
While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.
And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find n that decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
"THERE is a Thorn - it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and gray.
Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotty joints, A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they were bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground;
And all had joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be:
But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair.
Now would you see this aged Thorn, This Pond, and beauteous Hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits between the Heap So 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!"
At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And, there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
"But wherefore to the mountain-top
Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?"
"Tis known, that twenty years are past Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved.
And they had fixed 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 woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent;
A Fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest.
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. Alas! her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain;
She was with child, and she was mad: Yet often she was sober sad From her exceeding pain.
O guilty Father-would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith!
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, The Thorn which I 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.
"T was 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.
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