Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) Part 8

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

THE THORN.

I.

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 grey.

Not higher than a two-years' child, It stands erect this aged thorn; No leaves it has, no th.o.r.n.y points; It is a ma.s.s of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.

II.

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.

III.

High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain-path, This thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water, never dry; I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

IV.

And close beside this aged thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen, And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been, And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye.

V.

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.

VI.

Now would you see this aged thorn, This pond and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and chuse your time The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits, between the heap 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 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 day-light'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!"

VIII.

"Now wherefore thus, by day and night, "In rain, in tempest, and in snow, "Thus to the dreary mountain-top "Does this poor woman go?

"And why sits she beside the thorn "When the blue day-light's in the sky, "Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, "Or frosty air is keen and still, "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 spot to which she goes; The heap that's like an infant's grave, The pond--and thorn, so old and grey, Pa.s.s 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; But to the thorn, and to the pond Which is a little step beyond, I wish that you would go: Perhaps when you are at the place You something of her tale may trace.

XI.

I'll give you the best help I can: Before you up the mountain go, Up to the dreary mountain-top, I'll tell you all I know.

Tis now some two and twenty years, 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, 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!

XIV.

Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child!

Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild!

Last Christmas when we talked of this, Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, That in her womb the infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

XV.

No more I know, I wish I did, And I would tell it all to you; For what became of this poor child There's none that ever knew: And if a child was born or no, There's no one that could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, There's no one knows, as I have said, But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb.

XVI.