And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Beside the little pond or moorish flood,
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood;
That heareth not the loud winds when they call,
And moveth all together, if it move at all.
At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirr'd with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conn'd,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now such freedom as I could I took,
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.'
A gentle answer did the old man make,
in courteous speech, which forth he slowly drew;
And him with further words I thus bespake :
"What kind of work is that which you pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
He answer'd me with pleasure and surprise,
And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.
His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
Yet each in solemn order follow'd each,
With something of a lofty utterance dress'd;
Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.
He told me that he to this pond 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 roam'd, from moor to moor,
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gain'd an honest maintenance.
The old man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard, nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent
To give me human strength and strong admonishment.
My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills,
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
But now, perplex'd by what the old man had said,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travell'd; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the ponds where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me;
In my mind's eye I seem'd 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 renew'd.
And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully utter'd, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laugh'd myself to scorn, to find
In 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 grey.
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 knotted 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 beut
With plain and manifest intent
To drag to the ground;
And all had join'd in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
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.
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 net-work 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.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Oí 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 anywhere,
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
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!"
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!"
"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 daylight'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?"
"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;
Pass by her door-'tis seldom shut-
And, it 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."
"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 everything 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 can trace.
"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.
"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 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.
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!
"Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for ono
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas when we talk'd 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.
"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.
"And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak.
'Twas 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've 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 climb'd the mountain's height:
A storm came on, and I could sea
No object higher than my knee.
|