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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?”

      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.

       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;

       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.

      XII.

      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.

      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.

      XVII.

      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 climbed the mountain’s height:

       A storm came on, and I could see

       No object higher than my knee.

      XVIII.

      ’Twas 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.

       Hooked 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.

      XIX.

      I did not speak — I saw her face,

       In truth it was enough for me;

       I turned about and heard her cry,

      

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