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;

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!"

THE THORN.

"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.