Nay-if a child to her was born

No earthly tongue could ever tell ;3
And if 'twas born alive or dead,

Far less could this with proof be said;4
But some remember well,

That Martha Ray about this time

Would up the mountain often climb.

XV.

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.

XVI.

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.

XVII.

'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:

No screen, no fence could I discover;

And then the wind in sooth, 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.

XVIII.

I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'

And there she sits, until the moon

Through half the clear blue sky will go;

And, when the little breezes make

The waters of the pond to shake,

As all the country know,

She shudders, and you hear her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!""

XIX.

"But what's the Thorn? and what the pond?

And what the hill of moss to her?

And what the creeping breeze that comes

The little pond to stir ?"

I cannot tell; but some will say

She hanged her baby on the tree:
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,

The little Babe was buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XX.

I've heard, the moss is spotted red 1
With drops of that poor infant's blood;

But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!

Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
The baby looks at you again.

1

1800.

I've heard the scarlet moss is red

1798.

XXI.

And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
But instantly the hill of moss1
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass-it shook upon the ground!
Yet all do still aver

The little Babe lies buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXII.

I cannot tell how this may be,
But plain it is the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive
To drag it to the ground;

And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,

By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright

That I have heard her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!""

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

Comp. 1798.

Pub. 1798.

[Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr Darwin's "Zoönomia."] See "Zoönomia," Vol. IV., pp. 68-9, ed. 1801. It is the story of a man named Tullis, narrated by an Italian, Signor L. Storgosi, in a work called "Il Narratoro Italiano."-ED.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.