Chapter 4

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, 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.

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.

And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, ’Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The church-yard 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. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag, and oft’ 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, Her face it was enough for me; I turned about and heard her cry, “O misery! O 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!

XX.

“But what’s the thorn? and what’s the pond? “And what’s the hill of moss to her? “And what’s 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.

XXI.

I’ve heard the scarlet moss is red 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.

XXII.

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 then the beauteous hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir; And for full fifty yards around, The grass it shook upon the ground; But all do still aver The little babe is buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXIII.

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! “O woe is me! oh misery!”

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

In distant countries I have been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown Weep in the public roads alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad high-way, I met; Along the broad high-way he came, His cheeks with tears were wet. Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: Then with his coat he made essay To wipe those briny tears away. I follow’d him, and said, “My friend “What ails you? wherefore weep you so?” --“Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock.

When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see, And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I number’d a full score, And every year encreas’d my store.

Year after year my stock it grew, And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As sweet a flock as ever grazed! Upon the mountain did they feed; They throve, and we at home did thrive. --This lusty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive: And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.

Ten children, Sir! had I to feed, Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief, I of the parish ask’d relief. They said I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the mountain fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread:” “Do this; how can we give to you,” They cried, “what to the poor is due?”

I sold a sheep as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away! For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopp’d, Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d. Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, And I may say that many a time I wished they all were gone: They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies cross’d my mind, And every man I chanc’d to see, I thought he knew some ill of me No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease, within doors or without, And crazily, and wearily, I went my work about. Oft-times I thought to run away; For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! ’twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress, I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock, it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a weather, and a ewe; And then at last, from three to two; And of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one, And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock.”

THE DUNGEON.

And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom, To each poor brother who offends against us-- Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty? Is this the only cure? Merciful God? Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks-- And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O nature! Healest thy wandering and distempered child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

THE MAD MOTHER.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue.

“Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be, To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe.

A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers press’d. The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother’s only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie, for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die.

Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I’ll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true ’till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast, ’Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: ’Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, ’Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? ’Tis well for me; thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.

Dread not their taunts, my little life! I am thy father’s wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stay’d: From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man! is wretched made, And every day we two will pray For him that’s gone and far away.

I’ll teach my boy the sweetest things; I’ll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck’d thy fill. --Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am. My love for thee has well been tried: I’ve sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We’ll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe; we’ll live for aye.

THE IDIOT BOY.

Tis eight o’clock,--a clear March night, The moon is up--the sky is blue, The owlet in the moonlight air, He shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed; Good Betty! put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you, But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

The world will say ’tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There’s not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright.

But Betty’s bent on her intent, For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail.

There’s not a house within a mile. No hand to help them in distress: Old Susan lies a bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty’s husband’s at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There’s none to help poor Susan Gale, What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched Her pony, that is mild and good, Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim, And by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has up upon the saddle set, The like was never heard of yet, Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

And he must post without delay Across the bridge that’s in the dale, And by the church, and o’er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand, For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o’er and o’er has told The boy who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty’s most especial charge, Was, “Johnny! Johnny! mind that you “Come home again, nor stop at all, “Come home again, whate’er befal, “My Johnny do, I pray you do.”

To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head, and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too, And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the pony’s side, On which her idiot boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor idiot boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He’s idle all for very joy.

And while the pony moves his legs, In Johnny’s left-hand you may see, The green bough’s motionless and dead; The moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship, Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

And Betty’s standing at the door, And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows, Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim; How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her idiot boy, What hopes it sends to Betty’s heart! He’s at the guide-post--he turns right, She watches till he’s out of sight, And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr--now Johnny’s lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it, Meek as a lamb the pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale: And Johnny’s in a merry tune, The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr, And on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree, For of this pony there’s a rumour, That should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour.

But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet for his life he cannot tell What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o’er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan’s side, Is in the middle of her story, What comfort Johnny soon will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny’s wit and Johnny’s glory.

And Betty’s still at Susan’s side: By this time she’s not quite so flurried; Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan’s fate Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment’s store Five years of happiness or more, To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well, And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, “As sure as there’s a moon in heaven,” Cries Betty, “he’ll be back again; “They’ll both be here, ’tis almost ten, “They’ll both be here before eleven.”

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, The clock gives warning for eleven; ’Tis on the stroke--“If Johnny’s near,” Quoth Betty “he will soon be here, “As sure as there’s a moon in heaven.”

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight, The moon’s in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast; “A little idle sauntering thing!” With other names, an endless string, But now that time is gone and past.