"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 would you gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;

The hillock like an infant's grave,

The Pond and Thorn, so old and gray; Pass by her door -'tis seldom shutAnd, 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."

"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 passed 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!

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-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn 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.

More know I not, I wish I did,

And it should all be told to you;
For what became of this poor Child
No Mortal ever knew;

Nay if a Child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell;
And if 'twas born alive or dead,

Far less could this with proof be 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 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.

'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 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.