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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Page 26

by William Wordsworth


  It stands erect this aged thorn;

  No leaves it has, no thorny points;

  It is a mass of knotted joints,

  A wretched thing forlorn.

  It stands erect, and like a stone

  With lichens it is overgrown.

  II.

  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 join’d in one endeavour

  To bury this poor thorn for ever.

  III.

  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 vermillion 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.

  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 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.

  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,

  ”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 moss is spotted 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 bill 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!”

  WE ARE SEVEN.

  A simple child, dear brother Jim,

  That lightly draws its breath,

  And feels its life in every limb,

  What should it know of death?

  I met a little cottage girl,

  She was eight years old, she said;

  Her hair was thick with many a curl

  That cluster’d round her head.

  She had a rustic, woodland air,

  And she was wildly clad;

  Her eyes were fair, and very fair,

  — Her beauty made me glad.

  ”Sisters and brothers, little maid,

  How many may you be?”

  ”How many? seven in all,” she said,

  And wondering looked at me.

  ”And where are they, I pray you tell?”

  She answered, “Seven are we,

  And two of us at Conway dwell,

  And two are gone to sea.”

  ”Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  My sister and my brother,

  And in the church-yard cottage, I

  Dwell near them with my mother.”

  ”You say that two at Conway dwell,

  And two are gone to sea,

  Yet you are seven; I pray you tell

  Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

  Then did the little Maid reply,

  ”Seven boys and girls are we;

  Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  Beneath the church-yard tree.”

  ”You run about, my little maid,

  Your limbs they are alive;

  If two are in the church-yard laid,

  Then ye are only five.”

  ”Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

  The little Maid replied,

  ”Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

  And they are side by side.”

  ”My stockings there I often knit,

  My ‘kerchief there I hem;

  And there upon the ground I sit —

  I sit and sing to them.”

  ”And often after sunset, Sir,

  When it is light and fair,

  I take my little porringer,

  And eat my supper there.”

  ”The first that died was little Jane;

  In bed she moaning lay,

  Till God released her of her pain,

  And then she went away.”

  ”So in the church-yard she was laid,

  And all the summer dry,

  Together round her grave we played,

  My brother John and I.”

  ”And when the ground was white with snow,

  And I could run and slide,

  My brother John was forced to go,

  And he lies by her side.”

  ”How many are you then,” said I,

  ”If they two are in Heaven?”

  The little Maiden did reply,

  ”O Master! we are seven.”

  ”But they are dead; those two are dead!

  Their spirits are in heaven!”

  ’Twas throwing words away; for still

  The little Maid would have her will,

  And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

  ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.

  Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

  I have a boy of five years old,

  His face is fair and fresh to see;

  His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

  And dearly he loves me.

  One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,

  Our quiet house all full in view,

  And held such intermitted talk

  As we are wont to do.

  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

  I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

  My pleasant home, when Spring began,

  A long, long year before.

  A day it was when I could bear

  To think, and think, and think again;

&nbs
p; With so much happiness to spare,

  I could not feel a pain.

  My boy was by my side, so slim

  And graceful in his rustic dress!

  And oftentimes I talked to him

  In very idleness.

  The young lambs ran a pretty race;

  The morning sun shone bright and warm;

  ”Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,

  And so is Liswyn farm.”

  ”My little boy, which like you more,”

  I said and took him by the arm —

  ”Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,

  Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  ”And tell me, had you rather be,”

  I said and held-him by the arm,

  ”At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

  Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  In careless mood he looked at me,

  While still I held him by the arm,

  And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

  Than here at Liswyn farm.”

  ”Now, little Edward, say why so;

  My little Edward, tell me why;”

  ”I cannot tell, I do not know.”

  ”Why this is strange,” said I.

  ”For, here are woods and green hills warm:

  There surely must some reason be

  Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,

  For Kilve by the green sea.”

  At this, my boy hung down his head,

  He blush’d with shame, nor made reply;

  And five times to the child I said,

  ”Why, Edward, tell me, why?”

  His head he raised — there was in sight,

  It caught his eye, he saw it plain —

  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

  A broad and gilded vane.

  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

  And thus to me he made reply;

  ”At Kilve there was no weather-cock,

  And that’s the reason why.”

  Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart

  For better lore would seldom yearn

  Could I but teach the hundredth part

  Of what from thee I learn.

  LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.

  It is the first mild day of March:

  Each minute sweeter than before,

  The red-breast sings from the tall larch

  That stands beside our door.

  There is a blessing in the air,

  Which seems a sense of joy to yield

  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

  And grass in the green field.

  My Sister! (‘tis a wish of mine)

  Now that our morning meal is done,

  Make haste, your morning task resign;

  Come forth and feel the sun.

  Edward will come with you, and pray,

  Put on with speed your woodland dress,

  And bring no book, for this one day

  We’ll give to idleness.

  No joyless forms shall regulate

  Our living Calendar:

  We from to-day, my friend, will date

 

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