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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.


No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you;
For what became of this


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 tine
Would 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 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.


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.


'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. 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 man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A Woman seated on the ground.


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!"


« 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;


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.


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,

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