exception of the four admirable lines at the commencement of the fourteenth, are felt by many unprejudiced and unsophisticated hearts, as sudden and unpleasant sinkings from the height to which the poet had previously lifted them, and to which he again re-elevates both himself and his reader. [3] I’ve measured it from side to side; ’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. [4] 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. 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. 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 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. ’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! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 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 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.