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?