THE THORN.
I.
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
In truth youd ?nd it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two-years child,
It sta this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It sta, and like a stone
With lis it is rown.
II.
Like rock or sto is rown
With lis 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, youd say that they were bent
With plain and ma i,
T it to the ground;
And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
III.
High on a mountains highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not ?ve 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;
Ive 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 i.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen,
And mossy work 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 vermilion 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 rown with moss
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infants grave in size
As like as like be:
But never, never any where,
An infants grave was half so fair.
VI.
Now would you see this aged thorn,
This pond aeous hill of moss,
You must take care and chuse your time
The mountaio cross.
For oft there sits, between the heap
Thats like an infants 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 thors
When the blue day-lights in the skies,
And when the whirlwinds 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-lights in the sky,
"Or when the whirlwinds 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 ot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one