XI “And they had fixed 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 115
          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, 121
          Which might not burn itself to rest. [12]

XII “They say, full six months after this,
          While yet the summer leaves were green,
          She to the mountain-top would go, 125
          And there was often seen. 
          What could she seek?—­or wish to hide? 
          Her state to any eye was plain; [13]
          She was with child, and she was mad;
          Yet often was she [14] sober sad 130
          From her exceeding pain. 
          O guilty Father—­would that death
          Had saved him from that breach of faith! [15]

XIII “Sad case for such a brain to hold
          Communion with a stirring child! 135
          Sad case, as you may think, for one
          Who had a brain so wild! 
          Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
          And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
          Held that the unborn infant wrought [16] 140
          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.

XIV “More know I not, I wish I did, 145
          And it should all be told to you; [17]
          For what became of this poor child
          No mortal ever knew; [18]
          Nay—­if a child to her was born
          No earthly tongue could ever tell; [19] 150
          And if ’twas born alive or dead,
          Far less could this with proof be said; [20]
          But some remember well,
          That Martha Ray about this time
          Would up the mountain often climb. 155

XV “And all that winter, when at night
          The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
          ’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
          The churchyard path to seek: 
          For many a time and oft were heard 160
          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, 165
          They had to do with Martha Ray.