III

5 0 00

III

High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

Where oft the stormy winter gale

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five 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;

I’ve measured it from side to side:

’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.