At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together.

A savage wildness round him hung
As of a dweller out of doors:

In his whole figure and his mien

A savage character was seen

Of mountains and of dreary moors.

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts Which solitary Nature feeds

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, Had Peter joined whatever vice The cruel city breeds.

His face was keen as is the wind

That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence.
He had a dark and sidelong walk,
And long and slouching was his gait;
Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
You might perceive, his spirit cold
Was playing with some inward bait.
His forehead wrinkled was and furred;
A work, one half of which was done
By thinking of his 'whens' and 'hows;'
And half, by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.

There was a hardness in his cheek,
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!

ONE NIGHT, (and now my little Bess!
We've reached at last the promised Tale ;)
One beautiful November night,
When the full moon was shining bright
Upon the rapid river Swale,

Along the river's winding banks
Peter was travelling all alone ;-

Whether to buy or sell, or led

By pleasure running in his head,
To me was never known.

He trudged along through copse and brake,
He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
And for the stars he cared as little,
And for the mumuring river Swale.
But, chancing to espy a path
That promised to cut short the way;
As many a wiser man hath done,
He left a trusty guide for one
That might his steps betray.

To a thick wood he soon is brought
Where cheerily his course he weaves,
And whistling loud may yet be heard,
Though often buried, like a bird
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.
But quickly Peter's mood is changed,
And on he drives with cheeks that burn
In downright fury and in wrath :-
There's little sign the treacherous path
Will to the road return!

The path grows dim, and dimmer still;
Now up, now down, the Rover wends,
With all the sail that he can carry,

Till brought to a deserted quarry—
And there the pathway ends.

He paused-for shadows of strange shape,
Massy and black, before him lay:

But through the dark, and through the cold,
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way

Right through the quarry :-and behold
A scene of soft and lovely hue!

Where blue and grey, and tender green,
Together make as sweet a scene
As ever human eye did view.
Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
A little field of meadow ground;
But field or meadow name it not;
Call it of earth a small green plot,
With rocks encompassed round.
The Swale flowed under the grey rocks,
But he flowed quiet and unseen;-
You need a strong and stormy gale
To bring the noises of the Swale

To that green spot, so calm and green!
And is there no one dwelling here,
No hermit with his beads and glass?
And does no little cottage look
Upon this soft and fertile nook?
Does no one live near this green grass?
Across the deep and quiet spot

Is Peter driving through the grass-
And now has reached the skirting trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass.

"A prize!" cries Peter-but he first
Must spy about him far and near:
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light-
Peter, you need not fear!

There's nothing to be seen but woods,
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
And this one Beast, that from the bed
Of the green meadow hangs his head
Over the silent stream.

His head is with a halter bound;
The halter seizing, Peter leapt
Upon the Creature's back, and plied
With ready heels his shaggy side;
But still the Ass his station kept.
Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
Would have pulled up an iron ring;
But still the heavy-headed Thing
Stood just as he had stood before!
Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,
There is some plot against me laid;"
Once more the little meadow-ground
And all the hoary cliffs around
He cautiously surveyed.
All, all is silent-rocks and woods,
All still and silent-far and near!
Only the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull

Turns round his long left ear.
Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
--Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round his long left ear.

Suspicion ripened into dread

Yet with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the sounding hide,
He dealt a sturdy blow.

The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
And then, as if to take his ease,
In quiet uncomplaining mood,
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees;
As gently on his side he fell;
And by the river's brink did lie:
And, while he lay like one that mourned,
The patient Beast on Peter turned
His shining hazel eye.

'Twas but one mild, reproachful look,
A look more tender than severe :
And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
He turned the eye-ball in his head
Towards the smooth river deep and clear.
Upon the Beast the sapling rings;

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third.

All by the moonlight river side
He gave three miserable groans;
And not till now hath Peter seen
How gaunt the Creature is,-how lean
And sharp his staring bones!

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay :-
No word of kind commiseration

Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue;
With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
With hatred and vexation.

The meagre beast lay still as death;
And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
I'll fling your carcass like a log
Head-foremost down the river!"

An impious oath confirmed the threat-
Whereat from the earth on which he lay
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth
A long and clamorous bray!
This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,-
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks;
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like.
Whether to cheer his coward breast,
Or that he could not break the chain,
In this serene and solemn hour,
Twined round him by demoniac power,
To the blind work he turned again.
Among the rocks and winding crags;
Among the mountains far away:
Once more the Ass did lengthen out
More ruefully a deep-drawn shout,
The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray!
What is there now in Peter's heart?
Or whence the might of this strange sound?
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer,
And the rocks staggered all around-
From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
Threat has he none to execute;

"If any one should come and see
That I am here, they'll think," quoth he,
"I'm helping this poor dying brute."
He scans the Ass from limb to limb,
And ventures now to uplift his eyes:
More steady looks the moon, and clear,
More like themselves the rocks appear
And touch more quiet skies.

His scorn returns-his hate revives;
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
With malice-that again takes flight:
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, among the inverted trees.
Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows there portrayed?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin,-or a shroud?
A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
Such as pursue their feared vagaries
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?
Is it a fiend that to a stake

Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell
In solitary ward or cell,

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

Never did pulse so quickly throb,
And never heart so loudly panted:
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like some one reading in a book-
A book that is enchanted.

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!
He will be turned to iron soon,
Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
His hat is up-and every hair
Bristles, and whitens in the moon!
He looks, he ponders, looks again;
He sees a motion-hears a groan;
His eyes will burst-his heart will break-
He gives a loud and frightful shriek,

And back he falls, as if his life were flown!

PART SECOND.

We left our Hero in a trance,
Beneath the alders, near the river;
The Ass is by the river-side,

And, where the feeble breezes glide,
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver.

A happy respite! but at length

He feels the glimmering of the moon:
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing-
To sink. perhaps, where he is lying,
Into a second swoon!

He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
He touches-'tis to him a treasure!
Faint recollection seems to tell
That he is yet where mortals dwell-
A thought received with languid pleasure!
His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks-to rock and wood-
And then-upon the glassy flood
His wandering eye is fixed.

Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!

So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent
The river's depth to sound.

Now-like a tempest-shattered bark,
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
And in a moment to the verge
Is lifted of a foaming surge-
Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!

His staring bones all shake with joy,
And close by Peter's side he stands:
While Peter o'er the river bends,
The little Ass his neck extends,
And fondly licks his hands.
Such life is in the Ass's eyes,
Such life is in his limbs and ears,
That Peter Bell, if he had been
The veriest coward ever seen,
Must now have thrown aside his fears.
The Ass looks on-and to his work
Is Peter quietly resigned;

He touches here he touches there-
And now among the dead man's hair
His sapling Peter has entwined.
He pulls-and looks-and pulls again;
And he whom the poor Ass had lost,
The man who had been four days dead,
Head-foremost from the river's bed
Uprises like a ghost!

And Peter draws him to dry land;
And through the brain of Peter pass
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster;
"No doubt," quoth he, he is the Master
Of this poor miserable Ass!"
The meagre Shadow that looks on-
What would he now? what is he doing?
His sudden fit of joy is flown,-
He on his knees hath laid him down,
As if he were his grief renewing;
But no-that Peter on his back
Must mount, he shows well as he can:
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe,
I'll do what he would have me do,
In pity to this poor drowned man.
With that resolve he boldly mounts
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay,
That earnest Creature turned away,
Leaving the body on the grass.
Intent upon his faithful watch,

The Beast four days and nights had past;
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
And there the Ass four days had been,
Nor ever once did break his fast:

Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
The mead is crossed-the quarry's mouth
Is reached; but there the trusty guide
Into a thicket turns aside,
And deftly ambles towards the south.
When hark a burst of doleful sound!
And Peter honestly might say,
The like came never to his ears,
Though he has been, full thirty years,
A rover-night and day!

'Tis not a plover of the moors,

'Tis not a bittern of the fen; Nor can it be a barking fox,

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks
Nor wild-cat in a woody glen!
The Ass is startled-and stops short
Right in the middle of the thicket;
And Peter, wont to whistle loud
Whether alone or in a crowd,
Is silent as a silent cricket.

What ails you now, my little Bess?
Well may you tremble and look grave!
This cry-that rings along the wood,
This cry-that floats adown the flood,
Comes from the entrance of a cave:

I see a blooming Wood-boy there,
And if I had the power to say
How sorrowful the wanderer is,
Your heart would be as sad as his
Till you had kissed his tears away!
Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand,
All bright with berries ripe and red,
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps:
Thence back into the moonlight creeps;
Whom seeks he-whom?-the silent dead:
His father!-Him doth he require-
Him hath he sought with fruitless pains,
Among the rocks, behind the trees;
Now creeping on his hands and knees,
Now running o'er the open plains.
And hither is he come at last,
When he through such a day has gone,
By this dark cave to be distrest
Like a poor bird-her plundered nest
Hovering around with dolorous moan!
Of that intense and piercing cry
The listening Ass conjectures well;
Wild as it is, he there can read
Some intermingled notes that plead
With touches irresistible.

But Peter-when he saw the Ass
Not only stop but turn, and change
The cherished tenor of his pace
That lamentable cry to chase-

It wrought in him conviction strange;
A faith that, for the dead man's sake
And this poor slave who loved him well,
Vengeance upon his head will fall,
Some visitation worse than all
Which ever till this night befel.
Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home,
Is striving stoutly as he may;
But, while he climbs the woody hill,
The cry grows weak-and weaker still;
And now at last it dies away.

So with his freight the Creature turns
Into a gloomy grove of beech,
Along the shade with footsteps true
Descending slowly, till the two
The open moonlight reach.

And there, along the narrow dell,
A fair smooth pathway you discern,
A length of green and open road-
As if it from a fountain flowed-
Winding away between the fern.
The rocks that tower on either side
Build up a wild fantastic scene:
Temples like those among the Hindoos,
And mosques, and spires, and abbey windows,
And castles all with ivy green!

And, while the Ass pursues his way,

Along this solitary dell,

As pensively his steps advance,

The mosques and spires change countenance, And look at Peter Bell!

That unintelligible cry

Hath left him high in preparation,-
Convinced that he, or soon or late,
This very night will meet his fate-
And so he sits in expectation!
The strenuous Animal hath clomb
With the green path; and now he wends
Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
In undisturbed immensity

A level plain extends.

But whence this faintly-rustling sound
By which the journeying pair are chased?
-A withered leaf is close behind,
Light plaything for the sportive wind
Upon that solitary waste.

When Peter spied the moving thing,
It only doubled his distress;
"Where there is not a bush or tree,
The very leaves they follow me-
So huge hath been my wickedness!"
To a close lane they now are come,
Where, as before, the enduring Ass
Moves on without a moment's stop,
Nor once turns round his head to crop
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass.
Between the hedges as they go,
The white dust sleeps upon the lane;
And Peter, ever and anon
Back-looking, sees, upon a stone,
Or in the dust, a crimson stain.
A stain-as of a drop of blood

By moonlight made more faint and wan;
Ha! why these sinkings of despair?

He knows not how the blood comes there-
And Peter is a wicked man.

At length he spies a bleeding wound,
Where he had struck the Ass's head;
He sees the blood, knows what it is,-
A glimpse of sudden joy was his,
But then it quickly fled;

Of him whom sudden death had seized
He thought,-of thee, O faithful Ass!
And once again those ghastly pains
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins,
And through his brain like lightning pass.

PART THIRD.

I've heard of one, a gentle Soul,
Though given to sadness and to gloom,
And for the fact will vouch,-one night
It chanced that by a taper's light
This man was re ding in his room;
Bending, as you or I might bend
At night o'er any pious book,
When sudden blackness overspread
The snow-white page on which he read,
And made the good man round him look.
The chamber walls were dark all round,-
And to his book he turned again:
-The light had left the lonely taper,
And formed itself upon the paper
Into large letters-bright and plain!

The godly book was in his hand-
And, on the page, more black than coal,
Appeared, set forth in strange array,
A word-which to his dying day
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul.
The ghostly word, thus plainly seen,
Did never from his lips depart:
But he hath said, poor gentle wight!
It brought full many a sin to light
Out of the bottom of his heart.

Dread Spirits! to confound the meek
Why wander from your course so far,
Disordering colour, form, and stature !
-Let good men feel the soul of nature,
And see things as they are.

Yet, potent Spirits! well I know,
How ye, that play with soul and sense,
Are not unused to trouble friends
Of goodness, for most gracious ends-
And this I speak in reverence.
But might I give advice to you,
Whom in my fear I love so well;
From men of pensive virtue go,
Dread Beings! and your empire show
On hearts like that of Peter Bell.
Your presence often have I felt
In darkness and the stormy night;
And, with like force, if need there be,
Ye can put forth your agency
When earth is calm, and heaven is bright,
Then, coming from the wayward world,
That powerful world in which ye dwell,
Come, Spirits of the Mind! and try
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky,
What may be done with Peter Belli
-O, would that some more skilful voice
My further labour might prevent!
Kind Listeners, that around me sit,
I feel that I am all unfit

For such high argument.

I've played, I've danced, with my narration;

I loitered long ere I began:

Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
Pour out indulgence still, in measure
As lib ral as ye can!

Our Travellers, ye remember well,
Are thridding a sequestered lane;
And Peter many tricks is trying,
And many anodynes applying,
To ease his conscience of its pain.
By this his heart is lighter far;
And, finding that he can account
So snugly for that crimson stain,
His evil spirit up again

Does like an empty bucket mount.
And Peter is a deep logician

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial;

"Blood drops-leaves rustle-yet," quoth he,
"This poor man never, but for me,
Could have had Christian burial.

And, say the best you can, 'tis plain,
That here has been some wicked dealing;
No doubt the devil in me wrought;
I'm not the man who could have thought
An Ass like this was worth the stealing!"
So from his pocket Peter takes
His shining horn tobacco-box;

And, in a light and careless way,
As men who with their purpose play,
Upon the lid he knocks.

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,
Whose cunning eye can see the wind,
Tell to a curious world the cause
Why, making here a sudden pause,
The Ass turned round his head, and grinned.
Appalling process! I have marked
The like on heath, in lonely wood;
And, verily, have seldom met
A spectacle more hideous-yet
It suited Peter's present mood.
And, grinning in his turn, his teeth
He in jocose defiance showed-
When, to upset his spiteful mirth,
A murmur, pent within the earth,
In the dead earth beneath the road,
Rolled audibly! it swept along,
A muffled noise- a rumbling sound!-
'Twas by a troop of miners made,
Plying with gunpowder their trade,
Some twenty fathoms underground.
Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,
If ever mortal, King or Cotter,
Believed that earth was charged to quake
And yawn for his unworthy sake,
'Twas Peter Bell the Potter.

But, as an oak in breathless air
Will stand though to the centre hewn:
Or as the weakest things, if frost
Have stiffened them, maintain their post;
So he. beneath the gazing moon!--
The Beast bestriding thus, he reached

A spot where, in a sheltering cove,

A little chapel stands alone,
With greenest ivy overgrown,
And tufted with an ivy grove;

Dying insensibly away

From human thoughts and purposes,
It seemed-wall, window, roof and tower
To bow to some transforming power,
And blend with the surrounding trees.
As ruinous a place it was,
Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife

That served my turn, when following still
From land to land a reckless will

I married my sixth wife!

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,

And now is passing by an inn
Brim-full of a carousing crew,
That make, with curses not a few,
An uproar and a drunken din.

I cannot well express the thoughts
Which Peter in those noises found :--
A stifling power compressed his frame,
While-as a swimming darkness came
Over that dull and dreary sound.
For well did Peter know the sound;
The language of those drunken joys
To him, a jovial soul, I ween,
But a few hours ago, had been
A gladsome and a welcome noise.
Now, turned adrift into the past,
He finds no solace in his course;
Like planet-stricken men of yore,

He trembles, smitten to the core
By strong compunction and remorse.
But, more than all, his heart is stung
To think of one, almost a child;
A sweet and playful Highland girl,
As light and beauteous as a squirrel,
As beauteous and as wild!

Her dwelling was a lonely house,
A cottage in a heathy dell;
And she put on her gown of green,
And left her mother at sixteen,
And followed Peter Bell.

But many good and pious thoughts
Had she; and, in the kirk to pray,
Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow,
To kirk she had been used to go,
Twice every Sabbath-day.

And, when she followed Peter Bell,
It was to lead an honest life;
For he, with tongue not used to falter,
Had pledged his troth before the altar
To love her as his wedded wife.
A mother's hope is hers :-but soon
She drooped and pined like one for.orn;
From Scripture she a name did borrow;
Benoni, or the child of sorrow,

She called her babe unborn.

For she had learned how Peter lived,
And took it in most grievous part;
She to the very bone was worn,
And, ere that little child was born,
Died of a broken heart.

And now the Spirits of the Mind
Are busy with poor Peter Bell;
Upon the rights of visual sense
Usurping, with a prevalence
More terrible than magic spell.
Close by a brake of flowering furze
(Above it shivering aspens play)
He sees an unsubstantial creature,
His very self in form and feature,

Not four yards from the broad highway:
And stretched beneath the furze he sees
The Highland girl-it is no other;
And hears her crying as she cried,
The very moment that she died,

'My mother! oh my mother!”

The sweat pours down from Peter's face,
So grievous is his heart's contrition;
With agony his eye-balls ache

While he beholds by the furze-brake
This miserable vision!

Calm is the well-deserving brute,

His peace hath no offence betrayed,

But now, while down that slope he wend's,
A voice to Peter's ear ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade:
The voice, though clamorous as a horn
Re-echoed by a naked rock,

Comes from that tabernacle-List'
Within, a fervent Methodist
Is preaching to no heedless flock!
"Repent! repent!" he cries aloud,
"While yet ye may find mercy ;- strive
To love the Lord with all your might;
Turn to him, seck him day and night,
And save your souls alive!