No More Learning

To the Daisy

To the Same Flower

To the Daisy

Louisa

To a Young Lady, who had been Reproached for taking Long Walks in the
Country

1803

The Green Linnet

Yew-Trees

"Who fancied what a pretty sight"

"It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland:

Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. August, 1803

At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death

Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the
Poet's Residence

To the Sons of Burns, after Visiting the Grave of their Father

To a Highland Girl

Glen-Almain; or, The Narrow Glen

Stepping Westward

The Solitary Reaper

Address to Kilchurn Castle

Rob Roy's Grave

Sonnet composed at----Castle

Yarrow Unvisited

The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband

"Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale"

The Blind Highland Boy

October, 1803

"There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear"

October, 1803

"England! the time is come when thou should'st wean"

October, 1803

To the Men of Kent. October, 1803

In the Pass of Killicranky

Anticipation. October, 1803

Lines on the Expected Invasion, 1803





* * * * *





WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS





* * * * *





PETER BELL: A TALE [A]


Composed 1798. [B]--Published 1819.


'What's in a Name? ' [C]

'Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar! ' [D]


To ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. , P. L. , ETC. , ETC.

MY DEAR FRIEND--The Tale of 'Peter Bell', which I now introduce to
your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state,
nearly survived its _minority_:--for it first saw the light in the
summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at
different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable
reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling _permanently_ a station,
however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed,
been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have
been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly
to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may
laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any
man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in
his own impulses.

The Poem of 'Peter Bell', as the Prologue will show, was composed
under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its
exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though
such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as
imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within
the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of
daily life. Since that Prologue was written, _you_ have exhibited most
splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual
course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the
supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as
a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from
contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it,
then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with
whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for
evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life
and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in
which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819.


[Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an anecdote which I read in a
newspaper, of an ass being found hanging his head over a canal in a
wretched posture. Upon examination a dead body was found in the water,
and proved to be the body of its master. The countenance, gait, and
figure of Peter were taken from a wild rover with whom I walked from
Builth, on the river Wye, downwards, nearly as far as the town of Hay.
He told me strange stories. It has always been a pleasure to me through
life, to catch at every opportunity that has occurred in my rambles of
becoming acquainted with this class of people. The number of Peter's
wives was taken from the trespasses, in this way, of a lawless creature,
who lived in the county of Durham, and used to be attended by many
women, sometimes not less than half a dozen, as disorderly as himself,
and a story went in the country that he had been heard to say, while
they were quarrelling, "Why can't ye be quiet, there's none so many of
you? " Benoni, or the child of sorrow, I knew when I was a schoolboy. His
mother had been deserted by a gentleman in the neighbourhood, she
herself being a gentlewoman by birth. The circumstances of her story
were told me by my dear old dame, Ann Tyson, who was her confidante. The
lady died broken-hearted. In the woods of Alfoxden I used to take great
delight in noticing the habits, tricks, and physiognomy of asses; and I
have no doubt that I was thus put upon writing the poem out of liking
for the creature that is often so dreadfully abused. The crescent moon,
which makes such a figure in the prologue, assumed this character one
evening while I was watching its beauty in front of Alfoxden House. I
intended this poem for the volume before spoken of, but it was not
published for more than twenty years afterwards. The worship of the
Methodists, or Ranters, is often heard during the stillness of the
summer evening, in the country, with affecting accompaniments of rural
beauty. In both the psalmody and voice of the preacher there is, not
unfrequently, much solemnity likely to impress the feelings of the
rudest characters under favourable circumstances. --I. F. ]


Classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination. "--ED.



PROLOGUE

There's something in a flying horse,
There's something [1] in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like [2] the crescent-moon. 5

And now I _have_ a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon:
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up--and you shall see me soon! 10

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger's in [3] your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me! 15

Meanwhile untroubled I admire [4]
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you! 20

Away we go, my Boat and I--
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds [5] we dive,
Each is contented with the other. 25

Away we go--and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars. 30

Up goes my Boat among [6] the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright! 35

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not! 40

The towns in Saturn are decayed,
And melancholy Spectres throng them;--[7]
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss,
With joy I sail among [8] them, 45

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain,
That little Earth [9] of ours? 50

Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:--
Whole ages if I here should roam,
The world for my remarks and me
Would not a whit the better be;
I've left my heart at home. 55

See! there she is, [10] the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
Like waters in commotion! 60

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands
That silver thread the river Dnieper;
And look, where clothed in brightest green
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! 65

And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols;--I was lost
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man. 70

Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never;--
How tunefully the forests ring!
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever! 75

"Shame on you! " cried my little Boat,
"Was ever such a homesick [11] Loon,
Within a living Boat to sit,
And make no better use of it;
A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon! 80

[12]

"Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Fluttered so faint a heart before;--
Was it the music of the spheres
That overpowered your mortal ears?
--Such din shall trouble them no more. 85

"These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own;--then come with me;
I want a comrade, and for you
There's nothing that I would not do;
Nought is there that you shall not see. 90

"Haste! and above Siberian snows
We'll sport amid the boreal morning;
Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
And now the stars adorning. 95

"I know the secrets of a land
Where human foot did never stray;
Fair is that land [13] as evening skies,
And cool, though in the depth it lies
Of burning Africa. 100

"Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
Among the lovely shades of things;
The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
The shades of palaces and kings! 105

"Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
Less quiet regions to explore,
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
How earth and heaven are taught to feel
The might of magic lore! " 110

"My little vagrant Form of light,
My gay and beautiful Canoe,
Well have you played your friendly part;
As kindly take what from my heart
Experience forces--then adieu! 115

"Temptation lurks among your words;
But, while these pleasures you're pursuing
Without impediment or let,
No wonder if you quite forget [14]
What on the earth is doing. 120

"There was a time when all mankind
Did listen with a faith sincere
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
_Then_ Poets fearlessly rehearsed
The wonders of a wild career. 125

"Go--(but the world's a sleepy world,
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late)
Take with you some ambitious Youth!
For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, [15]
Am all unfit to be your mate. 130

"Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers;
The common growth of mother-earth
Suffices me--her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears. 135

"The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
I shall not covet for my dower,
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray,
And with a soul of power. 140

"These given, what more need I desire
To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
What nobler marvels than the mind
May in life's daily prospect find,
May find or there create? 145

"A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
What spell so strong as guilty Fear!
Repentance is a tender Sprite;
If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 150

"But grant my wishes,--let us now
Descend from this ethereal height;
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
More daring far than Hippogriff,
And be thy own delight! 155

"To the stone-table in my garden,
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, [E]
The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
Beside him in the cool recess
Sits blooming like a flower. 160

"With these are many more convened;
They know not I have been so far;--
I see them there, in number nine,
Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine!
I see them--there they are! 165

"There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter;
And, ere the light of evening fail,
To them I must relate the Tale
Of Peter Bell the Potter. " 170

Off flew the Boat--away she flees,
Spurning her freight with indignation! [16]
"And I, as well as I was able,
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
Limped on with sore vexation. [17] 175

"O, here he is! " cried little Bess--
She saw me at the garden-door;
"We've waited anxiously and long,"
They cried, and all around me throng,
Full nine of them or more! 180

"Reproach me not--your fears be still--
Be thankful we again have met;--
Resume, my Friends! within the shade
Your seats, and quickly [18] shall be paid
The well-remembered debt. " 185

I spake with faltering voice, like one
Not wholly rescued from the pale
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion;
But, straight, to cover my confusion,
Began the promised Tale. [19] 190



PART FIRST

All by the moonlight river side
Groaned the poor Beast--alas! in vain;
The staff was raised to loftier height,
And the blows fell with heavier weight
As Peter struck--and struck again. [20] 195

[21]

"Hold! " cried the Squire, "against the rules
Of common sense you're surely sinning;
This leap is for us all too bold; [22]
Who Peter was, let that be told,
And start from the beginning. " 200

--"A Potter, [F] Sir, he was by trade,"
Said I, becoming quite collected;
"And wheresoever he appeared,
Full twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected. 205

"He two-and-thirty years or more,
Had been a wild and woodland rover;
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 210

"And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
And he had been where Lincoln bell
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell--
A far-renowned alarum. [23] 215

"At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
And merry Carlisle had he been;
And all along the Lowlands fair,
All through the bonny shire of Ayr;
And far as Aberdeen. 220

"And he had been at Inverness;
And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
Had danced his round with Highland lasses;
And he had lain beside his asses
On lofty Cheviot Hills: 225

"And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,
Among the rocks and winding _scars_;
Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars: 230

"And all along the indented coast,
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
Where'er a knot of houses lay
On headland, or in hollow bay;--
Sure never man like him did roam! 235

"As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;--
He travelled here, he travelled there;--
But not the value of a hair
Was heart or head the better. 240

"He roved among the vales and streams,
In the green wood and hollow dell;
They were his dwellings night and day,--
But nature ne'er could find the way
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 245

"In vain, through every changeful year,
Did Nature lead him as before;
A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more. 250

"Small change it made in Peter's heart
To see his gentle panniered train
With more than vernal pleasure feeding,
Where'er the tender grass was leading
Its earliest green along the lane. 255

"In vain, through water, earth, and air,
The soul of happy sound was spread,
When Peter on some April morn,
Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 260

"At noon, when, by the forest's edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart; he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky! 265

"On a fair prospect some have looked
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away. 270

"Within the breast of Peter Bell
These silent raptures found no place; [24]
He was a Carl as wild and rude
As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
As ever ran a felon's race. 275

"Of all that lead a lawless life,
Of all that love their lawless lives,
In city or in village small,
He was the wildest far of all;--
He had a dozen wedded wives. 280

"Nay, start not! --wedded wives--and twelve!
But how one wife could e'er come near him,
In simple truth I cannot tell;
For, be it said of Peter Bell,
To see him was to fear him. 285

"Though Nature could not touch his heart
By lovely forms, and silent [25] weather,
And tender sounds, yet you might see
At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together. 290

"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. 295

"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. 300

"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. 305

"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. 310

"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. 315

"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! " 320


* * * * *


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, 325

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. 330

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 murmuring river Swale. 335

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. 340

To a thick wood he soon is brought
Where cheerily [26] his course he weaves,
And whistling loud may yet be heard,
Though often buried, like a bird
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 345

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! 350

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--[27]
And there the pathway ends. 355

[28]

He paused--for shadows of strange shape,
Massy and black, before him lay;
But through the dark, and through the cold, [29]
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way 360

Right through the quarry;--and behold
A scene of soft and lovely hue!
Where blue and grey, and tender green,
Together make [30] as sweet a scene
As ever human eye did view. 365

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. 370

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! 375

[31]

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? 380

Across the [32] deep and quiet spot
Is Peter driving through the grass--
And now has reached the skirting trees; [33]
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass. 385

[34]

"A prize! " cries Peter--but he first
Must spy about him far and near: [35]
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light--
Peter, you need not fear! 390

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. 395

His head is with a halter bound;
The halter seizing, Peter leapt
Upon the Creature's back, [36] and plied
With ready heels his shaggy side; [37]
But still the Ass his station kept. 400

[38]

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! 405

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. 410

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. 415

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. 420

Suspicion ripened into dread;
Yet with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the sounding hide, [39]
He dealt a sturdy blow. 425

The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
And then, as if to take his ease, [40]
In quiet uncomplaining mood,
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees; 430

As gently on [41] his side he fell;
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, while [42] he lay like one that mourned,
The patient Beast on Peter turned
His shining hazel eye. [43] 435

'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 [44] deep and clear. 440

Upon the Beast the sapling rings;
His lank sides heaved, [45] his limbs they stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third. 445

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! [46] 450

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. 455

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! " 460

An impious oath confirmed the threat--
Whereat from the earth on which he lay [47]
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth
A long and clamorous bray! [48] 465

This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,--
Joy at [49] the heart of Peter knocks;
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like. 470

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. 475

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! [50] 480

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--485

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. " 490

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. [51] 495

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. [52] 500

Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows [53] there portrayed?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin,--or a shroud? 505

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 [54]
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? 510

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? 515

[55]

Never did pulse so quickly throb,
And never heart so loudly panted; [56]
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like some one reading in a book--[57]
A book that is enchanted. 520

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! 525

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, [58] as if his life were flown! 530


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. 535

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! [59] 540

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! 545

His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood--
And then--upon the glassy [60] flood
His wandering eye is fixed. 550

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. [61] 555

_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! 560

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. 565

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. 570

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. 575

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! [G] 580

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! " 585

The meagre shadow that looks on--
What would he now? [62] 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; 590

But no--that Peter on his back
Must mount, he shows well as he can: [63]
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe
I'll do what he would have me do,
In pity to this poor drowned man.
595

With that resolve he boldly mounts [64]
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay,
That [65] earnest Creature turned away,
Leaving the body on the grass. 600

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: 605

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 [66] towards the south. 610

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! 615

'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! 620

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. 625

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: 630

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! 635

Grasping [67] 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: [68] 640

His father! --Him doth he require--
Him hath he sought [69] with fruitless pains,
Among the rocks, behind the trees;
Now creeping on his hands and knees,
Now running o'er the open plains. 645

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! 650

Of that intense and piercing cry
The listening Ass conjectures well; [70]
Wild as it is, he there can read
Some intermingled notes that plead
With touches irresistible. 655

But Peter--when he saw the Ass
Not only stop but turn, and change
The cherished tenor of his pace
That lamentable cry [71] to chase--
It wrought in him conviction strange; 660

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. 665

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, [72]
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. 670

So with his freight the Creature turns
Into a gloomy grove of beech,
Along the shade with footsteps [73] true
Descending slowly, till the two
The open moonlight reach. 675

And there, along the [74] 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. 680

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! 685

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! 690

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! 695

[75]

The strenuous Animal hath clomb
With the green path; and now he wends
Where, shining like the smoothest sea,
In undisturbed immensity
A [76] level plain extends. 700

But whence this faintly-rustling sound
By which the journeying pair are chased?
--A withered leaf is close behind, [77]
Light plaything for the sportive wind
Upon that solitary waste. 705

When Peter spied the moving thing,
It only doubled his distress; [78]
"Where there is not a bush or tree,
The very leaves they follow me--
So huge hath been my wickedness! " 710

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. 715

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. 720

A stain--as of a drop of blood
By moonlight made more faint and wan;
Ha! why these sinkings of despair? [79]
He knows not how the blood comes there--
And Peter is a wicked man. 725

At length he spies a bleeding wound,
Where he had struck the Ass's head; [80]
He sees the blood, knows what it is,--
A glimpse of sudden joy was his,
But then it quickly fled; 730

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. [81] 735


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 reading in his room; 740

Bending, as you or I might bend
At night o'er any pious book, [82]
When sudden blackness overspread
The snow white page on which he read,
And made the good man round him look. 745

The chamber walls were dark all round,--
And to his book he turned again;
--The light had left the lonely taper, [83]
And formed itself upon the paper
Into large letters--bright and plain! 750

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. 755

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, [84]
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. 760

Dread Spirits! to confound the meek [85]
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. 765

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--[86]
And this I speak in reverence! 770

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. 775

Your presence often have I [87] felt
In darkness and the stormy night;
And, with like force, [88] if need there be,
Ye can put forth your agency
When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 780

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 Bell! 785

--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. 790

I've played, I've danced, [89] with my narration;
I loitered long ere I began:
Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
Pour out indulgence still, in measure
As liberal as ye can! 795

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. 800

By this his heart is lighter far;
And, finding that he can account
So snugly [90] for that crimson stain,
His evil spirit up again
Does like an empty bucket mount. 805

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. 810

"And, say the best you can, 'tis plain,
That here has [91] 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! " 815

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. 820

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_. 825

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. 830

And, grinning in his turn, his teeth
He in jocose defiance showed--
When, to upset [92] his spiteful mirth,
A murmur, pent within the earth,
In the dead earth beneath the road, 835

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. 840

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. 845

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! --850

The Beast bestriding thus, he reached
A spot where, in a sheltering cove, [93]
A little chapel stands alone,
With greenest ivy overgrown,
And tufted with an ivy grove; 855

Dying insensibly away
From human thoughts and purposes,
It seemed--wall, window, roof and tower [94]--
To bow to some transforming power,
And blend with the surrounding trees. 860

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 [95]
I married my sixth wife! 865

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,
And now is passing by an inn
Brim-full of a carousing crew,
That make, [96] with curses not a few,
An uproar and a drunken din. 870

I cannot well express the thoughts
Which Peter in those noises found;--
A stifling power compressed his frame,
While-as a swimming darkness came [97]
Over that dull and dreary sound. 875

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. 880

_Now_, [98] 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. 885

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! 890

Her dwelling was a lonely house, [99]
A cottage in a heathy dell;
And she put on her gown of green,
And left her mother at sixteen,
And followed Peter Bell. 895

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. 900

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. 905

A mother's hope is hers;--but soon
She drooped and pined like one forlorn;
From Scripture she a name [100] did borrow;
Benoni, or the child of sorrow,
She called her babe unborn. 910

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. 915

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. [101] 920

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: 925

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! " 930

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! 935

Calm is the well-deserving brute,
_His_ peace hath no offence betrayed;
But now, while down that slope he wends,
A voice to Peter's ear [102] ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade: 940

The voice, though clamorous as a horn
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Comes from that tabernacle--List! [103]
Within, a fervent [104] Methodist
Is preaching to no heedless flock! 945

"Repent! repent! " he cries aloud,
"While yet ye may find mercy;--strive
To love the Lord with all your might;
Turn to him, seek him day and night,
And save your souls alive! 950

"Repent! repent! though ye have gone,
Through paths of wickedness and woe,
After the Babylonian harlot;
And, though your sins be red as scarlet,
They shall be white as snow! " 955

Even as he passed the door, these words
Did plainly come to Peter's ears;
And they such joyful tidings were,
The joy was more than he could bear! --
He melted into tears. 960

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness!
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower!
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt;
Through all his iron frame was felt
A gentle, a relaxing, power! 965

Each fibre of his frame was weak;
Weak all the animal within;
But, in its helplessness, grew mild
And gentle as an infant child,
An infant that has known no sin. 970

'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace,[105] [H]
He not unmoved did notice now
The cross [I] upon thy shoulder scored,
For lasting impress, by the Lord [106]
To whom all human-kind shall bow; 975

Memorial of his touch--that day [107]
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride,
Entering the proud Jerusalem,
By an immeasurable stream [J]
Of shouting people deified! 980

Meanwhile the persevering Ass,
Turned towards a gate that hung in view
Across a shady lane; [108] his chest
Against the yielding gate he pressed
And quietly passed through. 985

And up the stony lane he goes;
No ghost more softly ever trod;
Among the stones and pebbles, he
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly,
As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 990

Along the lane the trusty Ass
Went twice two hundred yards or more,
And no one could have guessed his aim,--
Till to a lonely house he came,
And stopped beside the door. [109] 995

Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home!
He listens--not a sound is heard
Save from the trickling household rill;
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill,
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 1000

She to the Meeting-house was bound
In hopes [110] some tidings there to gather:
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam;
She saw--and uttered with a scream,
"My father! here's my father! " 1005

The very word was plainly heard,
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother--
Her joy was like a deep affright:
And forth she rushed into the light,
And saw it was another! 1010

And, instantly, upon the earth,
Beneath the full moon shining bright,
Close to [111] the Ass's feet she fell;
At the same moment Peter Bell
Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 1015

As he beheld the Woman lie [112]
Breathless and motionless, the mind
Of Peter sadly was confused;
But, though to such demands unused,
And helpless almost as the blind, 1020

He raised her up; and, while he held
Her body propped against his knee,
The Woman waked--and when she spied
The poor Ass standing by her side,
She moaned most bitterly. 1025

"Oh! God be praised--my heart's at ease--
For he is dead--I know it well! "
--At this she wept a bitter flood;
And, in the best way that he could,
His tale did Peter tell. 1030

He trembles--he is pale as death;
His voice is weak with perturbation;
He turns aside his head, he pauses;
Poor Peter from a thousand causes,
Is crippled sore in his narration. 1035

At length she learned how he espied
The Ass in that small meadow-ground;
And that her Husband now lay dead,
Beside that luckless river's bed
In which he had been drowned. 1040

A piercing look the Widow [113] cast
Upon the Beast that near her stands;
She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same;
She calls the poor Ass by his name,
And wrings, and wrings her hands. 1045

"O wretched loss--untimely stroke!
If he had died upon his bed!
He knew not one forewarning pain;
He never will come home again--
Is dead, for ever dead! " 1050

Beside the Woman Peter stands;
His heart is opening more and more;
A holy sense pervades his mind;
He feels what he for human-kind
Had never felt before. 1055

At length, by Peter's arm sustained,
The Woman rises from the ground--
"Oh, mercy! something must be done,
My little Rachel, you must run,--
Some willing neighbour must be found. 1060

"Make haste--my little Rachel--do,
The first you meet with--bid him come,
Ask him to lend his horse to-night,
And this good Man, whom Heaven requite,
Will help to bring the body home. " 1065

Away goes Rachel weeping loud;--
An Infant, waked by her distress,
Makes in the house a piteous cry;
And Peter hears the Mother sigh,
"Seven are they, and all fatherless! " 1070

And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring. 1075

Upon a stone the Woman sits
In agony of silent grief--
From his own thoughts did Peter start;
He longs to press her to his heart,
From love that cannot find relief. 1080

But roused, as if through every limb
Had past a sudden shock of dread,
The Mother o'er the threshold flies,
And up the cottage stairs [114] she hies,
And on the pillow lays [115] her burning head. 1085

And Peter turns his steps aside
Into a shade of darksome trees,
Where he sits down, he knows not how,
With his hands pressed against his brow,
His elbows on [116] his tremulous knees. 1090

There, self-involved, does Peter sit
Until no sign of life he makes,
As if his mind were sinking deep
Through years that have been long asleep!
The trance is passed away--he wakes; 1095

He lifts [117] his head--and sees the Ass
Yet standing in the clear moonshine;
"When shall I be as good as thou?
Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now
A heart but half as good as thine! " 1100

But _He_--who deviously hath sought
His Father through the lonesome woods,
Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear
Of night his grief and sorrowful fear--[118]
He comes, escaped from fields and floods;--1105

With weary pace is drawing nigh;
He sees the Ass--and nothing living
Had ever such a fit of joy
As hath [119] this little orphan Boy,
For he has no misgiving! 1110

Forth to [120] the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs;
In loving words he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,--
He kisses him a thousand times! 1115

This Peter sees, while in the shade
He stood beside the cottage-door;
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
"Oh! God, I can endure no more! " 1120

--Here ends my Tale: for in a trice
Arrived a neighbour with his horse;
Peter went forth with him straightway;
And, with due care, ere break of day,
Together they brought back the Corse. 1125

And many years did this poor Ass,
Whom once it was my luck to see
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,
Help by his labour to maintain
The Widow and her family. 1130

And Peter Bell, who, till that night,
Had been the wildest of his clan,
Forsook his crimes, renounced [121] his folly,
And, after ten months' melancholy,
Became a good and honest man. [K] 1135



* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 1827.

And something 1819. ]



[Variant 2:

1849.

Whose shape is like 1819.

For shape just like 1845. ]


[Variant 3:

1845.

The noise of danger fills 1819. ]


[Variant 4:

1827.

Meanwhile I from the helm admire 1819.

. . . I soberly admire C. ]


[Variant 5:

1827.

Or deep into the heavens 1819.
Or into massy clouds 1820. ]


[Variant 6:

1820.

. . . between . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 7:

1827.

. . . are ill-built,
But proud let him be who has seen them; 1819. ]


[Variant 8:

1827.

. . . between . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 9:

1827.

That darling speck . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 10:

1836.

And there it is, . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 11:

1827

. . . heartless . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 12:

In the editions of 1819 and 1820 only.

Out--out--and, like a brooding hen,
Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;
Go, creep along the dirt, and pick
Your way with your good walking-stick,
Just three good miles an hour! ]


[Variant 13:

1827.

. . . the land . . . 1819. ]


[Variant 14:

1845.

My radiant Pinnace, you forget 1819.