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| 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. |
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| 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; 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 Bell! —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 liberal 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 forlorn; 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 wends, 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, seek him day and night, And save your souls alive! "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!" 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. 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! 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. 'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace, He not unmoved did notice now The cross upon thy shoulder scored, For lasting impress, by the Lord To whom all human-kind shall bow; Memorial of his touch—that day When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, Entering the proud Jerusalem, By an immeasurable stream Of shouting people deified! Meanwhile the persevering Ass, Turned towards a gate that hung in view Across a shady lane; his chest Against the yielding gate he pressed And quietly passed through. 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. 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. 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. She to the Meeting-house was bound In hopes 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!" 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! And, instantly, upon the earth, Beneath the full moon shining bright, Close to the Ass's feet she fell; At the same moment Peter Bell Dismounts in most unhappy plight. As he beheld the Woman lie Breathless and motionless, the mind Of Peter sadly was confused; But, though to such demands unused, And helpless almost as the blind, 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. "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. 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. 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. A piercing look the Widow 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. "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!" 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. 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. "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." 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!" 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. 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. 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 she hies, And on the pillow lays her burning head. 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 his tremulous knees. 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; He lifts 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!" 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— He comes, escaped from fields and floods;— With weary pace is drawing nigh; He sees the Ass—and nothing living Had ever such a fit of joy As hath this little orphan Boy, For he has no misgiving! Forth to 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! 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!" —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. 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. And Peter Bell, who, till that night, Had been the wildest of his clan, Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, And, after ten months' melancholy, Became a good and honest man. Contents |
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