To life, to life give back thine ear: Ye who are longing to be rid Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear The convict's summons in the steeple's knell; For terror, joy, or pity, XI. Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city, Rolling a solemn, sea-like bass, that floats Far as the woodlands, with the trill to blend Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale Might tempt an angel to descend, While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme, No scale of moral music, to unite Powers that survive but in the faintest dream Of memory? — O that ye might stoop to bear . Chains, such precious chains of sight As labored minstrelsies through ages wear! Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well! By one pervading spirit XII. Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, As sages taught, where faith was found to merit Initiation in that mystery old. The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still As they themselves appear to be, Innumerable voices fill With everlasting harmony; The towering headlands, crowned with mist, Their feet among the billows, know That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; Thy pinions, universal Air, Ever waving to and fro, Are delegates of harmony, and bear Strains that support the Seasons in their round; Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. XIII. Break forth into thanksgiving, Ye banded instruments of wind and chords! Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words! Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, Nor mute the forest hum of noon; Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed Shouting through one valley calls, All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured XIV. A Voice to Light gave Being; To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; The trumpet, (we, intoxicate with pride, The grave shall open, quench the stars. No more than moments of thy life? Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, Tempered into rapturous strife, Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be dust And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay Is in the WORD, that shall not pass away. Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar! TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L., ETC., ETC. During this long inter 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. val, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable 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 endeavors 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 super natural; 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. PROLOGUE. THERE's something in a flying horse, And now I have a little Boat, Fast through the clouds my Boat can sail; The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, The noise of danger 's in your ears, |