To life, to life give back thine ear:

Ye who are longing to be rid

Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell
Echoed from the coffin-lid;

The convict's summons in the steeple's knell;
"The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore,
Repeated, heard, and heard no more!

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!
O for a balance fit the truth to tell

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
From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn
Of joy, that from her utmost walls
The six-days' Work by flaming Seraphim
Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep

Shouting through one valley calls,

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep

For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured
Into the ear of God, their Lord!

XIV.

A Voice to Light gave Being;

To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ;
A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,
And sweep away life's visionary stir;

The trumpet, (we, intoxicate with pride,
Arm at its blast for deadly wars,)
To archangelic lips applied,

The grave shall open, quench the stars.
O Silence! are Man's noisy years

No more than moments of thy life?

Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears,
With her smooth tones and discords just,

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

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!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;

The noise of danger 's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!