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 inore, 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 about his neck he climbs; up 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.
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will mumur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.
WELL may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode:-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt
Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone That tempted first to gather it. That here, O chief of Friends! such feelings I present, To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate, Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear, That thou, if not with partial joy elate, Wilt smile upon this gift with more than mild
"BELOVED Vale!" I said, "When I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down: to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one.' But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall: So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.
BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
In neighbourhood with One to me most dear. That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling- -a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured BEAU- MONT! still
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore Whether this boon be granted us or not, Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore,
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled:
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds, And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note All that to each is precious, as we float Gently along: regardless who shall chide If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide. Happy Associates breathing air remote From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, Why have I crowded this small bark with you And others of your kind, ideal crew! While here sits One whose brightness owes its
THE fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade; Such strains of rapture as the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator.
"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
From its own country, and forgive the strings." A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all that Art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe re- coils :
Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy: what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?
That doth presume no more than to supply A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a gleam
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water vexed with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
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