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,

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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;
And there the pathway ends.

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

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

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.

The Swale flowed under the gray 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 !

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?

Across the deep and quiet spot
Is Peter driving through the grass-
And now he is among the trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary ass.

"A prize!" cried Peter, stepping back
To spy about him far and near;
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light,
Peter, you need not fear!

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.

His head is with a halter bound;
The halter seizing, Peter leapt
Upon the creature's back, and plied
With ready heel his shaggy side;
But still the ass his station kept.

"What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing
A new-peeled sapling ;-though I deem,
This threat was understood full well,
Firm, as before, the sentinel
Stood by the silent stream.
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!

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.

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.

Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
Once more the ass, with mction dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round his long left ear.

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

What followed?-yielding to the shock,
The ass, as if to take his ease,
In quiet uncomplaining mood,
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees,

And then upon his side he fell,
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, as he lay like one that mourned,
The beast on his tormentor turned
A shining hazel eye.

'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 river deep and clear.

Upon the beast the sapling rings,-
Heaved his lank sides, his limbs they stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third.

And Peter halts to gather breath,
And, while he halts, was clearly shown
(What he before in part had seen)
How gaunt the creature was, and lean,
Yea, wasted to a skeleton!

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.

The meagre beast lay still as deathAnd Peter's lips with fury quiver-Quoth he, "You little mulish dog, I'll fling your carcase like a log Head-foremost down the river!"

An impious oath confirmed the threat-
That instant, while outstretched he lay,
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the ass sent forth
A loud and piteous bray!

This outery, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ;—
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like.

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.-

Among the rocks and winding crags-
Among the mountains far away-
Once more the ass did lengthen out
More ruefully an endless shout,

The long dry see-saw of his horrible bray!
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 glim-

If any one should come and see That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, "I'm helping this poor dying brute.'

He scans the ass from limb to limb;
And Peter now uplifts his eyes;-
Steady the moon doth look and clear,
And like themselves the rocks appear,
And quiet are the skies.

Whereat, in resolute mood, once more
He stoops the ass's neck to seize-
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight!
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.
Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows there portrayed?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin, or a shroud?

A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Or a gay ring of shining fairies,
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?

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?

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!

Holding 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
What seeks the boy?-the silent dead-
His father!-Him doth he require,
Whom he hath 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 noise 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 a 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 counte

"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 this comfortless 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 creature'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 darting pains,
As meteors shoot through heaven's wide
plains,

Pass through his bosom-and repass!

PART III.

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 good man's 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, full 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 torment the good 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.

I know you, potent spirits! well, How, with the feeling and the sense Playing, ye govern foes or friends, Yoked to your will, for fearful endsAnd 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 I have often felt
In darkness and the stormy night;
And well I know, 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!

Oh, 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 and danced with my narra

tion

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.