only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency e excluded, the faculty may be called forth as impeneasy, and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents,

in the compass of poetic probability, in the humbest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects ef judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; 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 bealth may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with ng respect,

Most faithfully yours,
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TIDAL 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,
Whose shape is 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 nose of danger fills your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both fe my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I-
Fral man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Nay, start not! - wedded wives—and twelve!
But how one wife could e'er come near him,
In simple truth I cannot tell;
For, be it said of Peter Bell,
To see him was to fear him.

Though Nature could not touch his heart
By lovely forms, and silent weather,
And tender sounds, yet you might see
At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together.

A savage wildness round him hung
As of a dweller out of doors;
In his whole figure and his mien
A savage character was seen

Of mountains and of dreary moors.

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts
Which solitary Nature feeds

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
Had Peter joined whatever vice
The cruel city breeds.

His face was keen as is the wind

That cuts along the hawthorn fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence.

He had a dark and sidelong walk, And long and slouching was his gait; Beneath his looks so bare and bold, You might perceive, his spirit cold Was playing with some inward bait.

His forehead wrinkled was and furred; A work, one half of which was done By thinking of his whens and hows; And half, by knitting of his brows Beneath the glaring sun.

There was a hardness in his cheek,
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!

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.