Istent upon his faithful watch,
The Beast four days and nights had past;
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
And there the Ass four days had been,
Vor ever once did break his fast.
Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
The mead is crossed the quarry's mouth
la reached—but there the trusty guide
into a thicket turns aside,
And takes his way towards the south.
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 grav! This cry that rings along the wood This cry-that floats adown the floo 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 cre ;
What seeks the boy?-the silent dad-
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 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 wende
A voice to Peter's ear ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade:
The voice, though clamourous as a horr
Re-echoed by a naked rock,
Is 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,
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