Part First

All by the moonlight river sideGroaned the poor Beast--alas! in vain;The staff was raised to loftier height,And the blows fell with heavier weightAs Peter struck--and struck again.

"Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rulesOf common sense you're surely sinning;This leap is for us all too bold;Who Peter was, let that be told,And start from the beginning."

--"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade,"Said I, becoming quite collected;"And wheresoever he appeared,Full twenty times was Peter fearedFor once that Peter was respected.

"He two-and-thirty years or more,Had been a wild and woodland rover;Had heard the Atlantic surges roarOn farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,And trod the cliffs of Dover.

"And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,And well he knew the spire of Sarum;And he had been where Lincoln bellFlings o'er the fen that ponderous knell--A far-renowned alarum.

"At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,And merry Carlisle had he been;And all along the Lowlands fair,All through the bonny shire of Ayr;And far as Aberdeen.

"And he had been at Inverness;And Peter, by the mountain-rills,Had danced his round with Highland lasses;And he had lain beside his assesOn lofty Cheviot Hills:

"And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,Among the rocks and winding scars;Where deep and low the hamlets lieBeneath their little patch of skyAnd little lot of stars:

"And all along the indented coast,Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;Where'er a knot of houses layOn headland, or in hollow bay;--Sure never man like him did roam!

"As well might Peter, in the Fleet,Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;--He travelled here, he travelled there;--But not the value of a hairWas heart or head the better.

"He roved among the vales and streams,In the green wood and hollow dell;They were his dwellings night and day,--But nature ne'er could find the wayInto the heart of Peter Bell.

"In vain, through every changeful year,Did Nature lead him as before;A primrose by a river's brimA yellow primrose was to him,And it was nothing more.

"Small change it made in Peter's heartTo see his gentle panniered trainWith more than vernal pleasure feeding,Where'er the tender grass was leadingIts earliest green along the lane.

"In vain, through water, earth, and air,The soul of happy sound was spread,When Peter on some April morn,Beneath the broom or budding thorn,Made the warm earth his lazy bed.

"At noon, when, by the forest's edgeHe lay beneath the branches high,The soft blue sky did never meltInto his heart; he never feltThe witchery of the soft blue sky!

"On a fair prospect some have lookedAnd felt, as I have heard them say,As if the moving time had beenA thing as steadfast as the sceneOn which they gazed themselves away.

"Within the breast of Peter BellThese silent raptures found no place;He was a Carl as wild and rudeAs ever hue-and-cry pursued,As ever ran a felon's race.

"Of all that lead a lawless life,Of all that love their lawless lives,In city or in village small,He was the wildest far of all;--He had a dozen wedded wives.

"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 heartBy lovely forms, and silent weather,And tender sounds, yet you might seeAt once, that Peter Bell and sheHad often been together.

"A savage wildness round him hungAs of a dweller out of doors;In his whole figure and his mienA savage character was seenOf mountains and of dreary moors.

"To all the unshaped half-human thoughtsWhich solitary Nature feeds'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,Had Peter joined whatever viceThe cruel city breeds.

"His face was keen as is the windThat cuts along the hawthorn-fence;Of courage you saw little there,But, in its stead, a medley airOf 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 coldWas playing with some inward bait.

"His forehead wrinkled was and furred;A work, one half of which was doneBy thinking of his 'whens,' and 'hows';And half, by knitting of his browsBeneath 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 brightUpon the rapid river Swale,

Along the river's winding banksPeter was travelling all alone;Whether to buy or sell, or ledBy 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 pathThat promised to cut short the way;As many a wiser man hath done,He left a trusty guide for oneThat might his steps betray.

To a thick wood he soon is broughtWhere cheerily his course he weaves,And whistling loud may yet be heard,Though often buried, like a birdDarkling, among the boughs and leaves.

But quickly Peter's mood is changed,And on he drives with cheeks that burnIn downright fury and in wrath;--There's little sign the treacherous pathWill 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 beholdA scene of soft and lovely hue!Where blue and grey, and tender green,Together make as sweet a sceneAs ever human eye did view.

Beneath the clear blue sky he sawA 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 grey rocks,But he flowed quiet and unseen;--You need a strong and stormy galeTo bring the noises of the SwaleTo 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 lookUpon this soft and fertile nook?Does no one live near this green grass?

Across the deep and quiet spotIs Peter driving through the grass--And now has reached the skirting trees;When, turning round his head, he seesA solitary Ass.

"A prize!" cries Peter--but he firstMust 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 bedOf the green meadow hangs his headOver the silent stream.

His head is with a halter bound;The halter seizing, Peter leaptUpon the Creature's back, and pliedWith ready heels his shaggy side;But still the Ass his station kept.

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,A jerk that from a dungeon-floorWould have pulled up an iron ring;But still the heavy-headed ThingStood just as he had stood before!

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,"There is some plot against me laid";Once more the little meadow-groundAnd all the hoary cliffs aroundHe 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 skullTurns round his long left ear.

Thought Peter, What can mean all this?Some ugly witchcraft must be here!--Once more the Ass, with motion dull,Upon the pivot of his skullTurned round his long left ear.

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

The poor Ass staggered with the shock;And then, as if to take his ease,In quiet uncomplaining mood,Upon the spot where he had stood,Dropped gently down upon his knees;

As gently on his side he fell;And by the river's brink did lie;And, while he lay like one that mourned,The patient Beast on Peter turnedHis 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 headTowards the smooth river deep and clear.

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

All by the moonlight river sideHe gave three miserable groans;And not till now hath Peter seenHow gaunt the Creature is,--how leanAnd sharp his staring bones!

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:--No word of kind commiserationFell at the sight from Peter's tongue;With hard contempt his heart was wrung,With hatred and vexation.

The meagre beast lay still as death;And Peter's lips with fury quiver;Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,I'll fling your carcass like a logHead-foremost down the river!"

An impious oath confirmed the threat--Whereat from the earth on which he layTo all the echoes, south and north,And east and west, the Ass sent forthA long and clamorous bray!

This outcry, 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 rocksWas 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 outMore ruefully a deep-drawn shout,The hard 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 glimmer,And the rocks staggered all around--

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!Threat has he none to execute;"If any one should come and seeThat I am here, they'll think," quoth he,"I'm helping this poor dying brute."

He scans the Ass from limb to limb,And ventures now to uplift his eyes;More steady looks the moon, and clear,More like themselves the rocks appearAnd touch more quiet skies.

His scorn returns--his hate revives;He stoops the Ass's neck to seizeWith malice--that again takes flight;For in the pool a startling sightMeets him, among the inverted 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?Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?Such as pursue their feared vagariesIn sylvan bower, or haunted hall?

Is it a fiend that to a stakeOf fire his desperate self is tethering?Or stubborn spirit doomed to yellIn solitary ward or cell,Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

Never did pulse so quickly throb,And never heart so loudly panted;He looks, he cannot choose but look;Like some one reading in a book--A book that is enchanted.

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!He will be turned to iron soon,Meet Statue for the court of Fear!His hat is up--and every hairBristles, and whitens in the moon!

He looks, he ponders, looks again;He sees a motion--hears a groan;His eyes will burst--his heart will break--He gives a loud and frightful shriek,And back he falls, as if his life were flown!