Part Second

We left our Hero in a trance,Beneath the alders, near the river;The Ass is by the river-side,And, where the feeble breezes glide,Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver.

A happy respite! but at lengthHe feels the glimmering of the moon;Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing--To sink, perhaps, where he is lying,Into a second swoon!

He lifts his head, he sees his staff;He touches--'tis to him a treasure!Faint recollection seems to tellThat he is yet where mortals dwell--A thought received with languid pleasure!

His head upon his elbow propped,Becoming less and less perplexed,Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood--And then--upon the glassy floodHis wandering eye is fixed.

Thought he, that is the face of oneIn his last sleep securely bound!So toward the stream his head he bent,And downward thrust his staff, intentThe river's depth to sound.

Now--like a tempest-shattered bark,That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,And in a moment to the vergeIs lifted of a foaming surge--Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!

His staring bones all shake with joy,And close by Peter's side he stands:While Peter o'er the river bends,The little Ass his neck extends,And fondly licks his hands.

Such life is in the Ass's eyes,Such life is in his limbs and ears;That Peter Bell, if he had beenThe veriest coward ever seen,Must now have thrown aside his fears.

The Ass looks on--and to his workIs Peter quietly resigned;He touches here--he touches there--And now among the dead man's hairHis sapling Peter has entwined.

He pulls--and looks--and pulls again;And he whom the poor Ass had lost,The man who had been four days dead,Head-foremost from the river's bedUprises like a ghost!

And Peter draws him to dry land;And through the brain of Peter passSome poignant twitches, fast and faster;"No doubt," quoth he, "he is the MasterOf this poor miserable Ass!"

The meagre shadow that looks on--What would he now? what is he doing?His sudden fit of joy is flown,--He on his knees hath laid him down,As if he were his grief renewing;

But no--that Peter on his backMust mount, he shows well as he can:Thought Peter then, come weal or woeI'll do what he would have me do,In pity to this poor drowned man.

With that resolve he boldly mountsUpon the pleased and thankful Ass;And then, without a moment's stay,That earnest Creature turned away,Leaving the body on the grass.

Intent 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,Nor ever once did break his fast:

Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;The mead is crossed--the quarry's mouthIs reached; but there the trusty guideInto a thicket turns aside,And deftly ambles towards the south.

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 shortRight in the middle of the thicket;And Peter, wont to whistle loudWhether 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 sayHow sorrowful the wanderer is,Your heart would be as sad as hisTill you had kissed his tears away!

Grasping 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;Whom seeks he--whom?--the silent dead:

His father!--Him doth he require--Him hath he 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 distrestLike a poor bird--her plundered nestHovering around with dolorous moan!

Of that intense and piercing cryThe listening Ass conjectures well;Wild as it is, he there can readSome intermingled notes that pleadWith touches irresistible.

But Peter--when he saw the AssNot only stop but turn, and changeThe cherished tenor of his paceThat lamentable cry to chase--It wrought in him conviction strange;

A faith that, for the dead man's sakeAnd this poor slave who loved him well,Vengeance upon his head will fall,Some visitation worse than allWhich 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 turnsInto a gloomy grove of beech,Along the shade with footsteps trueDescending slowly, till the twoThe open moonlight reach.

And there, along the 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 sideBuild 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 countenance,And look at Peter Bell!

That unintelligible cryHath left him high in preparation,--Convinced that he, or soon or late,This very night will meet his fate--And so he sits in expectation!

The strenuous Animal hath clombWith the green path; and now he wendsWhere, shining like the smoothest sea,In undisturbed immensityA level plain extends.

But whence this faintly-rustling soundBy which the journeying pair are chased?--A withered leaf is close behind,Light plaything for the sportive windUpon that solitary waste.

When Peter spied the moving thing,It only doubled his distress;"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 AssMoves on without a moment's stop,Nor once turns round his head to cropA bramble-leaf or blade of grass.

Between the hedges as they go,The white dust sleeps upon the lane;And Peter, ever and anonBack-looking, sees, upon a stone,Or in the dust, a crimson stain.

A stain--as of a drop of bloodBy moonlight made more faint and wan;Ha! why these sinkings of 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 Ass'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 seizedHe thought,--of thee, O faithful Ass!And once again those ghastly pains,Shoot to and fro through heart and reins,And through his brain like lightning pass.