Part Third

I've heard of one, a gentle Soul,Though given to sadness and to gloom,And for the fact will vouch,--one nightIt chanced that by a taper's lightThis man was reading in his room;

Bending, as you or I might bendAt night o'er any pious book,When sudden blackness overspreadThe 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 lonely taper,And formed itself upon the paperInto 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 dayPerplexed the good man's gentle soul.

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen,Did never from his lips depart;But he hath said, poor gentle wight!It brought full many a sin to lightOut of the bottom of his heart.

Dread Spirits! to confound the meekWhy 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.

Yet, potent Spirits! well I know,How ye, that play with soul and sense,Are not unused to trouble friendsOf goodness, for most gracious ends--And 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 showOn hearts like that of Peter Bell.

Your presence often have I feltIn darkness and the stormy night;And, with like force, if need there be,Ye can put forth your agencyWhen 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!

--O, would that some more skilful voiceMy further labour might prevent!Kind Listeners, that around me sit,I feel that I am all unfitFor such high argument.

I've played, I've danced, with my narration;I loitered long ere I began:Ye waited then on my good pleasure;Pour out indulgence still, in measureAs 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.

By this his heart is lighter far;And, finding that he can accountSo snugly for that crimson stain,His evil spirit up againDoes like an empty bucket mount.

And Peter is a deep logicianWho hath no lack of wit mercurial;"Blood drops--leaves rustle--yet," quoth he,"This poor man never, but for me,Could have had Christian burial.

"And, say the best you can, 'tis plain,That here has been some wicked dealing;No doubt the devil in me wrought;I'm not the man who could have thoughtAn Ass like this was worth the stealing!"

So from his pocket Peter takesHis shining horn tobacco-box;And, in a light and careless way,As men who with their purpose play,Upon the lid he knocks.

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,Whose cunning eye can see the wind,Tell to a curious world the causeWhy, making here a sudden pause,The Ass turned round his head, and grinned.

Appalling process! I have markedThe like on heath, in lonely wood;And, verily, have seldom metA spectacle more hideous--yetIt suited Peter's present mood.

And, grinning in his turn, his teethHe in jocose defiance showed--When, to upset his spiteful mirth,A murmur, pent within the earth,In the dead earth beneath the road,

Rolled audibly! it swept along,A muffled noise--a rumbling sound!--'Twas by a troop of miners made,Plying with gunpowder their trade,Some twenty fathoms underground.

Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,If ever mortal, King or Cotter,Believed that earth was charged to quakeAnd yawn for his unworthy sake,'Twas Peter Bell the Potter.

But, as an oak in breathless airWill stand though to the centre hewn;Or as the weakest things, if frostHave stiffened them, maintain their post;So he, beneath the gazing moon!--

The Beast bestriding thus, he reachedA spot where, in a sheltering cove,A little chapel stands alone,With greenest ivy overgrown,And tufted with an ivy grove;

Dying insensibly awayFrom human thoughts and purposes,It seemed--wall, window, roof and tower --To bow to some transforming power,And blend with the surrounding trees.

As ruinous a place it was,Thought Peter, in the shire of FifeThat served my turn, when following stillFrom land to land a reckless willI married my sixth wife!

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,And now is passing by an innBrim-full of a carousing crew,That make, with curses not a few,An uproar and a drunken din.

I cannot well express the thoughtsWhich Peter in those noises found;--A stifling power compressed his frame,While-as a swimming darkness cameOver that dull and dreary sound.

For well did Peter know the sound;The language of those drunken joysTo him, a jovial soul, I ween,But a few hours ago, had beenA gladsome and a welcome noise.

Now, turned adrift into the past,He finds no solace in his course;Like planet-stricken men of yore,He trembles, smitten to the coreBy strong compunction and remorse.

But, more than all, his heart is stungTo think of one, almost a child;A sweet and playful Highland girl,As light and beauteous as a squirrel,As beauteous and as wild!

Her dwelling was a lonely house,A cottage in a heathy dell;And she put on her gown of green,And left her mother at sixteen,And followed Peter Bell.

But many good and pious thoughtsHad she; and, in the kirk to pray,Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow,To kirk she had been used to go,Twice every Sabbath-day.

And, when she followed Peter Bell,It was to lead an honest life;For he, with tongue not used to falter,Had pledged his troth before the altarTo love her as his wedded wife.

A mother's hope is hers;--but soonShe 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 MindAre busy with poor Peter Bell;Upon the rights of visual senseUsurping, with a prevalenceMore 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 seesThe 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 acheWhile he beholds by the furze-brakeThis miserable vision!

Calm is the well-deserving brute,His peace hath no offence betrayed;But now, while down that slope he wends,A voice to Peter's ear ascends,Resounding from the woody glade:

The voice, though clamorous as a hornRe-echoed by a naked rock,Comes from that tabernacle--List!Within, a fervent MethodistIs preaching to no heedless flock!

"Repent! repent!" he cries aloud,"While yet ye may find mercy;--striveTo 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,They shall be white as snow!"

Even as he passed the door, these wordsDid plainly come to Peter's ears;And they such joyful tidings were,The joy was more than he could bear!--He melted into tears.

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness!And fast they fell, a plenteous shower!His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt;Through all his iron frame was feltA gentle, a relaxing, power!

Each fibre of his frame was weak;Weak all the animal within;But, in its helplessness, grew mildAnd gentle as an infant child,An infant that has known no sin.

'Tis said, meek Beast! that, through Heaven's grace,He not unmoved did notice nowThe cross upon thy shoulder scored,For lasting impress, by the LordTo whom all human-kind shall bow;

Memorial of his touch--that dayWhen Jesus humbly deigned to ride,Entering the proud Jerusalem,By an immeasurable streamOf shouting people deified!

Meanwhile the persevering Ass,Turned towards a gate that hung in viewAcross a shady lane; his chestAgainst the yielding gate he pressedAnd quietly passed through.

And up the stony lane he goes;No ghost more softly ever trod;Among the stones and pebbles, heSets down his hoofs inaudibly,As if with felt his hoofs were shod.

Along the lane the trusty AssWent twice two hundred yards or more,And no one could have guessed his aim,--Till to a lonely house he came,And stopped beside the door.

Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home!He listens--not a sound is heardSave from the trickling household rill;But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill,Forthwith a little Girl appeared.

She to the Meeting-house was boundIn hopes some tidings there to gather:No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam;She saw--and uttered with a scream,"My father! here's my father!"

The very word was plainly heard,Heard plainly by the wretched Mother--Her joy was like a deep affright:And forth she rushed into the light,And saw it was another!

And, instantly, upon the earth,Beneath the full moon shining bright,Close to the Ass's feet she fell;At the same moment Peter BellDismounts in most unhappy plight.

As he beheld the Woman lieBreathless and motionless, the mindOf Peter sadly was confused;But, though to such demands unused,And helpless almost as the blind,

He raised her up; and, while he heldHer body propped against his knee,The Woman waked--and when she spiedThe poor Ass standing by her side,She moaned most bitterly.

"Oh! God be praised--my heart's at ease--For he is dead--I know it well!"--At this she wept a bitter flood;And, in the best way that he could,His tale did Peter tell.

He trembles--he is pale as death;His voice is weak with perturbation;He turns aside his head, he pauses;Poor Peter from a thousand causes,Is crippled sore in his narration.

At length she learned how he espiedThe Ass in that small meadow-ground;And that her Husband now lay dead,Beside that luckless river's bedIn which he had been drowned.

A piercing look the Widow castUpon the Beast that near her stands;She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same;She calls the poor Ass by his name,And wrings, and wrings her hands.

"O wretched loss--untimely stroke!If he had died upon his bed!He knew not one forewarning pain;He never will come home again--Is dead, for ever dead!"

Beside the Woman Peter stands;His heart is opening more and more;A holy sense pervades his mind;He feels what he for human-kindHad never felt before.

At length, by Peter's arm sustained,The Woman rises from the ground--"Oh, mercy! something must be done,My little Rachel, you must run,--Some willing neighbour must be found.

"Make haste--my little Rachel--do,The first you meet with--bid him come,Ask him to lend his horse to-night,And this good Man, whom Heaven requite,Will help to bring the body home."

Away goes Rachel weeping loud;--An Infant, waked by her distress,Makes in the house a piteous cry;And Peter hears the Mother sigh,"Seven are they, and all fatherless!"

And now is Peter taught to feelThat man's heart is a holy thing;And Nature, through a world of death,Breathes into him a second breath,More searching than the breath of spring.

Upon a stone the Woman sitsIn agony of silent grief--From his own thoughts did Peter start;He longs to press her to his heart,From love that cannot find relief.

But roused, as if through every limbHad past a sudden shock of dread,The Mother o'er the threshold flies,And up the cottage stairs she hies,And on the pillow lays her burning head.

And Peter turns his steps asideInto a shade of darksome trees,Where he sits down, he knows not how,With his hands pressed against his brow,His elbows on his tremulous knees.

There, self-involved, does Peter sitUntil no sign of life he makes,As if his mind were sinking deepThrough years that have been long asleep!The trance is passed away--he wakes;

He lifts his head--and sees the AssYet standing in the clear moonshine;"When shall I be as good as thou?Oh! would, poor beast, that I had nowA heart but half as good as thine!"

But He--who deviously hath soughtHis Father through the lonesome woods,Hath sought, proclaiming to the earOf night his grief and sorrowful fear--He comes, escaped from fields and floods;--

With weary pace is drawing nigh;He sees the Ass--and nothing livingHad ever such a fit of joyAs hath this little orphan Boy,For he has no misgiving!

Forth to the gentle Ass he springs,And up about his neck he climbs;In loving words he talks to him,He kisses, kisses face and limb,--He kisses him a thousand times!

This Peter sees, while in the shadeHe stood beside the cottage-door;And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,"Oh! God, I can endure no more!"

--Here ends my Tale: for in a triceArrived a neighbour with his horse;Peter went forth with him straightway;And, with due care, ere break of day,Together they brought back the Corse.

And many years did this poor Ass,Whom once it was my luck to seeCropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,Help by his labour to maintainThe Widow and her family.

And Peter Bell, who, till that night,Had been the wildest of his clan,Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly,And, after ten months' melancholy,Became a good and honest man.