His head upon his elbow propped,

Becoming less and less perplexed,

Sky-ward he looks—to rock and wood—
And then-upon the placid flood
His wandering eye is fixed.

Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!

So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent

To reach the Man who there lay drowned.

Now-like a tempest-shattered bark,
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
And in a moment to the verge
Is 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 been
The veriest coward ever seen,

Must now have thrown aside his fears.

The Ass looks on-and to his work
Is Peter quietly resigned;

He touches here he touches there

And now among the dead man's hair
His 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 bed

Uprises like a ghost!

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

The meagre Shadow all this while
What aim is his? 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 his

purpose

and his wish

The Suppliant shews, well as he can;
Thought Peter whatsoe'er betide
I'll go, and he my way will guide
To the cottage of the drowned man.

This hoping, Peter mounts forthwith
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay,
The earnest creature turned away,
Leaving the body on the grass.

Intent upon his faithful watch

The beast four days and nights had passed;

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 mouth Is reached-but there the trusty guide Into a thicket turns aside,

And takes his way 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 rocksNor 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 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 say

How sorowful the wanderer is,

Your heart would be as sad as his

Till had kissed his tears away!

you

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 creeps;
What seeks the boy?-the silent dead!

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.