PART THIRD.

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

Reading, as you or I might read
At night in any pious book,
When sudden blackness overspread
The 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 good man's taper
And formed itself upon the paper,
Into 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 day

Perplexed the good man's gentle soul.

The ghostly word, which thus was framed,
Did never from his lips depart;

But he hath said, poor gentle wight!
It brought full many a sin to light
Out of the bottom of his heart.

Dread Spirits! to torment the good
Why 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.

I know you, potent Spirits! well,
How, with the feeling and the sense
Playing, ye govern foes or friends,
Yoked to your will, for fearful 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 show
On hearts like that of Peter Bell.

Your presence I have often felt
In darkness and the stormy night;
And well I know, if need there be,

Ye can put forth your agency

When 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!

-Ọ, would that some more skilful voice, My further labour might prevent! Kind Listeners, that around me sit,

I feel that I um all unfit

For such high argument.

I've played and danced with my

I loitered long ere I began;

narration

Ye waited then on my good pleasure, -
Pour out indulgence still, in measure
As 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 account
So clearly for that crimson stain,

His evil spirit up again

Does like an empty bucket mount.

And Peter is a deep logician

Who 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 hath been some wicked dealing; "No doubt the devil in me wrought;

"I'm not the man who could have thought "An Ass like this was worth the stealing!"

So from his pocket Peter takes
His 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 cause

Why, making here a sudden pause,

The Ass turned round his head-and grinned.

And, verily, have seldom met
A spectacle more hideous - yet
It suited Peter's present mood.