The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth
Chapter 116 : Is Peter of himself afraid?Is it a coffin,--or a shroud? 505 A grisly idol hewn in sto

Is Peter of himself afraid?

Is it a coffin,--or a shroud? 505

A grisly idol hewn in stone?

Or imp from witch's lap let fall?

Perhaps a ring of s.h.i.+ning fairies?

Such as pursue their feared vagaries [54]

In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? 510

Is it a fiend that to a stake Of fire his desperate self is tethering?

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell In solitary ward or cell, Ten thousand miles from all his brethren? 515

[55]

Never did pulse so quickly throb, And never heart so loudly panted; [56]

He looks, he cannot choose but look; Like some one reading in a book--[57]

A book that is enchanted. 520

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 hair Bristles, and whitens in the moon! 525

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, [58] as if his life were flown! 530

PART SECOND

We left our Hero in a trance, Beneath the alders, near the river; The a.s.s is by the river-side, And, where the feeble breezes glide, Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 535

A happy respite! but at length He feels the glimmering of the moon; Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing-- To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, Into a second swoon! [59] 540

He lifts his head, he sees his staff; He touches--'tis to him a treasure!

Faint recollection seems to tell That he is yet where mortals dwell-- A thought received with languid pleasure! 545

His head upon his elbow propped, Becoming less and less perplexed, Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood-- And then--upon the gla.s.sy [60] flood His wandering eye is fixed. 550

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 The river's depth to sound. [61] 555

_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 a.s.s doth rise! 560

His staring bones all shake with joy, And close by Peter's side he stands: While Peter o'er the river bends, The little a.s.s his neck extends, And fondly licks his hands. 565

Such life is in the a.s.s'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. 570

The a.s.s 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. 575

He pulls--and looks--and pulls again; And he whom the poor a.s.s had lost, The man who had been four days dead, Head-foremost from the river's bed Uprises like a ghost! [G] 580

And Peter draws him to dry land; And through the brain of Peter pa.s.s Some poignant twitches, fast and faster; "No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master Of this poor miserable a.s.s!" 585

The meagre shadow that looks on-- What would he now? [62] 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; 590

But no--that Peter on his back Must mount, he shows well as he can: [63]

Thought Peter then, come weal or woe I'll do what he would have me do, In pity to this poor drowned man. 595

With that resolve he boldly mounts [64]

Upon the pleased and thankful a.s.s; And then, without a moment's stay, That [65] earnest Creature turned away, Leaving the body on the gra.s.s. 600

Intent upon his faithful watch, The Beast four days and nights had past; A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, And there the a.s.s four days had been, Nor ever once did break his fast: 605

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 deftly ambles [66] towards the south. 610

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! 615

'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! 620

The a.s.s 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. 625

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: 630

I see a blooming Wood-boy there, And if I had the power to say How sorrowful the wanderer is, Your heart would be as sad as his Till you had kissed his tears away! 635

Grasping [67] 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: [68] 640

His father!--Him doth he require-- Him hath he sought [69] with fruitless pains, Among the rocks, behind the trees; Now creeping on his hands and knees, Now running o'er the open plains. 645

And hither is he come at last, When he through such a day has gone, By this dark cave to be distrest Like a poor bird--her plundered nest Hovering around with dolorous moan! 650

Of that intense and piercing cry The listening a.s.s conjectures well; [70]

Wild as it is, he there can read Some intermingled notes that plead With touches irresistible. 655

But Peter--when he saw the a.s.s Not only stop but turn, and change The cherished tenor of his pace That lamentable cry [71] to chase-- It wrought in him conviction strange; 660

A faith that, for the dead man's sake And this poor slave who loved him well, Vengeance upon his head will fall, Some visitation worse than all Which ever till this night befel. 665

Meanwhile the a.s.s to reach his home, [72]

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. 670

So with his freight the Creature turns Into a gloomy grove of beech, Along the shade with footsteps [73] true Descending slowly, till the two The open moonlight reach. 675

And there, along the [74] 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. 680

The rocks that tower on either side Build up a wild fantastic scene; Temples like those among the Hindoos, And mosques, and spires, and abbey-windows, And castles all with ivy green! 685

And, while the a.s.s pursues his way, Along this solitary dell, As pensively his steps advance, The mosques and spires change countenance, And look at Peter Bell! 690