The meagre beast lay still as death
And Peter's lips with fury quiver
Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
I'll fling your carcass like a log
Head-foremost down the river!"
An impious oath confirmed the threat:
That instant, while outstretched he lay,
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth
A loud and piteous bray!
This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
Seems like a note of joy to strike,
Joy at the heart of Peter knocks;
But in the echo of the rocks
Was something Peter did not like.
Whether to cheer his coward breast,
Or that he could not break the chain,
In this serene and solemn hour,
Twined round him by demoniac power,
To the blind work he turned again. —
Among the rocks and winding crags
Among the mountains far away
Once more the Ass did lengthen out
More ruefully an endless shout,
The long dry see-saw of his horrible bray!
What is there now in Peter's heart!
Or whence the might of this strange sound?
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer,
And the rocks staggered all around.
From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
Threat has he none to execute
"If any one should come and see That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, "I'm helping this poor dying brute."
He scans the Ass from limb to limb;
And Peter now uplifts his eyes;
Steady the moon doth look, and clear,
And like themselves the rocks appear,
And quiet are the skies.
Whereat, in resolute mood, once more,
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight!
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.
Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it the gallows there portrayed?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin, or a shroud?
A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Or a gay ring of shining fairies,
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?
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?
Never did pulse so quickly throb,
And never heart so loudly panted;
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like one intent upon a book
A book that is enchanted.
He looks he ponders — looks again;
He sees a motion hears a groan;
will burst — his heart will break He gives a loud and frightful shriek,
And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life were flown!
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 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!
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!
His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks
to rock and wood
upon the glassy 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
The river's depth to sound.
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.
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.
his purpose and his wish
The Suppliant shows, 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 boldly mounts
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
And then, without a moment's stay,
That earnest Creature turned away,
Leaving the body on the grass.
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