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 words Did 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 felt A gentle, a relaxing, power! Each fibre of his frame was weak; Weak all the animal within;
But, in its helplessness, grew mild And 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 now The cross upon thy shoulder scored, For lasting impress, by the Lord To whom all human-kind shall bow; Memorial of his touch-that day When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, Entering the proud Jerusalem, By an immeasurable stream Of shouting people deified! Meanwhile the persevering Ass
Turned towards a gate that hung in view Across a shady lane; his chest Against the yielding gate he pressed And quietly passed through. And up the stony lane he goes; No ghost more softly ever trod; Among the stones and pebbles, he Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, As if with felt his hoofs were shod. Along the lane the trusty Ass Went 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 heard Save from the trickling household rill; But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, Forthwith a little Girl appeared. She to the Meeting-house was bound In 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 Bell Dismounts in most unhappy plight.
As he beheld the Woman lie Breathless and motionless, the mind Of Peter sadly was confused; But, though to such demands unused, And helpless almost as the blind, He raised her up; and, while he held Her body propped against his knee, The Woman waked-and when she spied The 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 espied The Ass in that small meadow-ground; And that her Husband now lay dead, Beside that luckless river's bed In which he had been drowned. A piercing look the Widow cast Upon 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 kind Had 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 feel That 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 sits In 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 limb Had 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 aside Into 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 sit Until no sign of life he makes, As if his mind were sinking deep Through years that have been long asleep! The trance is passed away-he wakes;
He lifts his head-and sees the Ass Yet standing in the clear moonshine; "When shall I be as good as thou? Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now A heart but half as good as thine!" But He-who deviously hath sought His Father through the lonesome woods, Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear Of 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 living Had ever such a fit of joy
As 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 shade He 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 trice Arrived 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 see Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, Help by his labour to maintain The 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.
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy: bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will mumur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: *Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.
WELL may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt
Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone That tempted first to gather it. That here, O chief of Friends! such feelings I present, To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate, Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear, That thou, if not with partial joy elate, Wilt smile upon this gift with more than mild
'BELOVED Vale!" I said, "When I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down: to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one." But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall: So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.
BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
In neighbourhood with One to me most dear, That undivided we from year to year Might work in our high Calling--a bright hope To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope Till checked by some necessities severe. And should these slacken, honoured BEAU- MONT! Still
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. Whether this boon be granted us or not, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot With pride, the Muses love it evermore.
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled:
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
AERIAL ROCK-whose solitary brow
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her From this low threshold daily meets my sight;
THE fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade: The sweetest notes must terminate and die: O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade: Such strains of rapture as the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.
When I step forth to hail the morning light; Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell-how Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow? How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest? By planting on thy naked head the crest of ruin shall not touch. Of an imperial Castle, which the plough Innocent scheme!
That doth presume no more than to supply Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a gleam
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,, To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, Now on the water vexed with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep! Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering: Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one: the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous
THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.
THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring, Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell; And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!
TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made That work a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical delight Than those soft scenes through which the childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;"
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill !
GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute; And Care-a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend; And Love-a charmer's voice, that used to lend, More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse-else troubled without end:
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously to soothe her aching breast: And, to a point of just relief, abate The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.
EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread;
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