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Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep Shouting through one valley calls,

Ail worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep

For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured Into the ear of God, their Lord!

XIV.

A Voice to Light gave Being;

To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ;

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,

And sweep away life's visionary stir;

The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride,
Arm at its blast for deadly wars)
To archangelic lips applied,
The grave shall open, quench the stars.
O Silence! are Man's noisy years
No more than moments of thy life?
Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears,
With her smooth tones and discords just,
Tempted into rapturous strife,

Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be dust

And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay

Is in the WORD that shall not pass away. 1828.

PETER BELL

A TALE.

What's in a Name?

Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cæsar!

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., ETC., ETC.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived its minority—for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humbie, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it may laudabiy be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the facuity may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most spiendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledg ment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an inappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819.

PROLOGUE.

THERE'S Something in a flying horse,
There's something in a huge balloon;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Shaped like the crescent-moon.

And now I have a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon:
Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up-and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roar-
ing,

Rocking and roaring like a sea;

The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I-
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go-and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her;
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull-
We pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not !

The towns in Saturn are decayed,
And melancholy Spectres throng them ;-
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss,
With joy I sail among them.

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain,
That little Earth of ours?

Then back to Earth, the dear

Earth :

Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be; I've left my heart at home.

Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Tiuttered so faint a heart before;-
Was it the music of the spheres
That overpowered your mortal ears?
-Such din shail trouble them no more.

These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own;-then come with me;
I want a conrade, and for you
There's nothing that I would not do;
Naught is there that you shall not see.
Haste! and above Siberian snows
We'll sport amid the boreal morning;
Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
And now the stars adorning.

I know the secrets of a land
Where human foot did never stray;
Fair is that land as evening skies,
And cool, though in the depth it lies
Of burning Africa.

green Or we'll into the realm of Faery,

See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the gray clouds: the Alps are
here,

Like waters in commotion!

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands:
That silver thread the river Dnieper:
And look, where clothed in brightest green
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen:
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols:-1 was lost
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man.

Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never;-
How tunefully the forests ring!
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang forever!

"Shame on you!" cried my little Boat,
"Was ever such a homesick Loon,
Within a living Boat to sit,
And make no better use of it;

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon !

Among the lovely shades of things;
The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
The shades of palaces and kings!

Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
Less quiet regions to explore,
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
How earth and heaven are taught to feel
The might of magic lore!"

"My little vagrant Form of light,
My gay and beautiful Canoe,
Well have you played your friendly part;
As kindly take what from my heart
Experience forces-then adieu!

Temptation lurks among your words:
But, while these pleasures you're pursuing
Without impediment or let,

No wonder if you quite forget
What on the earth is doing.

There was a time when all mankind
Did listen with a faith sincere

To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed
The wonders of a wild career.

Go-(but the world's a sleepy world,
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late)
Take with you some ambitious Youth!
For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth,
Am all unfit to be your mate.

Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers;
The common growth of mother-earth
Suffices me-her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.

The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
I shall not covet for my dower,
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray,
And with a soul of power.

These given, what more need I desire
To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
What nobler marvels than the mind
May in life's daily prospect find,
May find or there create?

A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
What spell so strong as guilty Fear!
Repentance is a tender Sprite;

If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.

But grant my wishes,-let us now
Descend from this ethereal height;
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
More daring far than Hippogriff,
And be thy own delight!

To the stone-table in my garden,
Loved haunt of many a summer hour,
The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
Beside him in the cool recess
Sits blooming like a flower.

With these are many more convened;
They know not I have been so far ;-
I see them there, in number nine,
Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine!
I see them there they are!

There sits the Vicar and his Dame;

And there my good friend, Stephen Otter;
And, ere the light of evening fail,
To them I must relate the Tale
Of Peter Bell the Potter."

Off flew the Boat-away she flees,
Spurning her freight with indignation!
And I, as well as I was able,

On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
Limped on with sore vexation.

"O, here he is!" cried little Bess-
She saw me at the garden door;
"We've waited anxiously and long,"
They cried, and all around me throng,
Full nine of them or more!

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ALL by the moonlight river side
Groaned the poor Beast-alas! in vain;
The staff was raised to loftier height,
And the blows fell with heavier weight
As Peter struck—and struck again.
"Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the
rules

Of common sense you're surely sinning;
This leap is for us all too bold;
Who Peter was, let that be told,
And start from the beginning."

"A Potter,* Sir, he was by trade,"
Said I, becoming quite collected;
"And wheresoever he appeared,
Full twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected.
He, two-and-thirty years or more,
Had been a wild and woodland rover;
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
And trod the cliffs of Dover.

And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
And he had been where Lincoln bell
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell—
A far-renowned alarum !

At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
And merry Carlisle had he been;
And all along the lowlands fair,
All through the bonny shire of Ayr;
And far as Aberdeen.

And he had been at Inverness;

And Peter, by the mountain-rills,

Had danced his round with Highland

lasses;

And he had lain beside his asses

On lofty Cheviot Hills:

In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthenware is thus designated.

And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,

Among the rocks and winding scars;
Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars:

And all along the indented coast,
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
Where'er a knot of houses lay
On headland, or in hollow bay ;-
Sure never man like him did roam !

As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ;-
He travelled here, he travelled there;—
But not the value of a hair
Was heart or head the better.

He roved among the vales and streams,
In the green wood and hollow dell;
They were his dwellings night and day,-
But Nature ne'er could find the way
Into the heart of Peter Bell.

In vain, through every changeful year,
Did Nature lead him as before;
A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

Small change it made in Peter's heart
To see his gentle panniered train
With more than vernal pleasure feeding
Where'er the tender grass was leading
Its earliest green along the lane.

In vain, through water, earth, and air,
The soul of happy sound was spread,
When Peter on some April morn,
Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
Made the warm earth his lazy bed.
At noon, when, by the forest's edge
He lay beneath the branches high,
The soft blue sky did never melt
Into his heart: he never felt
The witchery of the soft blue sky!
On a fair prospect some have looked
And felt, as I have heard them say,
As if the moving time had been
A thing as steadfast as the scene
On which they gazed themselves away.
Within the breast of Peter Bell
These silent raptures found no place;
He was a Carl as wild and rude
As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
As ever ran a felon's race.

Of all that lead a lawless life,
Of all that love their lawless lives,
In city or in village small,

He was the wildest far of all ;-
He had a dozen wedded wives.

Nay, start not! wedded wives - and
twelve !
[him,
But how one wife could e'er come near
In simple truth I cannot tell;
For, be it said of Peter Bell,
To see him was to fear him.

Though Nature could not touch his heart
By lovely forms, and silent weather,
And tender sounds, yet you might see
At once, that Peter Bell and she
Had often been together.

A savage wildness round him hung
As of a dweller out of doors;
In his whole figure and his mien
A savage character was seen

Of mountains and of dreary moors.

To all the unshaped half-human thoughts
Which solitary Nature feeds

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
Had Peter joined whatever vice
The cruel city breeds.

His face was keen as is the wind
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence,
He had a dark and sidelong walk,
And long and slouching was his gait;
Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
You might perceive, his spirit cold
Was playing with some inward bait.
His forehead wrinkled was and furred:
A work, one half of which was done
By thinking of his 'whens' and 'hows;*
And half, by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.

There was a hardness in his cheek,
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fixed his face,
In many a solitary place,

Against the wind and open sky!

ONE NIGHT (and now my little Bess!
We've reached at last the promised Tale),
One beautiful November night,
When the full moon was shining bright
Upon the rapid river Swale,

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