ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub
[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

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 favourable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours 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 laudably 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 faculty 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 splendid 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 roaring,
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?
K

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
Though 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 green 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.

See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the grey 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:-I 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 for ever!

"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!

Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Fluttered so faint a heart before ;-
Was it the music of the spheres
That overpowered your mortal ears?
-Such din shall trouble them no more.
These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own ;-then come with me
I want a comrade, and for you
There's nothing that I would not do;
Nought 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.

Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
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! 1, in truth,
Am all unfit to be your mate.

Long have I loved what 1 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!

"Reproach me not-your fears be still-
Be thankful we again have met :-
Resume, my Friends! within the shade
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid
The well-remembered debt."

I spake with faltering voice, like one
Not wholly rescued from the pale
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion:
But, straight, to cover my confusion,
Began the promised Tale.

PART FIRST.

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,

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

Had danced his round with Highland lasses;
And he had lain beside his asses
On lofty Cheviot Hills:

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!
But how one wife could e'er come near him,
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, 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,

Along the river's winding banks
Peter was travelling all alone;-

Whether to buy or sell, or led
By pleasure running in his head,
To me was never known.

He trudged along through copse and brake,
He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
And for the stars he cared as little,
And for the mumuring river Swale.
But, chancing to espy a path
That promised to cut short the way;
As many a wiser man hath done,
He left a trusty guide for one
That might his steps betray.

To a thick wood he soon is brought
Where cheerily his course he weaves,
And whistling loud may yet be heard,
Though often buried, like a bird
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.
But quickly Peter's mood is changed,
And on he drives with cheeks that burn
In downright fury and in wrath :-
There's little sign the treacherous path
Will to the road return '

The path grows dim, and dimmer still;
Now up, now down, the Rover wends,
With all the sail that he can carry,

Till brought to a deserted quarry-
And there the pathway ends.

He paused-for shadows of strange shape,
Massy and black, before him lay:

But through the dark, and through the cold,
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way

Right through the quarry-and behold
A scene of soft and lovely hue!

Where blue and grey, and tender green,
Together make as sweet a scene
As ever human eye did view.
Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
A little field of meadow ground;
But field or meadow name it not ;
Call it of earth a small green plot,
With rocks encompassed round.
The Swale flowed under the grey rocks,
But he flowed quiet and unseen;-
You need a strong and stormy gale
To bring the noises of the Swale

To that green spot, so calm and green!
And is there no one dwelling here,
No hermit with his beads and glass?
And does no little cottage look
Upon this soft and fertile nook?
Does no one live near this green grass?
Across the deep and quiet spot
Is Peter driving through the grass-
And now has reached the skirting trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass.

"A prize!" cries Peter-but he first
Must spy about him far and near:
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light-
Peter, you need not fear!

There's nothing to be seen but woods,
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
And this one Beast, that from the bed
Of the green meadow hangs his head
Over the silent stream.

His head is with a halter bound;
The halter seizing, Peter leapt
Upon the Creature's back, and plied
With ready heels his shaggy side;
But still the Ass his station kept.
Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
Would have pulled up an iron ring;
But still the heavy-headed Thing
Stood just as he had stood before!
Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,
There is some plot against me laid;"
Once more the little meadow-ground
And all the hoary cliffs around
He cautiously surveyed.

All, all is silent-rocks and woods,
All still and silent-far and near !
Only the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turns round his long left ear.

Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
-Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
Upon the pivot of his skull
Turned round his long left ear.

Suspicion ripened into dread

Yet with deliberate action slow,
His staff high-raising, in the pride
Of skill, upon the sounding hide,
He dealt a sturdy blow.

The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
And then, as if to take his ease,
In quiet uncomplaining mood,
Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees;
As gently on his side he fell;
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, while he lay like one that mourned,
The patient Beast on Peter turned
His shining hazel eye.

'Twas but one mild, reproachful look,
A look more tender than severe :
And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
He turned the eye-ball in his head
Towards the smooth river deep and clear.
Upon the Beast the sapling rings;

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred;
He gave a groan, and then another,
Of that which went before the brother,
And then he gave a third.

All by the moonlight river side

He gave three miserable groans;
And not till now hath Peter seen
How gaunt the Creature is,-how lean
And sharp his staring bones!

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay :-
No word of kind commiseration

Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue: .
With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
With hatred and vexation.

The meagre beast lay still as death;
And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
Til fling your carcass like a log
Head-foremost down the river!"

An impious oath confirmed the threat-
Whereat from the earth on which he lay
To all the echoes, south and north,
And east and west, the Ass sent forth
A long and clamorous 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 a deep-drawn shout,
The hard 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 ventures now to uplift his eyes;
More steady looks the moon, and clear,
More like themselves the rocks appear
And touch more quiet skies.

His scorn returns-his hate revives;
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
With malice-that again takes flight:
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, among the inverted trees.
Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a 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?
Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
Such as pursue their feared 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 some one reading in a book-
A book that is enchanted.

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!
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, as if his life were flown!

PART SECOND.

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 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!
His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks-to rock and wood-
And then-upon the glassy flood
His wandering eye is fixed.
Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »