She to the meeting-house was bound
In hope 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.

What could he do?-The woman lay
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.

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.

"Oh! God be praised--my heart's at ease Upon a stone the woman sits

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 sufferer 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.

"Oh, 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 !"

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 to the pillow gives 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 past 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!"

That grief for which the senses still supply | And that inspiring hill which "did divide
Fresh food; for only then, when memory Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends! Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
restrain
While not an English mountain we behold
Those busy cares that would allay my pain: By the celestial muses glorified. [crowds:
Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in
The officious touch that makes me droop What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,
again.
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British hill is fairer far: he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than
Častaly.

ADMONITION.

Intended more particularly for the perusal of
those who may have happened to be ena-
moured of some beautiful place of retreat,
in
the country of the lakes.

YES, there is holy pleasure in thine 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,
[window, door,
Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof,
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
[away.
On which it should be touched would melt

BELOVED vale!" I said, "when I shall

THERE is a little unpretending rill

Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among men or naiads sought
Notice or name !-It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious
Yet to my mind this scanty stream is
will;
[brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile, a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons ;year treads
on year;

say

But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst
[pear,
That, while ten thousand pleasures disap-
And flies their memory fast almost as they,
The immortal spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that rill, in vision clear.

HER only pilot the soft breeze the boat
Lingers, but fancy is well satisfied; [side,
With keen-eyed hope, with memory, at her
And the glad muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to
glide,

Happy associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, fancy and the muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits one whose brightness owes
its hues

Toflesh and blood; no goddess from above,
No fleeting spirit, but my own true love?

THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade :
The sweetest notes must terminate and die;

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,

* See the Vision of Mirza, in the Spectator.