only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency Je 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 acknowledgment 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 unappropriate 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.

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, 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!

The Swale flowed under the gray 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 he is among the trees;
When, urning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass.

"A prize," cried Peter, stepping back
To 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 heel his shaggy side;
But still the Ass his station kept.

"What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing
A new-peeled sapling; - though I deem
This threat was understood full well,
Firm, as before, the Sentinel
Stood by the silent stream.

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 car.

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.

What followed?-yielding to the shock,
The Ass, as if to take his ease,

In quiet uncomplaining mood,

Upon the spot where he had stood,
Dropped gently down upon his knees.

And then upon his side he fell,
And by the river's brink did lie;
And, as he lay like one that mourned,
The Beast on his tormentor turned
His shining hazel eye.