large/5160/peterbell_1807_librivox_64kb_mp3/peterbellatale_04_wordsworth_64kb_24
large/5160/peterbell_1807_librivox_64kb_mp3/peterbellatale_04_wordsworth_64kb
English
5160
930 The sweat pours down from Peter's face, So grievous is his heart's contrition; With agony his eye balls ache While he beholds by the furze brake This miserable vision! THE SWEAT POURS DOWN FROM PETER'S FACE SO GRIEVOUS IS HIS HEART'S CONTRITION WITH AGONY HIS EYEBALLS ACHE WHILE HE BEHOLDS BY THE FIRS BREAK THIS MISERABLE VISION
lead an honest life; For he, with tongue not used to falter, Had pledged his troth before the altar To love her as his wedded wife. 905 A mother's hope is hers;--but soon She drooped and pined like one forlorn; From Scripture she a name [100] did borrow; Benoni, or the child of sorrow, She called her babe unborn. 910 For she had learned how Peter lived, And took it in most grievous part; She to the very bone was worn, And, ere that little child was born, Died of a broken heart. 915 And now the Spirits of the Mind Are busy with poor Peter Bell; Upon the rights of visual sense Usurping, with a prevalence More terrible than magic spell. [101] 920 Close by a brake of flowering furze (Above it shivering aspens play) He sees an unsubstantial creature, His very self in form and feature, Not four yards from the broad highway: 925 And stretched beneath the furze he sees The Highland girl--it is no other; And hears her crying as she cried, The very moment that she died, "My mother! oh my mother!  TWICE EVERY SABBATH DAY AND WHEN SHE FOLLOWED PETER BELL IT WAS TO LEAD AN HONEST LIFE FOR HE WITH TONGUE NOT USED TO FALTER HAD PLEDGED HIS TROTH BEFORE THE ALTAR TO LOVE HER AS HIS WEDDED WIFE A MOTHER'S HOPE IS HERS BUT SOON SHE DROOPED AND PINED LIKE ONE FORLORN FROM SCRIPTURE SHE A NAME DID BORROW BENONIE OR THE CHILD OF SORROW SHE CALLED HER BABE UNBORN FOR SHE HAD LEARNED HOW PETER LIVED AND TOOK IT IN MOST GRIEVOUS PART SHE TO THE VERY BONE WAS WORN AND ERE THAT LITTLE CHILD WAS BORN DIED OF A BROKEN HEART AND NOW THE SPIRITS OF THE MIND ARE BUSY WITH POOR PETER BELL UPON THE RITES OF VISUAL SENSE USURPING WITH A PREVALENCE MORE TERRIBLE THAN MAGIC SPELL CLO BY A BRAKE OF FLOWERING FIRS ABOVE IT SHIVERING ASPENS PLAY HE SEES AN UNSUBSTANTIAL CREATURE HIS VERY SELF IN FORM AND FEATURE NOT FOUR YARDS FROM THE BROAD HIGHWAY AND STRETCHED BENEATH THE FIRS HE SEES THE HIGHLAND GIRL IT IS NO OTHER AND HEARS HER CRYING AS SHE CRIED THE VERY MOMENT THAT SHE DIED MY MOTHER OH MY MOTHER
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