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. 340

  To a thick wood he soon is brought
  Where cheerily [26] his course he weaves,
  And whistling loud may yet be heard,
  Though often buried, like a bird
  Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 345

  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! 350

  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—­[27]
  And there the pathway ends. 355

  [28]

  He paused—­for shadows of strange shape,
  Massy and black, before him lay;
  But through the dark, and through the cold, [29]
  And through the yawning fissures old,
  Did Peter boldly press his way 360

  Right through the quarry;—­and behold
  A scene of soft and lovely hue! 
  Where blue and grey, and tender green,
  Together make [30] as sweet a scene
  As ever human eye did view. 365

  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. 370

  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! 375

  [31]

  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? 380

  Across the [32] deep and quiet spot
  Is Peter driving through the grass—­
  And now has reached the skirting trees; [33]
  When, turning round his head, he sees
  A solitary Ass. 385

  [34]

  “A prize!” cries Peter—­but he first
  Must spy about him far and near:  [35]
  There’s not a single house in sight,
  No woodman’s hut, no cottage light—­
  Peter, you need not fear! 390

  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. 395

  His head is with a halter bound;
  The halter seizing, Peter leapt
  Upon the Creature’s back, [36] and plied
  With ready heels his shaggy side; [37]
  But still the Ass his station kept. 400