This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
  Seems like a note of joy to strike,—­
  Joy at [49] the heart of Peter knocks;
  But in the echo of the rocks
  Was something Peter did not like. 470

  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. 475

  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! [50] 480

  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—­485

  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.” 490

  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. [51] 495

  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. [52] 500

  Is it the moon’s distorted face? 
  The ghost-like image of a cloud? 
  Is it a gallows [53] there portrayed? 
  Is Peter of himself afraid? 
  Is it a coffin,—­or a shroud? 505

  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 [54]
  In sylvan bower, or haunted hall? 510

  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? 515

  [55]

  Never did pulse so quickly throb,
  And never heart so loudly panted; [56]
  He looks, he cannot choose but look;
  Like some one reading in a book—­[57]
  A book that is enchanted. 520

  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! 525

  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, [58] as if his life were flown! 530