—­O, would that some more skilful voice
  My further labour might prevent! 
  Kind Listeners, that around me sit,
  I feel that I am all unfit
  For such high argument. 790

  I’ve played, I’ve danced, [89] with my narration;
  I loitered long ere I began: 
  Ye waited then on my good pleasure;
  Pour out indulgence still, in measure
  As liberal as ye can! 795

  Our Travellers, ye remember well,
  Are thridding a sequestered lane;
  And Peter many tricks is trying,
  And many anodynes applying,
  To ease his conscience of its pain. 800

  By this his heart is lighter far;
  And, finding that he can account
  So snugly [90] for that crimson stain,
  His evil spirit up again
  Does like an empty bucket mount. 805

  And Peter is a deep logician
  Who hath no lack of wit mercurial;
  “Blood drops—­leaves rustle—­yet,” quoth he,
  “This poor man never, but for me,
  Could have had Christian burial. 810

  “And, say the best you can, ’tis plain,
  That here has [91] been some wicked dealing;
  No doubt the devil in me wrought;
  I’m not the man who could have thought
  An Ass like this was worth the stealing!” 815

  So from his pocket Peter takes
  His shining horn tobacco-box;
  And, in a light and careless way,
  As men who with their purpose play,
  Upon the lid he knocks. 820

  Let them whose voice can stop the clouds,
  Whose cunning eye can see the wind,
  Tell to a curious world the cause
  Why, making here a sudden pause,
  The Ass turned round his head, and grinned. 825

  Appalling process!  I have marked
  The like on heath, in lonely wood;
  And, verily, have seldom met
  A spectacle more hideous—­yet
  It suited Peter’s present mood. 830

  And, grinning in his turn, his teeth
  He in jocose defiance showed—­
  When, to upset [92] his spiteful mirth,
  A murmur, pent within the earth,
  In the dead earth beneath the road, 835

  Rolled audibly! it swept along,
  A muffled noise—­a rumbling sound!—­
  ’Twas by a troop of miners made,
  Plying with gunpowder their trade,
  Some twenty fathoms underground. 840

  Small cause of dire effect! for, surely,
  If ever mortal, King or Cotter,
  Believed that earth was charged to quake
  And yawn for his unworthy sake,
  ’Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 845

  But, as an oak in breathless air
  Will stand though to the centre hewn;
  Or as the weakest things, if frost
  Have stiffened them, maintain their post;
  So he, beneath the gazing moon!—­850