Page:Peter Bell (Wordsworth).djvu/58

42 He lifts his head—he sees his staff;

He touches—'tis to him a treasure!

Faint recollection seems to tell

That he is yet where mortals dwell—

A thought receiv'd with languid pleasure!

His head upon his elbow propp'd,

Becoming less and less perplex'd

Sky-ward he looks—to rock and wood—

And then—upon the placid flood

His wandering eye is fix'd.

Thought he, that is the face of one

In his last sleep securely bound!

So, faltering not in this intent,

He makes his staff an instrument

The river's depth to sound—