Page:Peter Bell (Wordsworth).djvu/66

50 A faith that, for the dead man's sake

And this poor slave who lov'd him well,

Vengeance upon his head will fall,

Some visitation worse than all

Which ever till this night befel.

Meanwhile the Ass to gain his end

Is striving stoutly as he may;

But, while he climbs the woody hill,

The cry grows weak—and weaker still,

And now at last it dies away!

So with his freight the creature turns

Into a gloomy grove of beech,

Along the shade with footstep true

Descending slowly, till the two

The open moonlight reach.