VII.

I've seen him in the month of August, At the wheatfield, hour by hour, Picking ear,--by ear,--by ear,-- Through wind,--and rain,--and sun,--and shower, From year,--to year,--to year,--to year.

You never saw a wiser man, He knows his Numeration Table; He counts the sheep of Harry Gill,[93] Every night that he is able, When the sheep are on the hill.

Betty Foy--_My_ Betty Foy,-- Is the aunt of Peter Bell; And credit me, as I would have you, Simon Lee was once his nephew, And his niece is Alice Fell.[94]

He is rurally related; Peter Bell hath country cousins, (He had once a worthy mother) Bells and Peters by the dozens, But Peter Bell he hath no brother.

Not a brother owneth he, Peter Bell he hath no brother, His mother had no other son, No other son e'er call'd her mother; Peter Bell hath brother none.

Hark! the churchyard brook is singing Its evening song amid the leaves; And the peering moon doth look Sweetly on that singing brook, Round[95] and sad as though it grieves.

Peter Bell doth lift his hand, That thin hand, which in the light Looketh like to oiled paper; Paper oiled,--oily bright,-- And held up to a waxen taper.

The hand of Peter Bell is busy, Under the pent-house of his hairs; His eye is like a solemn sermon; The little flea severely fares, 'Tis a sad day for the vermin.

He is thinking of the Bible-- Peter Bell is old and blest; He doth pray and scratch away, He doth scratch, and bitten, pray To _flee_ away, and be at rest.

At home his foster child is cradled-- Four brown bugs are feeding there[96]; Catch as many, sister Ann, Catch as many as you can[97] And yet the little insects spare.

Why should blessed insects die? The flea doth skip o'er Betty Foy, Like a little living thing: Though it hath not fin or wing, Hath it not a moral joy?

I the poet of the mountain, Of the waterfall and fell, I the mighty mental medlar, I the lonely lyric pedlar, I the Jove of Alice Fell,

I the Recluse--a gentle man,[98] A gentle man--a simple creature, Who would not hurt--God shield the thing,-- The merest, meanest May-bug's wing, Am tender in my tender nature.

I do doat on my dear wife, On the linnet, on the worm, I can see sweet written salads Growing in the Lyric Ballads, And always find them green and firm.

Peter Bell is laughing now, Like a dead man making faces; Never saw I smile so old, On face so wrinkled and so cold, Since the Idiot Boy's grimaces.

He is thinking of the moors, Where I saw him in his breeches; Bagged though they were, a pair Fit for a grey old man to wear; Saw him poking,--gathering leeches.[99]

And gather'd leeches are to him, To Peter Bell, like gather'd flowers; They do yield him such delight, As roses poach'd from porch at night, Or pluck'd from oratoric[100] bowers.

How that busy smile doth hurry O'er the cheek of Peter Bell; He is surely in a flurry, Hurry skurry--hurry skurry, Such delight I may not tell.

His stick is made of wilding wood, His hat was formerly of felt, His duffel cloak of wool is made, His stockings are from stock in trade, His belly's belted with a belt.

His father was a bellman once, His mother was a beldame old; They kept a shop at Keswick Town, Close by the Bell, (beyond the Crown.) And pins and peppermint they sold.

He is stooping now about O'er the gravestones one and two; The clock is now a striking eight, Four more hours and 't will be late. And Peter Bell hath much to do.

O'er the gravestones three and four. Peter stoopeth old and wise; He counteth with a wizard glee The graves of all his family, While the hooting owlet cries.

Peter Bell, he readeth ably, All his letters he can tell; Roman W,--Roman S, In a minute he can guess, Without the aid of Dr. Bell.

Peter keeps a gentle pony, But the pony is not here; Susan who is very tall,[101] And very sick and sad withal, Rides it slowly far and near.

Hark! the voice of Peter Bell, And the belfry bell is knelling; It soundeth drowsily and dead, As though a corse th' 'Excursion' read; Or Martha Ray her tale was telling.

Do listen unto Peter Bell, While your eyes with tears do glisten: Silence! his old eyes do read All, on which the boys do tread When holidays do come--Do listen!