XXXVII.

Patient Peter pores and proses On, from simple grave to grave; Here marks the children snatch'd to heaven, None left to blunder 'we are seven';-- Even Andrew Jones[104] no power could save.

What a Sexton's work[105] is here, Lord! the Idiot Boy is gone; And Barbara Lewthwaite's fate the same, And cold as mutton is her lamb; And Alice Fell is bone by bone.

And tears are thick with Peter Bell, Yet still he sees one blessed tomb; Tow'rds it he creeps with spectacles, And bending on his leather knees, He reads the _Lake_iest Poet's doom.

The letters printed are by fate, The death they say was suicide; He reads--'Here lieth W. W. Who never more will trouble you, trouble you': The old man smokes who 'tis that died.

Go home, go home--old Man, go home; Peter, lay thee down at night, Thou art happy, Peter Bell, Say thy prayers for Alice Fell, Thou hast seen a blessed sight.