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Part I.
PETER BELL.
23
His face was keen as is the wind
That cuts along the hawthorn fence;
Of courage you saw little there,
But, in its stead, a medley air
Of cunning and of impudence.
He had a dark and sidelong walk,
And long and slouching was his gait;
Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
You might perceive, his spirit cold
Was playing with some inward bait.
His forehead wrinkled was and furr'd;
A work one half of which was done
By thinking of his whens and hows;
And half by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.
