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PETER BELL.
Part II.
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—
