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Part II.
PETER BELL.
53
How blank!—but whence this rustling sound
Which, all too long, the pair hath chased!
—A dancing leaf is close behind,
Light plaything for the sportive wind
Upon that solitary waste.
When Peter spies the withered leaf,
It yields no cure to his distress—
"Where there is not a bush or tree,
"The very leaves they follow me—
"So huge hath been my wickedness!"
To a close lane they now are come,
Where, as before, the enduring Ass
Moves on without a moment's stop,
Nor once turns round his head to crop
A bramble leaf or blade of grass.
