When hark a burst of doleful sound! And Peter honestly might say, The like came never to his ears, Though he has been, full thirty years, A rover--night and day! 615 'Tis not a plover of the moors, 'Tis not a bittern of the fen; Nor can it be a barking fox, Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, Nor wild-cat in a woody glen! 620 The Ass is startled--and stops short Right in the middle of the thicket; And Peter, wont to whistle loud Whether alone or in a crowd, Is silent as a silent cricket. 625 What ails you now, my little Bess? Well may you tremble and look grave! This cry--that rings along the wood, This cry--that floats adown the flood, Comes from the entrance of a cave: 630 I see a blooming Wood-boy there, And if I had the power to say How sorrowful the wanderer is, Your heart would be as sad as his Till you had kissed his tears away! 635 Grasping [67] a hawthorn branch in hand, All bright with berries ripe and red, Into the cavern's mouth he peeps; Thence back into the moonlight creeps; Whom seeks he--whom?--the silent dead: [68] 640 His father!--Him doth he require-- Him hath he sought [69] with fruitless pains, Among the rocks, behind the trees; Now creeping on his hands and knees, Now running o'er the open plains. 645 And hither is he come at last, When he through such a day has gone, By this dark cave to be distrest Like a poor bird--her plundered nest Hovering around with dolorous moan! 650 Of that intense and piercing cry The listening Ass conjectures well; [70] Wild as it is, he there can read Some intermingled notes that plead With touches irresistible. 655 But Peter--when he saw the Ass Not only stop but turn, and change The cherished tenor of his pace That lamentable cry [71] to chase-- It wrought in him conviction strange; 660 A faith that, for the dead man's sake And this poor slave who loved him well, Vengeance upon his head will fall, Some visitation worse than all Which ever till this night befel. 665 Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, [72] Is striving stoutly as he may; But, while he climbs the woody hill, The cry grows weak--and weaker still; And now at last it dies away. 670 So with his freight the Creature turns Into a gloomy grove of beech, Along the shade with footsteps [73] true Descending slowly, till the two The open moonlight reach. 675 And there, along the [74] narrow dell, A fair smooth pathway you discern, A length of green and open road-- As if it from a fountain flowed-- Winding away between the fern. 680