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Part III.
PETER BELL.
69
And stretch'd beneath the furze he sees
The Highland girl—it is no other;
And hears her crying, as she cried
The very moment that she died,
"My mother! oh my mother!"
The sweat pours down from Peter's face,
So grievous is his heart's contrition;
With agony his eye-balls ache
While he beholds by the furze-brake
This miserable vision!
Calm is the well-deserving brute,
His peace, hath no offence betray'd;—
But now, while down that slope he wends,
A voice to Peter's ears ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade:
