Thus by himself compell’d to live each day,

To wait for certain hours the tide’s delay;

At the same time the same dull views to see,

The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree;

The water only, when the tides were high,

When low, the mud half cover’d and half-dry;

The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,

And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks;

Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,

As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.

When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,

Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way,

Which on each side rose swelling, and below

The dark warm flood ran silently and slow;

There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,

There hang his head, and view the lazy tide

In its hot slimy channel slowly glide;

Where the small eels that left the deeper way

For the warm shore, within the shallows play;

Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud,

Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood; —

Here dull and hopeless he’d lie down and trace

How sidelong crabs had scrawi’d their crooked race,

Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry

Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;

What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come.

And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,

Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom:

He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,

And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;

Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,

Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd’ning sound;

Where all, presented to the eye or ear,

Oppresss’d the soul with misery, grief, and fear.

Besides these objects, there were places three,

Which Peter seem’d with certain dread to see;

When he drew near them he would turn from each,

And loudly whistle till he pass’d the reach.

A change of scene to him brought no relief,

In town, ’twas plain, men took him for a thief:

The sailor’s wives would stop him in the street,

And say, “Now, Peter, thou’st no boy to beat;”

Infants at play when they perceived him, ran,

Warning each other — “That’s the wicked man;”

He growl’d an oath, and in an angry tone

Cursed the whole place and wish’d to be alone.

Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,

And still more gloomy in his sight they grew:

Though man he hated, yet employ’d alone

At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,

Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,

And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.

Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,

And strange disease — he couldn’t say the name;

Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,

Waked by his view of horrors in the night, —

Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,

Horrors that demons might be proud to raise:

And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,

To think he lived from all mankind apart;

Yet, if a man approach’d, in terrors he would start.

A winter pass’d since Peter saw the town,

And summer lodgers were again come down;

These, idly curious, with their glasses spied

The ships in bay as anchor’d for the tide, —

The river’s craft, — the bustle of the quay, —

And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.

One, up the river, had a man and boat

Seen day by day, now anchor’d, now afloat;

Fisher he seem’d, yet used no net nor hook;

Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,

But on the gliding waves still fix’d his lazy look:

At certain stations he would view the stream,

As if he stood bewilder’d in a dream,

Or that some power had chain’d him for a time,

To feel a curse or meditate on crime.

   This known, some curious, some in pity went,

And others question’d — “Wretch, dost thou repent?”

He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign’d

His boat: new terror fill’d his restless mind;

Furious he grew, and up the country ran,

And there they seized him — a distemper’d man: —

Him we received, and to a parish-bed,

Follow’d and cursed, the groaning man was led.

   Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun,

A lost, lone man, so harass’d and undone;

Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,

Perceived compassion on their anger steal;

His crimes they could not from their memories blot,

But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.

   A priest too came, to whom his words are told;

And all the signs they shudder’d to behold.

   “Look! look!” they cried; “His limbs with horror shake

And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make!

How glare his angry eyes, and yet he’s not awake:

See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,

And how he clenches that broad bony hand”.

   The Priest attending, found he spoke at times

As one alluding to his fears and crimes;

“It was the fall”, he mutter’d, “I can show

The manner how, — I never struck a blow:” —

And then aloud, — “Unhand me, free my chain;

On oath he fell — it struck him to the brain: —

Why ask my father? — that old man will swear

Against my life; besides, he wasn’t there:

What, all agreed? — Am I to die to-day? —

My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray”.