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Prologue.
PETER BELL.
3
Away we go—and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent-moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.
Up goes my Boat between the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her,
Up goes my little Boat so bright!
The Crab—the Scorpion—and the Bull—
We pry among them all—have shot
High o'er the red-hair'd race of Mars
Cover'd from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!
