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Prologue.
PETER BELL.
5
And there it is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the fam'd Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the grey clouds—the Alps are here
Like waters in commotion!
Yon tawny slip is Lybia's sands—
That silver thread the river Dnieper—
And look, where cloth'd in brightest green
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the queen;
Ye fairies from all evil keep her!
And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols—I was lost
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man.
