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Prologue.
PETER BELL.
7
Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
Flutter'd so faint a heart before—
Was it the music of the spheres
That overpower'd your mortal ears?
—Such din shall trouble them no more.
These nether precincts do not lack
Charms of their own;—then come with me—
I want a comrade, and for you
There's nothing that I would not do;
Nought is there that you shall not see.
Haste! and above Siberian snows
We'll sport amid the boreal morning,
Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding
And now the stars adorning.
