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6
PETER BELL.
Prologue.
Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never,—
How tunefully the forests ring!
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever!
"Shame on you," cried my little Boat,
"Was ever such a heartless loon,
Within a living Boat to sit,
And make no better use of it,
A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!
Out—out—and, like a brooding hen,
Beside your sooty hearth-stone cower;
Go, creep along the dirt, and pick
Your way with your good walking-stick,
Just three good miles an hour!
