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There's something in a flying horse,
And something in a huge balloon ;
But through the clouds I'll never float
Until I have a little Boat,
Whose shape is like the crescent-moon.
And now I have a little Boat,
In shape a very crescent-moon :-
Fast through the clouds my Boat can sail ;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look up — and you shall see me soon!
The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
Rocking and roaring like a sea;
The noise of danger fills your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears
Both for my little Boat and me!
Meanwhile I from the helm admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!
Away we go, my Boat and I –
Frail man ne'er sate in such another ;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or into massy clouds we dive,
Each is contented with the other.
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 among 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-haired race of Mars
Covered from top to toe with scars ;
Such company I like it not !
The towns in Saturn are ill-built,
But proud let him be who has seen them;
The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
Each other in the vast abyss,
With joy I sail between them !
Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain
That darling speck of ours ?
Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth ; Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be;
And there it is, the matchless earth!
There spreads the famed 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 clothed 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.
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!