For at your presence toil is o'er,
The restless miner works no more.
Nor strikes the flint, nor whirls the steel
Of that strange spark-emitting wheel,
Which, form'd by Prospero's magic care,
Plays harmless in the sulphurous air,
Without a flame diffuses light,
And makes the grisly cavern bright.
His task secure the miner plies,
Nor hears Tartarian tempests rise;
But quits it now, and hastes away
To this great Stygian holiday.