“Hither from my moorland home, Nymph of Torridge, proud I come; Leaving fen and furzy brake, Haunt of eft and spotted snake, Where to fill mine urns I use, Daily with Atlantic dews; While beside the reedy flood Wild duck leads her paddling brood. For this morn, as Phoebus gay Chased through heaven the night mist gray, Close beside me, prankt in pride, Sister Tamar rose, and cried, 'Sluggard, up! 'Tis holiday, In the lowlands far away. Hark! how jocund Plymouth bells, Wandering up through mazy dells, Call me down, with smiles to hail, My daring Drake's returning sail.' 'Thine alone?' I answer'd. 'Nay; Mine as well the joy to-day. Heroes train'd on Northern wave, To that Argo new I gave; Lent to thee, they roam'd the main; Give me, nymph, my sons again.' 'Go, they wait Thee,' Tamar cried, Southward bounding from my side. Glad I rose, and at my call, Came my Naiads, one and all. Nursling of the mountain sky, Leaving Dian's choir on high, Down her cataracts laughing loud, Ockment leapt from crag and cloud, Leading many a nymph, who dwells Where wild deer drink in ferny dells; While the Oreads as they past Peep'd from Druid Tors aghast. By alder copses sliding slow, Knee-deep in flowers came gentler Yeo And paused awhile her locks to twine With musky hops and white woodbine, Then joined the silver-footed band, Which circled down my golden sand, By dappled park, and harbor shady, Haunt of love-lorn knight and lady, My thrice-renowned sons to greet, With rustic song and pageant meet. For joy! the girdled robe around Eliza's name henceforth shall sound, Whose venturous fleets to conquest start, Where ended once the seaman's chart, While circling Sol his steps shall count Henceforth from Thule's western mount, And lead new rulers round the seas From furthest Cassiterides. For found is now the golden tree, Solv'd th' Atlantic mystery, Pluck'd the dragon-guarded fruit; While around the charmed root, Wailing loud, the Hesperids Watch their warder's drooping lids. Low he lies with grisly wound, While the sorceress triple-crown'd In her scarlet robe doth shield him, Till her cunning spells have heal'd him. Ye, meanwhile, around the earth Bear the prize of manful worth. Yet a nobler meed than gold Waits for Albion's children bold; Great Eliza's virgin hand Welcomes you to Fairy-land, While your native Naiads bring Native wreaths as offering. Simple though their show may be, Britain's worship in them see. 'Tis not price, nor outward fairness, Gives the victor's palm its rareness; Simplest tokens can impart Noble throb to noble heart: Graecia, prize thy parsley crown,