Classic Poem

Of Albion's glorious isle the wonders whilst I write,
The sundry varying soils, the pleasures infinite,
(Where heat kills not the cold, nor cold expels the heat,
The calms too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great,
Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong,
The summer not too short, the winter not too long)
What help shall I invoke to aid my Muse the while?
Thou Genius of the place (this most renowned isle)
Which lived'st long before the all-earth-drowning flood,
Whilst yet the world did swarm with her gigantic brood,
Go thou before me still thy circling shores about,
And in this wand'ring maze help to conduct me out:
Direct my course so right, as with thy hand to show
Which way thy forests range, which way thy rivers flow,
Wise Genius , by thy help that so I may descry
How thy fair mountains stand, and how thy valleys lie;
From those clear pearly cleeves which see the morning's pride,
And check the surly imps of Neptune when they chide,
Unto the big-swoln waves in the Iberian stream,
Where Titan still unyokes his fiery-hoofed team,
And oft his flaming locks in luscious nectar steeps,
When from Olympus' top he plungeth in the deeps:
That from th' Armoric sands, on surging Neptune's leas,
Through the Hibernic gulf (those rough Vergivian seas)
My verse with wings of skill may fly a lofty gait,
As Amphitrite clips this island fortunate,
Till through the sleepy main to Thule I have gone,
And seen the frozen isles, the cold Deucalidon,
Amongst whose iron rocks grim Saturn yet remains,
Bound in those gloomy caves with adamantine chains.
Ye sacred bards, that to your harps' melodious strings
Sung th' ancient heroes' deeds (the monuments of kings)
And in your dreadful verse ingrav'd the prophecies,
The aged world's descents and genealogies;
If, as those Druids taught, which kept the British rites,
And dwelt in darksome groves, there counselling with sprites,
(But their opinions fail'd, by error led awry,
As since clear truth hath shew'd to their posterity)
When these our souls by death our bodies do forsake,
They instantly again do other bodies take;
I could have wisht your spirits redoubled in my breast,
To give my verse applause to time's eternal rest.
Thus scarcely said the Muse, but hovering while she hung
Upon the Celtic wastes, the sea-nymphs loudly sung:
O ever-happy isles! your heads so high that bear,
By nature strongly fenc'd, which never need to fear
On Neptune's wat'ry realms when Eolus raiseth wars,
And every billow bounds, as though to quench the stars:
Fair Jersey first of these here scatter'd in the deep,
Peculiarly that boast'st thy double-horned sheep:
Inferior nor to thee, thou Guernsey, bravely crown'd
With rough-embattled rocks, whose venom-hating ground
The hard'ned emeril hath, which thou abroad dost send:
Thou Ligon her belov'd, and Serk, that doth attend
Her pleasure every hour; as Jethow, them at need,
With pheasants, fallow deer, and conies that dost feed:
Ye seven small sister isles, and Sorlings, which to see
The half-sunk seaman joys; or whatsoe'er you be,
From fruitful Aurney, near the ancient Celtic shore,
To Ushant and the Seams, whereas those nuns of yore
Gave answers from their caves, and took what shapes they please:
Ye happy islands set within the British seas,
With shrill and jocund shouts, th' unmeasur'd deeps awake,
And let the gods of sea their secret bow'rs forsake,
Whilst our industrious Muse great Britain forth shall bring,
Crown'd with those glorious wreaths that beautify the spring;
And whilst green Thetis' nymphs, with many an amorous lay,
Sing our invention safe unto her long-wisht bay.