I SING not ladies, Latium's fertile plains,
Her crowded villas, nor her tuneful swains;
Of ancient Illium , fav'rite realm of Jove's ,
Nor of the Cyprian , fam'd Idalian groves:
 To Albion's isle, confin'd, my muse shall be,
Albion , as matchless as her fair ones , SHE.
Then mark the tale,—from origin and birth,
Ye fair we're near-a-kin, our parent's earth;
To dwell in Eden too, was once our lot,
But ah! [like Adam ,] forc'd to leave the spot;
Forc'd to forego each Amaranthine grove,
Delightful scenes of innocence and love.
 When Boreas blusters from his bleak domain,
And rills lie bound in many an icy chain;
When the “proud hills a virgin whiteness shed,
“And dazzling brightness glitters from the mead”;
We're no where found, no vestiges appear,
'Till vernal suns have warm'd the Hemisphere;
Then marching forth, our modest faces show,
The various teints that paint the heav'nly bow.
But short alas! the time to mortals given,
'Ere Phebus twice hath gallop'd round the heaven:
Our grandeur's gone; if not [O shame to tell]
Made the sure captives of some am'rous belle ,
Or airy beau ; then shorter still our date,
Mankind's true emblem in the hands of fate.
 Now O ye fair! whose prying wits pervade,
Each mystic doubt, each enigmatic shade;
Declare your names, and merit fresher bays,
Whilst fame's loud trumpet verbrates with your praise.