There fell Imagination’s rural fane!
Thence fled fair-shafted Dian’s votive Train,
All which the Bard, entranc’d, in forest sees,
Satyrs and Fauns and leaf-crown’d Dryades.
They fled when Avarice, with rapacious frown,
From Mercia’s temples struck her sylvan crown.
Yet, gentle Minstrel, they whose raptur’d ears
Drank thy sweet Song in the departed years;
Saw oaken wreaths thy auburn brows entwine,
The well-won meed at Needwood’s shadowy shrine,