The oft frequented tree, the shady green;
Swift, swift they fly to see the realms of gold,
And think to reap the joy their raving fancies told.
Ye, isles of Britain! see them quickly leave
Your rocky coasts, and never deign to grieve.
Ye, sunny shores of France! behold them start
Nor shed one teardrop, as your ships depart.
Ye love-charmed bowers of Spain! your Houris' eyes
Are rayless now—for brighter lustre vies!
Ye, boundless plains, and giant hills, that rise