Or shove the skiff from yonder curving shore;
Their reign, their histories, their names are o'er;
The plow insults their sires' indignant bones;
The very land disowns its look of yore;
Vast cities rise, and hark! I hear the tones
Of many mingling Tongues; and boundless labour groans.
And paler nymphs are sweetly wooed and won,
Upon this soil, and they are happy too,
But of these fairer English damsels, none
Have shown devotion more divinely true,