THE GRASS OF PARNASSUS. 
155 
Ye fairy flowers, whose very name 
To poesy is dear, 
Now tell me — from your classic home 
Why have ye wandered here ? 
Unkindly is our clime, our dews 
Fall heavily and chill: 
Oh ! how unlike the drops exhaled 
From Castaly’s famed rill. 
Say, were ye on our banks and braes 
Dropt from the Muse’s wing, 
When first she taught our warrior sires 
To wake the tuneful string, 
As by your vestal charms she meant 
Her votaries to know 
How fair, how pure, the blossoms are 
Which on Parnassus grow ? 
Was such your lot in olden time? 
Or, after all, sweet flowers, 
Than merry England’s mountain wilds 
Know ye no fairer bowers? 
