Haunt of love-lorn knight and lady,
     My thrice-renowned sons to greet,
     With rustic song and pageant meet. 
     For joy! the girdled robe around
     Eliza’s name henceforth shall sound,
     Whose venturous fleets to conquest start,
     Where ended once the seaman’s chart,
     While circling Sol his steps shall count
     Henceforth from Thule’s western mount,
     And lead new rulers round the seas
     From furthest Cassiterides. 
     For found is now the golden tree,
     Solv’d th’ Atlantic mystery,
     Pluck’d the dragon-guarded fruit;
     While around the charmed root,
     Wailing loud, the Hesperids
     Watch their warder’s drooping lids. 
     Low he lies with grisly wound,
     While the sorceress triple-crown’d
     In her scarlet robe doth shield him,
     Till her cunning spells have heal’d him. 
     Ye, meanwhile, around the earth
     Bear the prize of manful worth. 
     Yet a nobler meed than gold
     Waits for Albion’s children bold;
     Great Eliza’s virgin hand
     Welcomes you to Fairy-land,
     While your native Naiads bring
     Native wreaths as offering. 
     Simple though their show may be,
     Britain’s worship in them see. 
     ’Tis not price, nor outward fairness,
     Gives the victor’s palm its rareness;
     Simplest tokens can impart
     Noble throb to noble heart: 
     Graecia, prize thy parsley crown,
     Boast thy laurel, Caesar’s town;
     Moorland myrtle still shall be
     Badge of Devon’s Chivalry!”

And so ending, she took the wreath of fragrant gale from her own head, and stooping from the car, placed it on the head of Amyas Leigh, who made answer—­

“There is no place like home, my fair mistress and no scent to my taste like this old home-scent in all the spice-islands that I ever sailed by!”

“Her song was not so bad,” said Sir Richard to Lady Bath—­“but how came she to hear Plymouth bells at Tamar-head, full fifty miles away?  That’s too much of a poet’s license, is it not?”

“The river-nymphs, as daughters of Oceanus, and thus of immortal parentage, are bound to possess organs of more than mortal keenness; but, as you say, the song was not so bad—­erudite, as well as prettily conceived—­and, saving for a certain rustical simplicity and monosyllabic baldness, smacks rather of the forests of Castaly than those of Torridge.”

So spake my Lady Bath; whom Sir Richard wisely answered not; for she was a terribly learned member of the college of critics, and disputed even with Sidney’s sister the chieftaincy of the Euphuists; so Sir Richard answered not, but answer was made for him.

“Since the whole choir of Muses, madam, have migrated to the Court of Whitehall, no wonder if some dews of Parnassus should fertilize at times even our Devon moors.”