YE green-hair'd Nymphs, whom Pan allows
To guard from harm these favour'd boughs;
Ye blue-ey'd Naiads of the stream,
That soothe the warm poetic dream;
Ye elves and sprights, that thronging round,
When midnight darkens all the ground,
In antic measures uncontroul'd,
Your fairy sports and revels hold,
And up and down, where-e'er ye pass,
With many a ringlet print the grass;
If e'er the bard hath hail'd your power
At morn's grey dawn, or evening hour;
If e'er by moon-light on the plain
Your ears have caught th' enraptur'd strain;
From every flow'ret's velvet head,
From reverend Thames's oozy bed,
From these moss'd elms, where, prison'd deep,
Conceal'd from human eyes, ye sleep,
If these your haunts be worth your care,
Awake, arise, and hear my prayer!