Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,In Erymanthian grovesDark-leaved, or Cragus green.Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,His golden quiver proudAnd brother's lyre to bear.His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and WarTo Persia and to Britain's coast, awayFrom Rome and Caesar far,If you have zeal to pray.No need of Moorish archer's craftTo guard the pure and stainless liver;He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaftTo store his quiver,