MICHAEL DRAYTON

And the ambitious vine

Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine, And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age Still nature's laws doth give, No other cares attend, But them to defend From winter's rage,

That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land

Above the seas that flows The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell

Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore

(Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Let cannons roar,

Frighting the wide heaven.

And in regions far,

Such heroes bring ye forth

As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star

Not known unto our North.

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