David Gray (1838–1861)

A SACRED land, to common men unknown,

A land of bowery glades and greenwoods hoary,

Still waters where white stars reflected shone,

And ancient castles in their ivied glory.

Fair knights caparisoned in golden mail,

And maidens whose enchantment was their beauty,

Met but to whisper each the passion-tale,

For love was all their pleasure and their duty.

Here cedar bark, as with a moving will,

Floated through liquid silver all untended;

Here wrong and baseness ever came to ill,

And virtue with delight was sweetly blended.

This land, dear Spenser! was thy fair creation,

Made through fine glamour of imagination.