'Tis thine to seek them and 'tis thine to make;
On the cold fen I see thee turn thine eyes,
Its mists recede, its chilling vapour flies;
Th' enraptured lord th' improving ground surveys,
And for his Eden asks the traveller's praise,
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Which yet, unview'd of thee, a bog had been,
Where spungy rushes hide the plashy green.
"I see thee breathing on the barren moor,
That seems to bloom although so bleak before;