Our busy streets and sylvan-walks between,
Fen, marshes, bog and heath all intervene;
Here pits of crag, with spongy, plashy base,
To some enrich th' uncultivated space:
For there are blossoms rare, and curious rush,
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The gale's rich balm, and sun-dew's crimson blush,
Whose velvet leaf, with radiant beauty dress'd,
Forms a gay pillow for the plover's breast.
Not distant far, a house, commodious made,