“From thee all prospects shall new beauties take,
’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,
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;