Bend their brown florets to the stream below,
Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow.
Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom,
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume.
The few dull flowers that o’er the place are spread,
Partake the nature of their fenny bed;
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom,
Grows the salt lavender, that lacks perfume;
Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh,
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh.