Nor ask to see all wide extremes combined;
Not in our wastes the dainty blossoms smile
That crowd the gardens of thy scanty isle;
There white-cheek’d Luxury weaves a thousand charms,
Here sun-browned Labor swings his Cyclop arms;
Long are the furrows he must trace between
The ocean’s azure and the prairies’ green;
Full many a blank his destined realm displays,
Yet see the promise of his riper days:
Far through yon depths the panting engine moves,