"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.