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 But ee the Horrid Bear march round the Pole,

And feel her Piercing Breath Congeal the Soul.

Their Muick's Whirl-wind, and the hrill Echoing Roar

Of Frozen Seas on the Deerted Shore.

Legends of Fables fill our partial Heads,

Of Lands where Gras ne'r grows, or Mortal treads;

Where keenet Winds and Storms Inceant blow

On Mountains cover'd with Eternal Snow;

Where Nature never blooms, and Sun ne'r hines,

But Cold with Cold, and Frot with Frot Combines,

Inhopitable Clime.

What Countrey's this? And whither are we gone?

Bright Caledonia, where will Fable run?

Suffer th' impartial Pen to range thy Shore,

And do thee Jutice, Nature aks no more:

Fitted for Commerce and cut out for Trade;

The Seas the Land, the Land the Seas invade.

The Promontory Clifts with Hights embot,

And large deep Bays adorn thy dang'rous Coat;

Alternately the Pilot's true Relief,

Thee warn at Ditance, thoe receive him afe;

The deep indented Harbours then invite,

Firt court by day, and then ecure at night:

The wearied Sailors afe and true Reces,

A full Amends for wild Tempetuous Seas.