Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/77

 Their frequent fully'd Fleece ; nor what rough winds, Keen biting on tempestuous hills, imbrown. Yet much may be perform'd to check the force Of Nature's rigour : the high heath, by trees Warm shelter'd, may despise the rage of storms : Moors, bogs, and weeping fens, may learn to smile, And leave in dikes their soon-forgotten tears. Labour and Art will every aim achieve Of noble bosoms. Bedford Level, erst A dreary pathless waste, the coughing flock Was wont with hairy Fleeces to deform, And, smiling with her lure of summer flow'rs, 'I he heavy ox vain struggling to ingulf; Till one of that high honour'd patriot name, Russel ! arose, who drain'd the rushy fen, Confin'd the waves, bade groves and gardens bloom, And thro' his new creation led the Ouze And gentle Camus, silver-winding streams : God-like beneficence ! from chaos drear To raise the garden and the shady grove. But see Ierne's moors and hideous bogs, Immeasurable track ! the traveller Slow tries his mazy step on th' yielding tuft, Shudd'ring with fear : ev'n such perfidious wilds, By labour won, have yielded to the comb The fairest length of wool. See Deeping Fens, And the long lawns of Bourn. 'Tis art and toil Gives Nature value, multiplies her stores, Varies, improves, creates : 'tis art and toil Teaches her woody hills with fruits to shine, The pear and tasteful apple ; decks with flow'rs And foodful pulse the fields that often rise, Admiring to behold their furrows wave With yellow corn. What changes cannot Toil, With patient Art, effect ? There was a time