The Marshes at Ipswich

High o’er the fen the shielding verdure shoots, And hides the marshy rankness at the roots; The passing glance a waving plain beholds, Nor marks the wat’ry waste the green enfolds; Thus pleasing prospects charm the distant eye, But fade and tarnish as the gaze draws nigh; Thus sceptered pomp, magnificently bright, Turns gross and tawdry to the closer sight. Judge not the world by wealth of outward show, But test the firmness of the soil below!