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Poem by John Dyer
Yet much may be performed, to check the force Of nature's rigour: the high heath, by trees Warm-sheltered, may despise the rage of storms: Moors, bogs, and weeping fens, may learn to smile, And leave in dykes their soon-forgotten tears. Labour and art will ev'ry 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, The heavy ox, vain-struggling, to ingulph; Till one, of that high-honoured patriot name, RUSSELL, arose, who drained the rushy fen, Confined the waves, bid groves and gardens bloom, And through his new creation led the Ouze, And gentle Camus, silver-winding streams: Godlike beneficence; from chaos drear To raise the garden and the shady grove.
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