Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes; Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear, 90 And learn what busier mortals feel and fear; Secure themselves, although by tales amazed Of towns bombarded and of cities razed; As if they doubted, in their still retreat, The very news that makes their quiet sweet, And their days happy--happier only knows He on whom Laura her regard bestows.” On rode Orlando, counting all the while The miles he pass’d and every coming mile; Like all attracted things, he quicker flies, 100 The place approaching where th’ attraction lies; When next appear’d a _dam_--so call the place-- Where lies a road confined in narrow space; A work of labour, for on either side } Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide, } With dikes on either hand by ocean’s self supplied. } Far on the right the distant sea is seen, And salt the springs that feed the marsh between; Beneath an ancient bridge, the straiten’d flood Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud; 110 Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, That frets and hurries to th’ opposing side; The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow, } Bend their brown flow’rets to the stream below, } Impure in all its course, in all its progress slow: } Here a grave Flora[6] scarcely deigns to bloom, Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume; The few dull flowers that o’er the place are spread Partake the nature of their fenny bed; Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 120 Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume; Here the dwarf sallows creep, the septfoil harsh, And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh; Low on the ear the distant billows sound, And just in view appears their stony bound; No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun, } Birds, save a wat’ry tribe, the district shun, } Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters run. } “Various as beauteous, Nature, is thy face,” Exclaim’d Orlando: “all that grows has grace; 130 All are appropriate--bog, and marsh, and fen, Are only poor to undiscerning men; Here may the nice and curious eye explore How Nature’s hand adorns the rushy moor; Here the rare moss in secret shade is found, Here the sweet myrtle of the shaking ground; Beauties are these that from the view retire, But well repay th’ attention they require; For these my Laura will her home forsake, And all the pleasures they afford partake.” 140 Again the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on either side; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear’d, And there a gipsy-tribe their tent had rear’d; ’Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun, And they had now their early meal begun,