The ſons of toil with many a weary ſtroke
Scoop the hard boſom of the ſolid rock;
Reſiſtleſs thro' the ſtiff oppoſing clay,
With ſteady patience work their gradual way;
Compel the genius of th' unwilling flood
Thro' the brown horrors of the aged wood;
'Croſs the lone waſte the ſilver urn they pour,
And cheer the barren heath or ſullen moor.
The traveller with pleaſing wonder ſees
The white ſail gleaming thro' the duſky trees;
And views the alter'd landſcape with ſurpriſe,
And doubts the magic ſcenes which round him riſe.
Now, like a flock of ſwans, above his head
Their woven wings the flying veſſels ſpread;
Now meeting ſtreams in artful mazes glide,
While each unmingled pours a ſeparate tide;
Now through the hidden veins of earth they flow,
And viſit ſulphurous mines and caves below;
