No fostering hand they need, no sheltering wall,
They spring uncultured, and they bloom for all.” 
   The Lover rode as hasty lovers ride,
And reach’d a common pasture wild and wide;
Small black-legg’d sheep devour with hunger keen
The meagre herbage, fleshless, lank, and lean: 
Such o’er thy level turf, Newmarket! stray,
And there, with other black-legs, find their prey. 
He saw some scatter’d hovels; turf was piled
In square brown stacks; a prospect bleak and wild! 
A mill, indeed, was in the centre found,
With short sear herbage withering all around;
A smith’s black shed opposed a wright’s long shop,
And join’d an inn where humble travellers stop. 
   “Ay, this is Nature,” said the gentle ’Squire;
“This ease, peace, pleasure—­who would not admire? 
With what delight these sturdy children play,
And joyful rustics at the close of day;
Sport follows labour; on this even space
Will soon commence the wrestling and the race;
Then will the village-maidens leave their home,
And to the dance with buoyant spirits come;
No affectation in their looks is seen,
Nor know they what disguise aud flattery mean;
Nor aught to move an envious pang they see,
Easy their service, and their love is free;
Hence early springs that love, it long endures,
And life’s first comfort, while they live, ensures: 
They the low roof and rustic comforts prize,
Nor cast on prouder mansions envying eyes: 
Sometimes the news at yonder town they hear,
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,
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;
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 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,