From yon bent oaks, in Medway's bosom fairWonder at silver bleak, and prickly pearch,That swiftly thro' their floating forests glide.Yet not even these—these ever-varied scenesOf wealth and pleasure can engage my eyesT' o'erlook the lowly hawthorn, if from thenceThe thrush, sweet warbler, chants th' unstudied laysWhich Phoebus' self vaulting from yonder cloudRefulgent, with enliv'ning ray inspires.But neither tow'ring spires, nor lofty elms,Nor golden Ceres, nor the meadows green,Nor orchats, nor the russet-mantled nymphs,Which to the murmurs of the Medway dance,Nor sweetly warbling thrush, with half those charmsAttract my eyes, as yonder hop-land close,Joint-work of art and nature, which remindsThe muse, and to her theme the wand'rer calls.Here then with pond'rous vehicles and teamsThy rustics send, and from the caverns deepCommand them bring the chalk: thence to the kilnConvey, and temper with Vulcanian fires.Soon as 'tis form'd, thy lime with bounteous handO'er all thy lands disseminate; thy landsWhich first have felt the soft'ning spade, and drankThe strength'ning vapours from nutricious marl.0