from Brent, a Poem

Happy are you, whom Quantock overlooks,
Blessed with keen healthy air and crystal brooks;
While wretched we the baneful influence mourn
Of cold Aquarius and his weeping urn.
Eternal mists their dropping curse distil
And drizzly vapours all the ditches fill:
The swampy land's a bog, the fields are seas
And too much moisture is the grand disease.
Here every eye with brackish rheum o'erflows
And a fresh drop still hangs at every nose.
Here the winds rule with uncontested right,
The wanton gods at pleasure take their flight;
No sheltering hedge, no tree or spreading bough
Obstruct their course, but unconfined they blow;
With dewy wings they sweep the watry meads
And proudly trample o'er the bending reeds.
We are to north and southern blasts exposed,
Still drowned by one, or by the other frozed.
Though Venice boast, Brent is as famed a seat,
For here we live in seas, and sail through every street;
And this great privilege we farther gain,
We never are obliged to pray for rain.
And 'tis as fond to wish for sunny days,
For though the god of light condense his rays
And try his pow'r, we must in water lie;
The marsh will still be such, and Brent will ne'er be dry.

near Weston-super-Mare, Somerset