Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/184

Rh Gives out the perfect medal to the world. Each face of guardian God or hero-head, Their clear-cut brows bound with the victor's palm, With towers crown'd or bays, or ears of corn, As power or plenty, wealth or glory will, And Genius that God-engraven die We call.

Must Beauty ever be richly hous'd In splendid palace roof'd of fretted gold With pretious marble colonnades arow?

Nay, often with the simplest, Beauty dwells If flaw'd your agate, your cornelian, Your oriental alabaster be, Still may a fragment fashion'd to a cup Sweeten the homely draught of every day.