Divers rare gems in thee, Oh Union! shine:
First seven Margarets in thy jewel stand;
Matildas three, three Janes of regal line,
Two royal Marys, two Elizas, and
One Is'bell, Anne, Sybill, and Margery,
All royal gems, set princely shine in thee.

But first in it doth Agasia shine,
Who first with Durstus it began to make;
Then Marg'ret next, of our king Edgar's line,
Whom Malcolm, King of Scots, to wife did take;
Whose grandchild Maud, our Emp'ress, did conjoin,
Scots, Saxon, Norman blood in our King's line.

What is this world, Avarus cried,
But noise and nonsense, pomp and pride?
Search all the universe around,
No perfect goodness can be found;
Sorrow, and indigence and pain,
On earth have fix'd their lasting reign,
The bad man thrives, the good declines,
Beset with poverty he pines.
Palsy'd with age, the rev'rend head,
Is number'd but as one that's dead:
While striplings, who but just can crawl,
Their fires push rudely from the wall;
And every fool, and every knave,
Conceited, hiss them to the grave.

A year ago I had a child,
A little daughter fair and mild;
More precious than my life to me,
She sleeps beneath the churchyard tree.
Oh! she was good as she was fair,
Her presence was like balmy air;
She was a radiance in my room,
She was sunlight in my gloom.

She loved thee well, thou little bird,
Her voice and thine were ever heard;
They roused me when the morning shone,
But now I hear thy voice alone.
She called me gently to her side,
Gave me her bird, and, smiling, died.
Thou wert her last bequest to me;

Late or early home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.
Ever o'er his tattered curtain,
Nightly looking, I could scan,
Aye inditing,
Writing — writing,
The pale figure of a man;
Still discern behind him fall
The same shadow on the wall.

Far beyond the murky midnight,
By dim burning of my oil,
Filling aye his rapid leaflets,
I have watched him at his toil;
Watched his broad and seamy forehead,
Watched his white industrious hand,
Ever passing

Whene'er through Gray's Inn porch I stray,
I meet a spirit by the way;
He wanders with me all alone,
And talks with me in under-tone.

The crowd is busy seeking gold,
It cannot see what I behold;
I and the spirit pass along
Unknown, unnoticed, in the throng.

While on the grass the children run,
And maids go loitering in the sun,
I roam beneath the ancient trees,
And talk with him of mysteries.

The dull brick houses of the square,
The bustle of the thoroughfare,
The sounds, the sights, the tramp of men,

The critics, who have long thought fit
To rule o'er all the land of wit,
Declare, when to a friend you're writing,
All art is useless in inditing;
Familiarly the verse should flow,
Like conversation — so and so.
That friendship sets all forms apart,
And speaks immediate from the heart.

My Lords, the critics, here are right,
Their power I cannot, dare not flight;
Yet lowly to their worships bending,
(I hope in this I'm not offending)
'Twou'd well become those gentlemen,
To give a little specimen;

THE WATER-DRINKERS .

As long as there are wells and springs,
And clear, refreshing fountains,
As long as mighty rivers run
To ocean, from the mountains,
As long as seas give back to clouds
The rains that form the river,
We'll drink our draughts of water pure,
And bless the bounteous Giver.

THE WINE-DRINKERS .

As long as vineyards yield the grape,

If stepdame Nature have been scant,
In dealing Beauty's gifts to me,
My wit shall help supply that want,
And skill instead of shape shall be:
My stature, I confess, is small,
And therefore nill I boast of war.

My name shall fill the heavens and all,
This skin shall serve to hide that scar;
My head to bear the helm unfit,
My hands unapt to murder men:
But little heads oft hold much wit,
And feeble hands can guide a pen.

If Wrong by force had Justice put to flight,
Yet were there hope she might return again;
If lawless war had shut her up from sight,
Yet lawful peace might soon restore her train.
But now, alas, what hope of hope is left,
When wrongful Death hath her of life bereft?

The Sun, that often falls, doth often rise;
The Moon, that waneth, waxeth full with light;
But he, that death in chains of darkness ties,
Can never break the bands of lasting night.
What then remains but tears of loss to wail,
In which all hope of mortal help doth fail?

Clarinda coquettish and gay,
On a time was reprov'd by her aunt,
Your virtue will surely give way,
When so freely you treat a gallant.

Your actions more narrowly scan,
Consider your fortune and name,
To be seen so familiar with man,
You lay yourself open to blame.

Dear, madam, I own you are wise,
Thus pertly Clarinda reply'd,
But really it gives me surprise
To hear your fantastical pride.

When youth deck'd your cheeks with its bloom,
And nature was brisk in your veins,
I'll answer, like me, you'd presume,