176
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.
Sylvie:
Must Beauty ever be richly hous'd
In splendid palace roof'd of fretted gold
With pretious marble colonnades arow?
Peregrina:
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.
