Th' Embroid'ry Of Poetic Dreams.

Happy The Man Who Sees A God Employed In All The Good And Ills That Checker Life.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!

Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

A Lawyer's Dealings Should Be Just And Fair; Honesty Shines With Great Advantage There.

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.