A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

Daughter To That Good Earl, Once President Of England's Council, And Her Treasury, Who Lived In Both, Unstained With Gold Or Fee, And Left Them Both, More In Himself Content, Till Sad The Breaking Of That Parliament Broke Him, As That Dishonest Victory At Chaeronea, Fatal To Liberty, Killed With Report That Old Man Eloquent. Though Later Born Than To Have Known The Days Wherein Your Father Flourished, Yet By You, Madam, Methinks I See Him Living Yet; So Well Your Words His Noble Virtues Praise, That All Both Judge You To Relate Them True, And To Possess Them, Honoured Margaret.

Above The Smoke And Stir Of This Dim Spot Which Men Call Earth.

Most Men Admire Virtue Who Follow Not Her Lore.