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grow there?

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

When, cry the botanists and stare
Did plants call’d sensitive
No matter when—a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses,

You, shapeless nothing in a dish
You, that are but almost a fish-
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,

If I can feel as well as he;

And, when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!

8

Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!

A poet, in his ev’ning walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your

fine fense, he faid, and your's,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though fhort, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You, in your grotto-work enclos’d,
Complain of being thus expos’d;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

And, as for you, my Lady Squeamith, Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,

If all the plants that can be found Embellishing the scene around Should droop and wither where they grow, You would not feel at all-not you. The noblest minds their virtue prove By pity, sympathy, and love; These, these are feelings truly fine, And prove their owner half divine.

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

366

TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

TO

THIE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.

Unwin, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page
That would reclaim a vicious age.

II.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its fort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

III.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though diffring in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,

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With flow'r as sweet, or fruit as fair,
As if produc'd by nature there.

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IV.

Not rich, I render what I may

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I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first assay,

Left this should prove the last.
'Tis where it should be in a plan
That holds in view the good of man,

V.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blaz'd by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME,

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