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The plant he meant grew not far off,
When, cry the botanists and stare
You, shapeless nothing in a dish
If I can feel as well as he;
And, when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon't!)
A poet, in his ev’ning walk,
fine fense, he faid, and your's,
You, in your grotto-work enclos’d,
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.
TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
THIE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
Unwin, I should but ill repay
The kindness of a friend,
As ever friendship penn'd,
An union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rashly, or in sport,
And faithful in its fort,
The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though diffring in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,
With flow'r as sweet, or fruit as fair,
Not rich, I render what I may
I seize thy name in haste,
Left this should prove the last.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Than ever blaz'd by art.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME,