The plant he meant grew not far off,

And felt the fneer with fcorn enough;
Was hurt, difgufted, mortified,

And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanifts-and ftare

Did plants call'd fenfitive

grow there?

No matter when—a poet's muse is

To make them grow juft where she chooses,

You, fhapeless nothing in a dish

You, that are but almost a fifh

I fcorn your coarse infinuation,

And have most plentiful occafion
To wifh myself the rock I view,
Or fuch 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 fhrink,

Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!

Thus life is fpent (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 fenfe, he faid, and your's,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deferves not, if fo foon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.

Difputes, 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 befide.

And, as for you, my Lady Squeamish,

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, fympathy, and love;

Thefe, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,

And each by fhrinking show'd he felt it.

366

TO THE REV. WM. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

то

THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I fhould but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,

Whose worth deferves 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 rafhly, or in fport,

May be as fervent in degree,
And faithful in its fort,

Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,

With flow'r as fweet, or fruit as fair,

As if produc'd by nature there.

IV.

Not rich, I render what I may

I feize 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 mufes on these lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME,