But tossed and buffeted about,

Now in the water and now out.

"Twere better to be born a stone, Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine,

And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Fast-rooted against every rub.

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 called sensitive grow there?
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 unlettered 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!

Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)

In being touched, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and checked this idle talk.

And your fine sense, he said, and your's,

Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.

Disputes, though short, 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 enclosed, Complain of being thus exposed;

Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,

Save when the knife is at your

your throat,

Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill beside.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,

Who reckon every 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 reached them as he dealt it,

And each by shrinking showed he felt it.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

I.

Он, happy shades-to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

II.

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze,

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please.

III.

But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where,

And slights the season and the scene.

IV.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While peace possessed these silent bowers,

Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

V.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley musing slow;

They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe!

VI.

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.