My ramble ended, I returned. Beau trotting far before The floating wreath again discerned, I saw him with that lily cropped Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet. Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried, My dog shall mortify the pride But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To him who gives me all. THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT. AN Oyster, cast upon the shore, Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell For ever in my native shell; Ordained to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But tossed and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out. I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, And felt the sneer with scorn enough, (When, cry the botanists, and stare, To make them grow just where she chooses :) You that are but almost a fish, 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 check'd this idle talk. And your fine sense, he said, and Deserves not, if so soon offended, yours, Much to be pitied or commended. You, in your grotto work enclosed, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should droop and wither where they grow, The noblest minds their virtue prove These, these are feelings truly fine, THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. Он, happy shades-to me unblest! 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. |