Mankind in general complain of their Situation in Life.

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 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 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 Squeamish,

Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,

Pity, Sympathy, and Love, are Feelings truly fine.

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. W. C. UNWIN.

The Kindness of a worthy Friend deserves great Esteem.

TO THE REV. WM. 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 sort,

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 diff'ring in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,

Affection lights a brighter Flame than ever blazed by Art.

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

As if produc'd by nature there.

IV.

Not rich, I render what I may
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first assay,

Lest 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.

C. H. WALES, Printer, Water-Street, Stamford.