At every step beneath their feet they tread Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, What are ye monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say, But Etnas of the suffering world ye sway? Sweet nature stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe, And stands a witness at Truth's aweful bar, Το prove you there, destroyers as ye are. Oh place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where peace and equity and freedom smile, Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crested warrior dips his plume in blood, Where power secures what industry has won, THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT. AN Oyster cast upon the shore Was heard, though never heard before, Complaining in a speech well worded, Ah hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell For ever in my native shell, Ordain'd to move when others please, I envy that unfeeling shrub, The plant he meant grew not far off, And with asperity replied. When, cry the botanists, and stare, 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, For many a grave 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 shrink, Says, well-'tis more than one would think.— In being touch'd, and crying, don't. O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. And your he said, and yours, fine sense, Whatever evil it endures, Deserves not, if so soon offended, You in your grotto-work enclosed And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Should droop and wither where they grow, His censure reach'd them as he deal it, TO THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 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. An union form'd, as mine with thee, Not rashly or in sport, And faithful in its sort, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love. The bud inserted in the rind, The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it grows With flower as sweet or fruit as fair As if produced by nature there. 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. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, END OF VOL. VIII. CHISWICK: PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM. |