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A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,

In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE

PLANT.

AN Oyfter caft upon the fhore

Was heard, though never heard before;
Complaining in a speech well-worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell

For ever in my native fhell,

Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,

But tofs'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water, and now out.

'Twere better to be born a stone

Of ruder fhape and feeling none,

Than

Than with a tenderness like mine,

And fenfibilities fo fine;

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,

And felt the fneer with fcorn enough,
Was hurt, difgufted, mortify'd,

And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanifts, and stare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's mufe is

To make them grow just where she chuses,
You fhapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,

I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have most plentiful occafion
To with 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,

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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 spent, oh fie upon't!

In being touch'd, and crying don't.
A poet in his evening walk,

O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.

And your fine fenfe, he faid, and yours,

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 inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,

Wherever

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 nobleft 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 shrinking fhew'd he felt it,

To

To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I fhould but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,

Whofe worth deferves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page,

That would reclaim à 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,

And may as rich in comfort prove,

As that of true fraternal love.

III.

The bud inferted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rofe,

Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,

The flock whereon it grows,

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