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 call'd 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,

1

And have most plentiful occasion!
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you: A

For many a grave and learned clerk,

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!

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,

If all the plants that can be found a 1 Embellishing the scene around

Should droop and wither where they grow, You would not feel at all-not you.

The noblest minds their virtue prové vody" By pity, sympathy, and love; a bod 12987. These, these are feelings truly fine,

And

prove

their owner half divine, omɔup o

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,

And each by shrinking show'd he felt it o

On that those lips had language! Life has pass'd

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!'
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief-
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

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My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such? It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd;
By disappointment every day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

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