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,
And worthy thus to be recorded—

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell For ever in my native shell;

Ordain'd to move when others please,

Not for my own content or ease;

But toss'd and buffeted about,

Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,

And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,

Fast rooted against ev'ry rub.

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,

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

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

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.

ON THE RECEIPT OF

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK.

THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM.

Он 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.

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

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?