When, cry the botanifts, and ftare,

Did plants called fenfitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's mufe is

To make them grow juft where the chooses.
You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almoft a fish,
I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unlettered spark,
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 touched, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and checked this idle talk.

And your fine fenfe, he said, and your's,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deferves not, if fo foon offended,

Much to be pitied or commended.
Difputes, 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 enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every 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, sympathy, and love:
Thefe, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His cenfure reached them as he dealt it, And each by fhrinking showed he felt it.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

I.

Oн, happy fhades-to me unbleft!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!

How ill the scene, that offers reft,
And heart, that cannot reft, agree!

II.

This glaffy ftream, that spreading pine,
Thofe alders quivering to the breeze,
Might foothe a foul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
III.

But fixt unalterable care

Foregoes not what fhe feels within, Shows the fame fadness every where, And flights the season and the scene. IV.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While peace poffeffed these filent bowers,

Her animating fmile withdrawn,

Has loft its beauties and its powers.

V.

The faint or moralift should tread

This mofs-grown alley mufing, flow; They feck like me the fecret shade,

But not like me to nourish woe!

VI.

Me fruitful scenes and profpects wafte
Alike admonìfh not to roam;

These tell me of enjoyments paft,

And those of forrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY,

1.

WHAT nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,

Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is decked with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that funny fhed,

Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

II.

"Tis a bower of Arcadian fweets, Where Flora is ftill in her prime, A fortrefs to which the retreats

From the cruel affaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of fnow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay, As the fairest and sweeteft, that blow On the beautiful bofom of May.

III.

See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so fevere;
Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year.

The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue,
And the winter of forrow beft shows

The truth of a friend fuch as you.