But tossed 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 every rub. The plant he meant grew not far off, Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, And with asperity replied. When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants called sensitive grow there? To make them grow just where she chooses. You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish, To wish myself the rock I view, 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 shrink, Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think! Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!) In being touched, and crying-Don't! O'erheard and checked 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; 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 your throat, Wherever driven by wind or tide, And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Who reckon every touch a blemish, If all the plants, that can be found Should droop and wither where they grow, The noblest minds their virtue prove These, these are feelings truly fine, And prove their owner half divine. His censure reached them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking showed he felt it. THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. I. Он, happy shades-to me unblest! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that cannot rest, agree! II. This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. III. But fix'd unalterable care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. IV. For all that pleased in wood or lawn, While peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers. V. The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley musing slow; They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish woe! VI. Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come. |