« السابقةمتابعة »
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To him who gives me all.
THE POET, THE OYSTER,
AN Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordain'd to move when others please,
But toss'd and buffetted about,
Now in the water and now out.
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;
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 that are but almost a fish,
And have most plentiful occasion,
To wish myself the rock I view,
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!
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
your fine sense, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
If all the plants, that can be found
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. 66
WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.
Он, happy shades-to me unblest!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
But fix'd unalterable care
Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness ev'ry where,
And slights the season and the scene. 12