And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish, If all the plants that can be found Should droop and wither where they grow, The noblest minds their virtue prove Thefe, these are feelings truly fine, His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it, Го To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 1. UNWIN, I fhould but ill repay, The kindness of a friend, Whofe worth deferves as warm a lay As ever friendship penn'd, Thy name omitted in a page, That would reclaim a vicious age. 2. An union form'd, as mine with thee, Not rafhly or in fport, May be as fervent in degree, And faithful in its fort, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love. 3. The bud inferted in the rind, The bud of peach or rofe, Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind, The stock whereon it grows With flow'r as sweet or fruit as fair, As if produc'd by nature there. 4. Not rich, I render what I may, Left this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man. 5. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, Should be the poet's heart, Than ever blaz'd by art. No muses on these lines attend, FINIS. |