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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 shew'd he felt it,

TO To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

I.
UNWIN, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.

1

II.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rashly or in sport, May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort, And may as rich in comfort

prove, As that of true fraternal love.

III.
The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
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.

IV.

Not rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first assay,

Left this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

V.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart,
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blaz’d by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

END OF VOL 1.

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