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Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses still, with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair

Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves.

Thomson.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,

(Two nymphs, adorned with every grace, That spaniel found for me)

Now wantoned lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;

Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended, far I sought
To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains,
With fixt considerate face,

And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble finished, I returned,
Beau trotting far before,

The floating wreath again discerned,
And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropped,
Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:

My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:

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.

Cowper.

The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant. 5

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND THE
SENSITIVE PLANT.

An oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded—

66

Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell For ever in my native shell;

Ordained to move when others please,

Not for my own content or ease;
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,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,

And with asperity replied.

(When cry the botanists, and stare,

Did plants called sensitive grow there?

No matter when- -a poet's muse is,

To make them grow just where she chooses.) "You shapeless nothing in a dish,

You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such 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 shrink,

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 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,
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,

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