126
Darkness shades the fickle beam,
Dims the beauty, dries the stream,
Breaks the spell that blinds the eyes,
And with the dream, the dreamer dies.
REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS.
THERE is a plant that in its cell,
All trembling seems to stand,
And bend its stalk, and fold its leaves,
From each approaching hand.
And thus there is a conscious nerve,
Within the human breast,
That from the rash or careless hand,
Shrinks, and retires—distrest.
The pressure rude, the touch severe,
Will raise within the mind,
A nameless thrill, a secret tear,
A torture undefin'd.
