BE GENTLE.
There is a plant that in its cell
All trembling seems to stand,
And bends its stalk and folds its leaves
From each approaching hand.
And thus there is a conscious nerve
Within the human breast,
That from the rash and careless hand
Shrinks and retires distressed.
The pressure rude, the touch severe,
Will raise within the mind
A nameless thrill, a secret tear,
A torture undefined.
Oh, you whose nature is so formed
Each thought refined to know,
Repress the word, the glance, that wakes
That trembling nerve to woe!
And be it still your joy to raise
The trembler from the shade;
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wound you never made.
Whene'er you see the feeling mind,
Oh, let this care begin!
And though the cell be e'er so low,
Respect the guest within.—L. H.