The gift, dear evidence of kindness, long due, but never offered,
The glance estranged, the letter flung aside, the greeting ill received,
The services of unobtrusive care unthanked, perchance unheeded,
These things, which hard men mock at, rend the feelings of the tender,
For the delicate tissue of a spiritual mind is torn by those sharp barbs;
The coldness of a trusted friend, a plenitude ending in vacuity,
Is as if the stable world had burst a hollow bubble.
But consider, child of sensibility; the lot of men is labour,
Labour for the mouth, or labour in the spirit, labour stern and individual.
Worldly cares and worldly hopes exact the thoughts of all,