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.

O you, who are by nature form'd,
    Each thought refin'd 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 wounds you never made.

When e'er you see the feeling mind,
    Oh, let this care begin,
And though the cell be rude or low,
    Respect the guest within.