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THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.

[MAY, 1791.]

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild;

But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when she frown'd,
Would raise her voice, and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,

Her frowns were seldom known to last,
And never proved severe.

To poets of renown in song

The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong, And gave misplaced applause.

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,

The flippant and the scold,

And though she changed her mood so oft, That failing left untold.

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,

Or so resolved to err

In short, the charms her sister had
They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the god whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,

Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all.

"Since thus ye have combined," he said,
"My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,

“The minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue."

EPITAPH

ON

MRS M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.

[1791.]

LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come.
Believers have a silent field to fight,

And their exploits are veil'd from human sight :
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.

THE RETIRED CAT.

[This poem was written in the autumn of 1791; its subject is mentioned with praise by the poet, as a promising kitten, in 1787.]

A POET's Cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.

I know not where she caught the trick—
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,

Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,

Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparell❜d in exactest sort,

And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race;

Cats also feel as well as we,

That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin

Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wish'd, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there;

Puss, with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene, and took possession.

Recumbent at her ease ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impell❜d,

But all unconscious whom it held.

Awaken'd by the shock, cried Puss,
"Was ever cat attended thus !
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,

For soon as I was well composed

Then came the maid, and it was closed.

How smooth these 'kerchiefs and how sweet!

Oh, what a delicate retreat!

I will resign myself to rest

Till Sol declining in the west

Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,

Susan will come and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended,

And

puss remain'd still uattended.

The night roll'd tardily away,

(With her indeed 'twas never day)

The sprightly morn her course renew'd,

The evening gray again ensued,

And puss came into mind no more

Than if entomb'd the day before.

With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,

She now presaged approaching doom,

Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,

Conscious of jeopardy incurr❜d.

That night, by chance, the poet watching,

Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,

And to himself he said—" What 's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,

And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied;

Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.

At length, a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Consoled him, and dispell'd his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,

He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

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