"

No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.
E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat,
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him NEVER TO COME THERE NO More.

To A YOUNG LADY

WITH A PRESENT OF TWO COCKSCOMBS

Two powdered Cockscombs wait at your command,
And, what is strange, both dressed by Nature's hand;
Like other fops they dread a sudden shower,

And seek a shelter in your closest bower;
Showy like them, like them they yield no fruit,
But then, to make amends, they both are mute.

EPITAPH ON A HARE

HERE lies whom hound did ne'er pursue
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,

And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,

And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath this walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

WRITTEN BY DESIRE OF LADY Austen, WHO WANTED WORDS TO THE MARCH IN "SCIPIO."

TOLL for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Her timbers yet are sound

And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII CUI GEORGIUS REGALE NOMEN

INDITUM

PLANGIMUS fortes. Periêre fortes,

Patrium propter periêre littus

Bis quater centum, subito sub alto

Equore mersi.

Navis innitens lateri jacebat,
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,
Cum levis, funes quatiens, ad imum
Depulit aura.

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam
Fortibus vitam voluêre parcæ,
Nec sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes
Nectere laurus,

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum,
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!
At tuos olim memorabit ævum
Omne triumphos.

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,
Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,
Fissa non rimis abies, nec atrox
Abstulit ensis.

Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosi
Voce fallebant hilari laborem,
Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-
pleverat heros.

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,
Humidum ex alto spolium levate,

Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos
Reddite amicis !

Hi quidem (sic dîs placuit) fuêre:
Sed ratis, nondum putris, ire possit
Rursus in bellum, Britonumque nomen
Tollere ad astra.

SONG ON PEACE

AIR-" My fond Shepherds of late"

No longer I follow a sound;
No longer a dream I pursue;
Oh Happiness! not to be found,
Unattainable treasure, adieu !

I have sought thee in splendour and dress,
In the regions of pleasure and taste;
I have sought thee, and seemed to possess,
But have proved thee a vision at last.

An humble ambition and hope

The voice of true wisdom inspires ; 'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope

And the summit of all our desires.

Peace may be the lot of the mind

That seeks it in meekness and love;

But rapture and bliss are confined
To the glorified spirits above.

SONG

AIR-" The Lass of Pattie's Mill"

WHEN all within is peace,

How nature seems to smile!
Delights that never cease

The livelong day beguile.
From morn to dewy eve,

With open hand she showers
Fresh blessings, to deceive

And soothe the silent hours.

It is content of heart

Gives nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees,

Can make a wintry sky

Seem bright as smiling May,

And evening's closing eye
As peep of early day.

The vast majestic globe,

So beauteously arrayed
In nature's various robe,
With wondrous skill displayed,
Is to a mourner's heart

A dreary wild at best ;

It flutters to depart

And longs to be at rest.