In such a mould PHILOSOPHIQUE,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched 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,
Apparelled 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 wished 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' useA 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 · Surveyed the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long, And lulled 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 impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened 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 remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away,
(With her indeed 'twas never day,)
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before.
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

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 peeped, but nothing spied ;
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned 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 dispelled 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 skipped 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
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stepped 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.

ON THE REFUSAL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD TO SUBSCRIBE TO

his TRANSLATION OF HOMER

Could Homer come himself, distressed and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedycina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)
“Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here !”

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1792

WHENCE is it that amazed I hear

From yonder withered spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,

The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd

To witness it alone ?

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song ?

Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commissioned to presage a course

Of happier days at hand ?

Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing
To make even January charm,

And every season Spring.

To a Young Lady WHO STOLE A PEN FROM THE PRINCE OF

Wales' STANDISH

Sweet Nymph, who art, it seems, accused

Of stealing George's pen,
Use it thyself, and having used

E'en give it him again.

The plume of his that has one scrap

Of thy good sense expressed
Will be a feather in his cap

Worth more than all his crest.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS AND

SIGNATURES, MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE

In vain to live from age to age

While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.

W. COWPER.

EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TamE REDBREAST

A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS
THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,

And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears,

With too much cause, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand

As he was wont to come
And, on her finger perched, to stand

Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarmed she called him and perplext

She sought him, but in vain ;
That day he came not, nor the next,

Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb,

Though where he fell or how
None knows, so secret was his doom,

Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died

In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,

Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold

Nor spiritlessly tame,
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,

But always in a flame.

To Sir John FENN Two omens seem propitious to my fame, Your spouse embalms my verse, and you my name; A name, which, all self-fattery far apart, Belongs to one who venerates in his heart The wise and good, and therefore, of the few Known by those titles, sir, both yours and you.