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 possesion.
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 chamber maid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconcious 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 aoubt,
Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away,
With her indeed 'twas never day,
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening grey 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
Resolv'd it should continue there.
At length a voice which he well 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.
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 SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.
Suns that set, and moons that wane,
Rise, and are restored again;
Stars that orient day subdues,
Night at her return renews.
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth
Of the genial womb of earth,
Suffer but a transient death,
From the winter's cruel breath,
Zephyr speaks; serener skies
Warm the glebe, and they arise.
We, alas! earth's haughty kings,
We, that promise mighty things,
Losing soon life's happy prime,
Droop, and fade in little time.
Spring returns, but not our bloom,
Still 'tis winter in the tomb.
ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE
REMAINS OF MILTON. 1790.
"Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then, but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest,
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
SONNET TO DIODATI, FROM THE ITALIAN.
Charles-and I say it wond'ring-thou must know
That I, who once assumed a scornful air,
And scoff'd at Love, am fallen in his snare.
(Full many an upright man has fallen so)
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow
Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair;
A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,
And song, whose fascinating power might bind,
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring moon;
With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.
SONNET TO A LADY, FROM THE ITALIAN.
Enamour'd, artless, young, on foreign ground, Uncertain whither from myself to fly,
To thee, dear lady, with an humble sigh,
Let me devote my heart, which I have found,
By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound,
Good, and addicted to conceptions high:
When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,
It rests in adamant self-wrapt around,
As safe from envy, and from outrage rude,
From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse,
As fond of genius and fix'd fortitude,
Of the resounding lyre, and every Muse,
Weak you will find it only in one part,
Now pierced with love's immedicable dart.
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1702,
Whence is it, that amazed I hear
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May.
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favor shown,
And 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,
Commision'd 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 e'en January charm,
And every season spring.
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