THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. [MAY, 1791.] Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, The worth of each had been complete, But one, although her smile was sweet, And in her humour, when she frown'd, The other was of gentler cast, Her frowns were seldom known to last, 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 Then thus the god whom fondly they Was heard, one genial summer's day, "Since thus ye have combined," he said, “The minx shall, for your folly's sake, EPITAPH ON MRS M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON. [1791.] LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight : 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 I know not where she caught the trick— Or else she learn'd it of her master. Lodged with convenience in the fork, 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. Was cold and comfortless within; 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, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock, cried Puss, 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; And to himself he said—" What 's that?" And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied; Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd At length, a voice which well he knew, Consoled him, and dispell'd his fears; He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, For 'tis a truth well known to most, MORAL. Beware of too sublime a sense |