Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull'd by her own hum-drum 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 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 unattended.
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,
And '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,
Anything 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.
A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill
Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound;
Then-all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones patter'd round.
Where leafless oaks tower'd high above,
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green :
A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floor
With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er,
And all the year the bower is green ;-
But see! where'er the hailstones drop
The wither'd leaves all skip and hop;
There's not a breeze, no breath of air,
Yet here, and there, and every where
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring
As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Goodfellow were there,
And all those leaves, in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me "Good-night" and be kissed;
Oh! the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace;
Oh! the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face.
And when they are gone I sit dreaming childhood too lovely to last;
Of love that my heart will remember,
While it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin;
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
Oh! my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths, steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;
Oh! there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses;
His glory still gleams in their eyes.
Oh! those truants from home and from heaven
They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know now how Jesus could liken
The Kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life for the dear ones
All radiant, as others have done;
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
would bound back to myself;
Oh! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the wisdom of God.
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them from breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the Autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones
That mustered each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "Good-nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And Death says,
"The school is dismissed!"
May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me "Good-night" and be kissed.
|