Читать книгу The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe - Various - Страница 72

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A poet's cat, sedate and grave

As poet well could wish to have,

Was much addicted to inquire

For nooks to which she might retire,

And where, secure as mouse in chink,

She might repose, or sit and think.

I know not where she caught the trick;

Nature perhaps herself had cast her

In such a mold 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,

Appareled 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 in 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' 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,

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 those '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, nor 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 next in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well know 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 comprehension,

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 stepped the poet into bed

With this reflection in his head: