 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
My treat despatched, the Maid and Matron turned
To whispered consultation, leaving me,
Right glad, to seek amusement as I would.
No lack of that, though I had stayed for hours.—
There was the cat and kitten—always one,
A creature of immortal kittenhood,
For whom, suspended by a worsted thread
To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork
Dangled, perpetual plaything; there aloft
Among the crockery stood a small stuffed pug,
Natural as life, tight curled-up tail and all,
And eyes that glared a snarl; and there i' the sun
A venerable one-eyed cockatoo
With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage—
A sacred trust! by dying lips consigned,
With his life income, to Priscilla's care.
Then there were prints and pictures hung all round—
Prints of the Parables, and one rare piece,
A landscape—castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep,
All featherwork! Priscilla when she died
Bequeathed it to me. Poor old harmless soul!
That ever half-afraid I should have shrunk,
Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly:
But then she looked so strangely, and they said
Such strange things of her.
To whispered consultation, leaving me,
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No lack of that, though I had stayed for hours.—
There was the cat and kitten—always one,
A creature of immortal kittenhood,
For whom, suspended by a worsted thread
To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork
Dangled, perpetual plaything; there aloft
Among the crockery stood a small stuffed pug,
Natural as life, tight curled-up tail and all,
And eyes that glared a snarl; and there i' the sun
A venerable one-eyed cockatoo
With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage—
A sacred trust! by dying lips consigned,
With his life income, to Priscilla's care.
Then there were prints and pictures hung all round—
Prints of the Parables, and one rare piece,
A landscape—castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep,
All featherwork! Priscilla when she died
Bequeathed it to me. Poor old harmless soul!
That ever half-afraid I should have shrunk,
Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly:
But then she looked so strangely, and they said
Such strange things of her.
Well! and then—and then—
There was the “Book of Martyrs,” and “The Pilgrim,”
And fifty other rarities and treasures;
But chief—surpassing all—a cuckoo clock!
That crowning wonder! miracle of art!
How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes,
With held-in breath, and eyes intently fixed
On that small magic door, that when complete
The expiring hour—the irreversible—
Flew open with a startling suddenness
Which, though expected, sent the rushing blood
In mantling flushes o'er my upturned face;
And as the bird—that more than mortal fowl!—
With perfect mimicry of natural tone,
Note after note exact time's message told,
How my heart's pulse kept time with the charmed voice!
And when it ceased made simultaneous pause
As the small door clapt to, and all was still.
There was the “Book of Martyrs,” and “The Pilgrim,”
And fifty other rarities and treasures;
But chief—surpassing all—a cuckoo clock!
That crowning wonder! miracle of art!
How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes,
With held-in breath, and eyes intently fixed
On that small magic door, that when complete
The expiring hour—the irreversible—
Flew open with a startling suddenness
Which, though expected, sent the rushing blood
91
And as the bird—that more than mortal fowl!—
With perfect mimicry of natural tone,
Note after note exact time's message told,
How my heart's pulse kept time with the charmed voice!
And when it ceased made simultaneous pause
As the small door clapt to, and all was still.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |