 | Poems (1931) |  |
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No. 43. Caroline's Squirrel
On mortal Blis no Mortal may rely
As Kings and Heroes, Squirrels too must die.
How soon, poor Bunny, are thy pleasures fled,
The Day, that saw thee envy'd, mourns thee Dead.
What can the Nymph's Caresses now avail?
She stroak'd thy Furr and prais'd thy shadowy Tail,
On her soft Lap she lull'd thee to thy Rest;
She made thy pillow of her swelling Breast!
She cull'd with care the Choice of ev'ry Tree,
And thought the Filberts only grew for Thee!
Why woud'st thou Die? why Life & Love resign?
When thou had'st Nuts enough and Caroline?
As Death's cold damp his Heart began to chill,
And his Pulse languish'd, and his Eyes stood still,
[OMITTED]
Why are thy Gifts, fond Maid, so ill apply'd?
On Death bestow'd to Life and Love deny'd?
How blest were I, if in thy Fav'rite's stead,
So lov'd when Living, and so mourn'd when Dead.
As Kings and Heroes, Squirrels too must die.
How soon, poor Bunny, are thy pleasures fled,
The Day, that saw thee envy'd, mourns thee Dead.
What can the Nymph's Caresses now avail?
She stroak'd thy Furr and prais'd thy shadowy Tail,
On her soft Lap she lull'd thee to thy Rest;
She made thy pillow of her swelling Breast!
She cull'd with care the Choice of ev'ry Tree,
And thought the Filberts only grew for Thee!
Why woud'st thou Die? why Life & Love resign?
When thou had'st Nuts enough and Caroline?
As Death's cold damp his Heart began to chill,
And his Pulse languish'd, and his Eyes stood still,
[OMITTED]
Why are thy Gifts, fond Maid, so ill apply'd?
On Death bestow'd to Life and Love deny'd?
How blest were I, if in thy Fav'rite's stead,
So lov'd when Living, and so mourn'd when Dead.
As through the lonesome Glade in doleful Strains
All night the childless Philomel complains,
Oft round her empty Nest she fondly flies,
Robb'd by rough Swains before the Mother's Eyes,
Then on some blasted Bough renews her Lay,
Resign'd to Grief, and sings her Soul away:
So the sad Damsell wanders all alone,
And mourns her pretty Minion dead and gone;
Each once lov'd Object now renews her Rage,
The lonely Window and the widow'd Cage,
The half-crack'd Filberts scatter'd round the Floor,
And the bright Chain the patient Captive wore;
No more shall wear. By Fate's severe Decree
The Hand of Death has set the captive free
All night the childless Philomel complains,
Oft round her empty Nest she fondly flies,
Robb'd by rough Swains before the Mother's Eyes,
Then on some blasted Bough renews her Lay,
Resign'd to Grief, and sings her Soul away:
So the sad Damsell wanders all alone,
And mourns her pretty Minion dead and gone;
Each once lov'd Object now renews her Rage,
The lonely Window and the widow'd Cage,
The half-crack'd Filberts scatter'd round the Floor,
And the bright Chain the patient Captive wore;
No more shall wear. By Fate's severe Decree
The Hand of Death has set the captive free
228
Indulgent Nature form'd him fit to roame,
And gave the spacious Forest for his Home,
Twixt Earth & Skies his glorious Lot assign'd,
And made him Rival of the Feather'd kind:
Yet when ensnar'd by humane Wiles he fell,
Meek he resign'd and bore his Fortune well,
His lovely Keeper half consol'd his Woe,
And reconcil'd him to these Realms below.
He gently yielded to her sov'rain Pow'r,
And bit his Mistresse only once an hour;
So void of mischief that he us'd to break
A China-Cup but twice three times a week,
Or tore, poor Fellow! as his Fancy led,
Her spotless Sassnet, and her Mechlen Head.
Why would He die &c.
And gave the spacious Forest for his Home,
Twixt Earth & Skies his glorious Lot assign'd,
And made him Rival of the Feather'd kind:
Yet when ensnar'd by humane Wiles he fell,
Meek he resign'd and bore his Fortune well,
His lovely Keeper half consol'd his Woe,
And reconcil'd him to these Realms below.
He gently yielded to her sov'rain Pow'r,
And bit his Mistresse only once an hour;
So void of mischief that he us'd to break
A China-Cup but twice three times a week,
Or tore, poor Fellow! as his Fancy led,
Her spotless Sassnet, and her Mechlen Head.
Why would He die &c.
Thee, Bunny, thee e'en Pug thy Rival mourns,
Sighs back thy Sighs, and Groan for Groan returns:
For Thee the scarlet-bosom'd Linnet moans
In ruffled Feathers, and un-finish'd Tones:
For Thee poor Mopsy whindles round the Room,
And pretty Poll and Abigal are dumb.
Pensive She sits her knitting at a stand,
Nor shoots her Shuttle through her wither'd Hand,
Nor rails at Girls nor puzzles o'er the news,
Nor spells Receits, as sober Huswives use;
Ah! no Receit, in Kent's wise Countesse read,
No Soupes, no Sauces, can revive the Dead.
Why wou'd He Die &c.
Sighs back thy Sighs, and Groan for Groan returns:
For Thee the scarlet-bosom'd Linnet moans
In ruffled Feathers, and un-finish'd Tones:
For Thee poor Mopsy whindles round the Room,
And pretty Poll and Abigal are dumb.
Pensive She sits her knitting at a stand,
Nor shoots her Shuttle through her wither'd Hand,
Nor rails at Girls nor puzzles o'er the news,
Nor spells Receits, as sober Huswives use;
Ah! no Receit, in Kent's wise Countesse read,
No Soupes, no Sauces, can revive the Dead.
Why wou'd He Die &c.
And art thou Dead! for ever Dead and Cold!
Poor Trifler! scarce two little Summers old.
Past fourscore Years dull Aldermen survive,
And Maiden Aunts look smug at Fifty-five:
The plagues of Nature Time with pain destroys,
But fleet and momentary are her Joys.
So the curst Thistle and the Nettle rear
Their hateful Heads, and flourish through the Year,
But short the time the Virgin Snow-drop blows,
And short the Fragrance of the blushing Rose;
Their Pride, their Sweets, that with the Morn begun,
Decline and wither in the Setting Sun.
Poor Trifler! scarce two little Summers old.
Past fourscore Years dull Aldermen survive,
And Maiden Aunts look smug at Fifty-five:
The plagues of Nature Time with pain destroys,
But fleet and momentary are her Joys.
So the curst Thistle and the Nettle rear
Their hateful Heads, and flourish through the Year,
But short the time the Virgin Snow-drop blows,
And short the Fragrance of the blushing Rose;
Their Pride, their Sweets, that with the Morn begun,
Decline and wither in the Setting Sun.
Yet cease, my Fair, to mourn his shorten'd Date.
If Verse can live, and poets conquer Fate,
Far distant Ages shall record his Fame,
The lovely Fav'rite of the loveliest Dame.
Like Lesbia's Sparrow sung by Roman Knights,
Like Martial's Issa grac'd with Fun'ral Rites
He too shall last: and future Bards compare
The Squirrel's Tail with Berenice's Hair.
If Verse can live, and poets conquer Fate,
229
The lovely Fav'rite of the loveliest Dame.
Like Lesbia's Sparrow sung by Roman Knights,
Like Martial's Issa grac'd with Fun'ral Rites
He too shall last: and future Bards compare
The Squirrel's Tail with Berenice's Hair.
[Tickell papers.]
| Poems (1931) | |