The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
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 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
114
THE CAT.
Let me beseech you, Sirs, forbear to blame—
I'm half afraid to tell my subject's name:
Men have aversions—some to this, some that;—
Does any body here dislike a Cat?—
I'm half afraid to tell my subject's name:
Men have aversions—some to this, some that;—
Does any body here dislike a Cat?—
—Pray let him speak, who hates the theme I try:
For not to mince the matter, so do I.
I've toil'd full sore for rhyme, and pump'd for sense:
One would not take such pains, to give offence.—
—Well, Gentlemen, be free;—condemn my part:—
I'll drop it for your sakes, with all my heart.
What! mute?—will no good creature take my hint?
—Then you must take my verse—that's all that's in't.
For not to mince the matter, so do I.
I've toil'd full sore for rhyme, and pump'd for sense:
One would not take such pains, to give offence.—
—Well, Gentlemen, be free;—condemn my part:—
I'll drop it for your sakes, with all my heart.
What! mute?—will no good creature take my hint?
—Then you must take my verse—that's all that's in't.
115
Fain would I here relate the Honours won
By Wight of old ycleped Whittington;
How with his Cat, to distant lands he came;
And sav'd—from vermin—Realms without a name;
How London City thrice beneath his sway,
Confirm'd the presage of that happy day,
When echoing bells their greeting thus begun,
“Return, thrice Mayor! Return, O Whittington!”
—But themes like these, to loftier Bards belong;
Too weak my voice, too simple is my song:
If things of humbler import grace my lays,
Enough for me the burthen, and the praise.
By Wight of old ycleped Whittington;
How with his Cat, to distant lands he came;
And sav'd—from vermin—Realms without a name;
How London City thrice beneath his sway,
Confirm'd the presage of that happy day,
When echoing bells their greeting thus begun,
“Return, thrice Mayor! Return, O Whittington!”
—But themes like these, to loftier Bards belong;
Too weak my voice, too simple is my song:
If things of humbler import grace my lays,
Enough for me the burthen, and the praise.
Oft at the social hearth my soul has hung,
Intently anxious, on the matron's tongue,
Whose fertile fancy, by tradition led,
In every object, Fate's dark purpose read;
Much mystic lore of various use she knew;
Why coals seem coffins, and why flames burn blue.
But ne'er did sign so firm belief procure
Not ev'n the winding-sheet was half so sure,
As when her Cat th' important omen gave;
Alike significant, if gay or grave.—
If with her tail Puss play'd, in frolic mood,
Herself pursuing, by herself pursu'd,
See! cry'd my Nurse, she bids for rain prepare;
A storm, besure, is gathering in the air:
If near the fire the kitten's back was found,
Frost was at hand, and snows hung hovering round:
Her paw prophetic, rais'd above her ear,
Foretold a visit, for some friend was near.
Intently anxious, on the matron's tongue,
Whose fertile fancy, by tradition led,
In every object, Fate's dark purpose read;
Much mystic lore of various use she knew;
Why coals seem coffins, and why flames burn blue.
116
Not ev'n the winding-sheet was half so sure,
As when her Cat th' important omen gave;
Alike significant, if gay or grave.—
If with her tail Puss play'd, in frolic mood,
Herself pursuing, by herself pursu'd,
See! cry'd my Nurse, she bids for rain prepare;
A storm, besure, is gathering in the air:
If near the fire the kitten's back was found,
Frost was at hand, and snows hung hovering round:
Her paw prophetic, rais'd above her ear,
Foretold a visit, for some friend was near.
Nor did the Cat the Dame alone employ;
Her Cat had something to engage her Boy.
How has my bosom beat, when stolen aside,
By facts the truth of strange reports I tried;
Saw thro' deep night her eyes' relucent rays;
And taught her fur with lambent fires to blaze!
Her Cat had something to engage her Boy.
How has my bosom beat, when stolen aside,
By facts the truth of strange reports I tried;
Saw thro' deep night her eyes' relucent rays;
And taught her fur with lambent fires to blaze!
117
“Cease, Trifler, cease,” methinks I hear you say,
“From nursery legends, and from children's play:”—
—'Tis just reproof—I feel it, and obey.—
“From nursery legends, and from children's play:”—
—'Tis just reproof—I feel it, and obey.—
Yet let me tell you, vain as they appear,
These trifles pleas'd, when pleasure was sincere;
To joys, in age unknown, they rais'd the breast,
Form'd all it's cares, and bade those cares be blest.
These trifles pleas'd, when pleasure was sincere;
To joys, in age unknown, they rais'd the breast,
Form'd all it's cares, and bade those cares be blest.
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |