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She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would fleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,

But all unconscious whom it held.
Awaken'd by the fhock (cried Pufs)

"Was ever cat attended thus?
The open drawer was left, I fee,
Merely to prove a nest for me,

For foon as I was well compofed,

Then came the maid, and it was closed.

How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how fweet!

Oh what a delicate retreat!

I will refign myself to rest

Till Sol, declining in the west,

Shall call to fupper, when, no doubt,

Sufan will come and let me out."

The evening came, the fun defcended, And Pufs remain'd ftill unattended.

The night roll'd tardily away,

(With her indeed 'twas never day);
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,

The evening gray again enfued,

And pufs came into mind no more

Than if entomb'd the day before.

With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,

She now prefaged approaching doom,
Nor flept a single wink, or purr'd,

Confcious 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 faid-" What's that?"

He drew the curtain at his fide,

And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, gueff'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Refolved it fhould continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,

Confoled him and difpell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in hafte the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without ftop
The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well known to moft,
That whatsoever thing is loft,

We seek it, ere it come to light,

In every cranny but the right.

Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erft with airy felf-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehenfion
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modeft, fober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of reft
Any thing rather than a cheft.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head.

Moral.

Beware of too fublime a sense

Of your own worth and confequence :
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 fchool of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

1791.

THE JUDGEMENT OF THE POETS.

WO nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms poffeff'd,

A warm difpute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete
Had both alike been mild:

But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when fhe frown'd,
Would raise her voice, and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,
From all fuch frenzy clear,

Her frowns were feldom known to laft,
And never proved severe.

To poets of renown in fong

The nymphs referr'd the cause,

Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong,
And gave misplaced applause.

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,
The flippant and the scold,

And though the changed her mood fo oft,
That failing left untold.

No judges, fure, were e'er fo mad,

Or fo refolved to err

In short, the charms her fifter had
They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the God whom fondly they
Their great Infpirer call,

Was heard, one genial fummer's day,
To reprimand them all.

"Since thus ye have combined," he said, My favourite nymph to flight,

Adorning May, that peevish maid,

With June's undoubted right,

"The Minx shall, for your folly's fake, Still prove herself a fhrew,

Shall make your fcribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue."

May, 1791.

YARDLEY OAK.

URVIVOR fole, and hardly fuch, of all
That once lived here, thy brethren, at
my birth

(Since which I number threefcore winters paft),
A fhatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore,
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.
It seems idolatry with fome excuse,

When our forefather Druids in their oaks
Imagined fanctity. The confcience, yet
Unpurified by an authentic act

Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after tafte
Of fruit profcribed, as to a refuge, fled.

Thou waft a bauble once, a cup and ball Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,

Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd
The auburn nut that held thee, fwallowing down
Thy yet clofe-folded latitude of boughs
And all thine embryo vaftnefs at a gulp.
But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the foil

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