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Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born ?
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb ?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have

toil'd
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.

It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must pop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve and die.

May, 1791.

THE RETIRED CAT.*

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, * Cowper's partiality to animals is well known. Lady Hesketh, in one of her letters, states, “ that he had, at one time, five rabbits, three bares, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a ay, and a starling; besides two goldfinches, two canary birds, and two dogs. It is amazing how the three hares can find room to gambol and frolic (as they certainly do) in his small parlour;' and she adds, “ I forgot to enumerate a squirrel, whicb

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 mould philosophique,

Or else she learn'd it of her master
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd 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
Apparell’d 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 :

he had at the same time, and which used to play with one of the hares continually. One evening, the cat giving one of the bares a sound box on the car, the hare ran after her, and, having caught her, punished her by drumming on her back with her two feet, as bard as drum-sticks, till the creature would have actually been killed, had not Mrs. Unwin rescued her.”

She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with 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
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull’d 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 impell’d,
But all unconscious whom it held.

Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) 6 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 these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
O 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 remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away,
(With her indeed 'twas never day,)
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb’d the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious 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 said_6 What's that?” He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd 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 dispellid his fears :
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
- That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
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 stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head :

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence:
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 school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.

1791.

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