Pausing, smiles, with altered air,
To see thee climb his elbow chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widowed dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page ;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey ?
A tiger, at his ruthless play ?
Or, is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emble, viewed with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled,

To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becomest a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoiled thee of our love;
Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenished oft with savoury food.

Nor, when thy span of life be past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glistening eyes,

The place where poor old Pussy lies.
Edinburgh Annual Register.



The Hero may perish, his country to save,

And he lives in the records of fame; The Sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave

Ever honoured and blessed be his name!

But virtue that silently toils or expires,

No wreath for the brow to entwine; That asks but a smile_but a fond sigh requires.

O Woman! that virtue is thine.



TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant bow ?

When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place

To cold material laws.

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High Have told, why first thy robe of beams

Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled

O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child

To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,

And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam :
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee its incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields

The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O’er mountain, tower, and town!
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age

That first spoke peace to man.
New Monthly Magazine.


As the rose of the valley, when dripping with dew,
Is the sweetest in odour and brightest in hue;
So the glance of dear woman most lovely appears,
When it beams from her eloquent eye through her tears !


She was one
Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung
With myrtle and with laurel; on whose head
Genius had shed his starry glories,-transcripts
of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment.

She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked
On her in love and wonder ;-thousands knelt
And worshipped in her presence ;-burning tears,
And words that died in utterance, and a pause
Of breathless agitated eagerness,
First gave the full heart's homage; then came forth
A shout that rose to heaven, and the hills,
The distant valleys, all rang with the name
Of the Æolian Sappho !-Every heart
Found in itself some echo to her song.
Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh,-
And some gone by for ever-glorious dreams,
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts
That dwell upon the absent and the dead,
Were breathing in her music—and these are
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed,
Her colour's varying with deep emotion-
There is a softer blush than conscious pride
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile
Is all a woman's timid tenderness.
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days
And feelings warm have rushed on her soul
With all their former influence ;-thoughts that slept
Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life ;-
Whole years' existence have passed in that glance..
She had once loved in very early days;
That was a thing gone by. One had called forth
The music of her soul.--He loved her too,
But not as she did :- she was unto him
As a young bird, whose early flight he trained,
Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught

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