CXXVI

THE FOX AND THE CAT

The fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way: "Tis great,' says the Fox, 'to make justice our guide!'

'How god-like is mercy!' Grimalkin replied.

Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,

Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, Rush'd forth-as he saw the dull shepherd asleepAnd seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. 'In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand,' says the wolf, 'I must eat.'

Grimalkin's astonish'd !—the fox stood aghast, To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.

'What a wretch,' says the cat, "'tis the vilest of brutes;

Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots?'

Cries the fox, 'While our oaks give us acorns so good,

What a tyrant is this to spill innocent blood!'

Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd

still,

Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill.

Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes, And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize.

A mouse, too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray, The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey.

A spider that sat in her web on the wall, Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pitied their fall; She cried, 'Of such murders, how guiltless am I!' So ran to regale on a new-taken fly.

F. Cunningham

CXXVII

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY

The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When, 'scaped from literary cares,
I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree,—

(Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace
That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,

Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd
His lilies newly blown ;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,
And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;

But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains

With fix'd considerate face,

And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But, with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,

I thence withdrew, and follow'd long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd ;
Beau trotted far before,

The floating wreath again discern'd,
And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd,
Impatient swim to meet

My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried, 'Shall hear of this thy deed;

My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed ;

But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,

To show a love as prompt as thine

To Him who gives me all.'

W. Cowper

CXXVIII

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves ;
Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

S. Rogers

CXXIX

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

In ancient times, as story tells,

The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd habits went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the stroller's canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,

Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would take them in.
Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,

Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last
Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire ;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd ;
For both were frightened to the heart,
And just began to cry, 'What art!'
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
'Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints,' the hermits said;
'No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;