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While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;

While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire;

The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
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 coil 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 emblem 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 favored 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 savory food.

Nor, when thy span of life is 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.

BIRTHDAY LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE.

Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears,
O'er us have glided almost sixty years

Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen

By those whose eyes long closed in death have been-
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather
The slender harebell on the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that crossed our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew;
And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright,
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,'
Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

'Twas thon who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book,

The Manse of Bothwell was at some considerable distance from the Clyde, but the two little girls were sometimes sent there in summer to bathe and wade about.

That thing by me abhorred, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
"What! is this story all thine own invention ?”
Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mixed world began,
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy
(A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not concealed) did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went, the greater favor gain;
While, but for thee, vexed with its tossing tide,
I from the busy world had shrunk aside.
And now, in later years, with better grace,
Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place
With those whom nearer neighborhood have made
The friendly cheerers of our evening shade.

By daily use and circumstance endeared,
Things are of value now that once appeared
Of no account, and without notice passed,
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast;
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;
After each stated nightly absence, met

To see thee by the morning tables set,

Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream

Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam: To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand,

On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand

For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom
From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come,
In furry garment lapt, with spattered feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat;

Ay, even o'er things like these sooth'd age has thrown
A sober charm they did not always own-
As winter hoarfrost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedgeweed sparkle to the day
In magnitude and beauty, which, bereav'd
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceiv'd.

The change of good and evil to abide,
As partners linked, long have we, side by side,
Our earthly journey held; and who can say
How near the end of our united way?
By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft
Will she remain-the lonely pilgrim left.

If thou art taken first, who can to me

Like sister, friend, and home-companion be?
Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,

Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn?

And if I should be fated first to leave

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,
And he above them all, so truly proved

A friend and brother, long and justly loved,
There is no living wight, of woman born,

Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling

The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing

The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring-
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,
An unadorned, but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid

From tardy love proceeds, though long delay'd.
Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed,
The latest spoken still are deemed the best:
Few are the measured rhymes I now may write;
These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite.

SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762

"And thou, melodious Rogers, rise at last,
Recall the pleasing memory of the past;
Arise; let blest remembrance still inspire,
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre!
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne,

Assert thy country's honor and thine own."-BYRON.

SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant poets of the present century, was the son of an eminent banker in London, and was born in that city about the year 1762. He presents a rare instance of great wealth allied to great talents, untiring industry in literary pursuits, and pure morals. No expense, of course, was spared in his education, and after leaving the university, he travelled through most of the countries of Europe. On his return he published, in 1786, an " Ode to Superstition, with other Poems," which was well received. About six years after, when he had attained his thirtieth year, appeared "The Pleasures of Memory," which was received by the public with universal applause, and at once established his fame as among the best of our modern poets. The subject was most happily chosen, for it came home "to the business and bosoms" of all, and it was executed with exceedingly great care. It has been said that no poem of equal size ever cost its author so many hours to produce. Not satisfied

with correcting and re-correcting it again and again himself, he read it to various friends for the benefit of their criticism; and the result is that it is perfectly finished throughout, each part harmonizing with the other, and every line carefully and tastefully elaborated. "It acquired," says a writer in the "Edinburgh Review," "a popularity originally very great, and which has not only continued amidst extraordinary fluctuation of general taste, but increased amidst a succession of formidable competitors. No production so popular was probably so little censured by criticism. It was approved by the critics as much as read and applauded, and thus seemed to combine the applause of contemporaries with the suffrages of the representatives of posterity."

In 1798, Rogers published his "Epistle to a Friend, with other Poems," but did not come forward again as a poet till 1812, when he added to a collected edition of his works his somewhat irregular poem of "The Vision of Columbus." Two years after, in company with Lord Byron's "Lara," appeared his tale of "Jacqueline," which, though well received, contributed but little to his reputation; and, in 1819, he published his "Human Life," which, next to his "Pleasures of Memory," is our author's most finished production. The subject was a good one, for it was drawn from universal nature, and connected with all those rich associations which increase in attraction as we journey onward in the path of life. It is an epitome of man from the cradle to the grave, and is executed throughout with the poet's wonted care.

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In 1822 was published his first part of "Italy," which was soon after completed, and has since been published in the most splendid style, illustrated by numerous engravings. This is his last and longest, but not his best performance, though there are certainly many beautifully descriptive passages in it-delightful glimpses of Italian life and scenery, and old traditions; for the poet was an accomplished traveller, a lover of the fair and good, and a worshipper of the classic glories of the past. But it is chiefly as the author of the "Pleasures of Memory" that he will be known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse which the poets of this age have produced. In all his works, however, there is every where seen "a classic and graceful beauty; no slovenly or obscure lines; fine cabinet pictures of soft and mellow lustre; and occasionally trains of thought and association that awaken or recall tender and heroic feelings. His diction is clear and polished-finished with great care and scrupulous nicety; but it must be admitted that he has no forcible or original invention, no deep

"The poet looks on man, and teaches us to look on him not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy, little career, and for the disappointments and weaknesses with which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled."

Edinburgh Review, vol, xxxi p. 325.

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