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SELECT POETRY

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,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
Sometimes ascending, with an air,

An apple-tree, or lofty pear,

Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work ;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot ;
There, wanting nothing but a fan,

To seem some nymph in her sedan,
In ermine dressed, of finest 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 watering-pot of tin

Was cold and comfortless within:

She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more secure 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.