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Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step

alone, Where, with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou

oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause

and sadly think “ It was here be bowed his glossy neck when last

I saw him drink !” When last I saw thee drink !--Away ! the fever'd

dream is o'erI could not live a day, and know that we should

meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful !—for hunger's

power is strongThey tempted me, my beautiful! but I have lov'd

too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said

that thou wast sold ? 'Tis false—tis false, my Arab. steed! I fling them

back their gold! Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the

distant plains ; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains !

Mrs. Norton,

184.—THE SEA.
Beautiful, sublime, and glorious ;

Mild, majestic, foaming, free-
Over time itself victorious,

Image of eternity,

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Sun and moon, and stars shine o'er thee,

See thy surface ebb and flow;
Yet attempt not to explore thee

In thy soundless [1] depths below.
Whether morning's splendours steep thee

With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse, or pavies sweep thee,

'Tis but for a moment's space.
Earth—her vallies and her mountains,

Mortal man's behests obey ;
Thy unfathomable fountains

Scoff his search, and scorn his sway.
Such art thou-stupendous ocean!

But, if overwhelmed by thee,
Can we think, without emotion,
What must thy Creator be?

Bernard Barton.

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 watch'd the gardener at his work ; [1] Soundless--that cannot be fathomed or measured.

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 dress'd, 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.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind-
A drawer was hanging o'er the rest,
Half open, in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Inviting her to slumber there.
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession;
Then resting at her ease ere long,
And lulled by her own hum-drum 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 ill-natured thought impellid
But quite unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock, cried Puss,
“ 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 compos'd
Then came the maid, and it was clos'd.
How smooth these kerchiefs and how sweet!
Oh! what a delicate retreat.
I will resign myself to rest,
Till the sun, sinking 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 remained still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away, (With her, indeed, 'twas never day), The sprightly moon her course renew'd, The evening grey 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, · Feeling the risk she had 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, “ 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,
Resolv'd it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consol'd him and dispell’d his fears;

He left bis bed, he trod the floor, ; And '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 corner 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 sober, modest, cured of all
Her notions so fantastical ;
And wishing for her place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head :-

Beware of too sublime a sense.
Of your own worth and consequence!

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