Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think Still is the toiling hand of Care; To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay In Fortune's varying colours drest : Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes. "TWAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed Her conscious tail her joy declared: The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view The hapless nymph with wonder saw : With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize. Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A fav'rite has no friend! |