Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,
The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd ;
But these (for none his appetite controll'd
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold,
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,
He bore them over to the public mart;
Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load
Of cash well earn'd, he took his homeward road,
Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.
There at no cost, on onions, rank and red,
Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed ;
On scallions slic'd, or, with a sensual gust,
On rockets-foul provocatives of lust!
Nor even shunn'd, with smarting gums, to press
Nasturtium-pungent face-distorting mess!
Some such regale was now also in his thought,
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought;
There delving with his hands he first displac'd
Four plants of garlic, large and rooted fast;
The tender tops of parsley next he culls,
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,
And coriander last to these succeeds,
That hangs on slightest threads, her trembling seeds, Plac'd near his sprightly fire he now demands
The mortar at his sable servant's hands!
When stripping all the garlic first, he tore
Th' exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,
Then cast away with like contempt the skin,
Flimsier concealment of cloves within.
These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one
Rins'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone.
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,
With his injected herbs he cover'd these,
And tucking with his left his tunic tight,
And seizing fast the pestle with his right,
The garlic bruising first he soon express'd,
And mix'd the various juices of the rest.
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below
Lost in each other their own powers forego,
And with the cheese in compound, to the sight
Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent,
He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent,
Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke
The trickling tears, cried-" Vengeance on the smoke!"
The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow;
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills,
Some drops of olive-oil he next instils;
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less,
And gathering to a ball the medley mess :
Last, with two fingers frugally applied,
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side,
And thus complete in figure and in kind,
Obtains at length the Salad he design'd.
And now black Cybale before him stands,
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands,
He glad receives it, chasing far away
All fears of famine for the passing day;
His legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led
And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,
Then drove afield and plung'd the pointed share.
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.
I know not where she caught the trick,
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair
An apple tree, or lofty pear,
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gard'ner at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering pot.
There wanting nothing save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparel'd in exactest 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 utensil of tin,
Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene 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 chanc'd at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use.
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there:
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song.
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last.
When in came, housewifely inclin'd,
The chamber maid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held,
Awaken'd 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 closed. How smooth these kerchiefs and how sweet,
Of what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining 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 remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away,
With her indeed 'twas never day
The sprightly morn 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,
Conscious of jeopardy 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 he well knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Conscl'd him and dispell'd his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers t' 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 cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As first with airy self-conceit;
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention?
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a 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:
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation,
The folly of his expectation.
FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY,
WHERE Humber pours her rich commercial stream,
There dwelt a wretch, who breath'd but to blaspheme.
In subterraneous caves his life he led,
Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread
When on a day emerging from the deep,
A Sabbath day (such Sabbaths thousands keep!)
The wages of his weekly toil he bore
To buy a cock-whose blood might buy him more;
As if the noblest of the feather'd kind
Were but for battle and for death design'd;
As if the consecrated hours were meant
For sport to minds on cruelty intent;
It chanc'd (such chances Providence obey)
He met a fellow labourer on his way,
Whose heart the same desires had once inflam'd;
But now the savage temper was reclaim'd.
Persuasion on his lips had taken place;
For all plead well, who plead the cause of grace;
His iron heart with Scripture he assail'd,
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd.
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,
Swift as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew.
He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,
To find a worse than he; but none he found.
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