ON THE DEATH OF HIS FAVORITE CAT. THOMAS GRAY. "Twas on a lofty vase's side, Her conscious tail her joy declared: Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue The hapless Nymph with wonder saw; With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain, to reach the prizeWhat female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Not all that tempts your wandering eyes LLYN-Y-DREIDDIAD-VRAWD. (The Pool of the Diving Friar.) T. L. PEACOCK. Gwenwynwyn withdrew from the feasts of his hall; He slept very late, he prayed not at all; He pondered, and wandered, and studied alone; And sought, night and day, the philosopher's stone. He found it at length, and he made its first proof Who lived but to smite and be smitten for hire. With these, on the plains like a torrent he broke; He filled the whole country with flame and with smoke; He killed all the swine, and he broached all the wine; He drove off the sheep, and the beeves, and the kine. He took castles and towns; he cut short limbs and lives; He made orphans and widows of children and wives: This course many years he triumphantly ran, And did mischief enough to be called a great man. When, at last, he had gained all for which he had striven, He bethought him of buying a passport to heaven; Good and great as he was, yet he did not well know How soon, or which way, his great spirit might go. He sought the grey friars, who, beside a wild stream, Refected their frames on a primitive scheme; The gravest and wisest Gwenwynwyn found out, All lonely and ghostly, and angling for trout. Below the white dash of a mighty cascade, Where a pool of the stream a deep resting-place made, And rock-rooted oaks stretched their branches on high, The friar stood musing and throwing his fly. To him said Gwenwynwyn, "Hold, father, here's store, For the good of the church, and the good of the poor;" Then he gave him the stone; but, ere more he could speak, Wrath came on the friar, so holy and meek. He had stretched forth his hand to receive the red gold, And he thought himself mocked by Gwenwynwyn the Bold; And in scorn of the gift, and in rage at the giver, Gwenwynwyn, aghast, not a syllable spake; Gwenwynwyn regained, and uplifted, his voice: "Oh friar, grey friar, full rash was thy choice; |