THE RETIRED CAT [Written Aug, 1791.  Published by Hayley, 1803.] 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, debonair, An apple-tree or lofty pear, Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, She watched the gard'ner at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty wat'ring-pot, There, wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'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, Expos'd 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 draw'r,—it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use,— A draw'r 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 hum-drum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclin'd, The chambermaid, 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 draw'r 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, O 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 gray 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 presag'd 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 well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the draw'rs 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 ev'ry cranny 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 modest, sober, cur'd of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Any thing rather than a chest: Then stept the poet into bed, With this reflection in his head: MORAL 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. 10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 110

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