WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?
What boots it, who, with sweet caresses,
First called thee his, or squire or hind?
For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.
Thy downcast glances,-grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;
Thy shyness swiftly from me running,—
"Tis infantine coquetry all!
But far a-field thou hast not flown,
With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken; I feel thee pulling at my gown,—
Of right good will thy simple token.
And thou must laugh, and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging!
To make, as wily lovers do,
Thy after kindness more engaging!
The wilding rose-sweet as thyself—
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure;
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.
But yet, for all thy merry look,
Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing.
Well, let it be! Through weal and wo, Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change.
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;
And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing faggot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight:
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a Madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern Muse
Expression technical to use,)
These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too, thy feats repay:
For then, beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou takest thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides;
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur,—
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire,
Do rustics rude thy tricks admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles, with altered air,
To see thee climb his elbow chair;
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widowed dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball;
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,-
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles a link in thee to find,
That joins him still to living kind.
Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus ? Is it, that in thy glaring eye And rapid movements, we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill, A lion, darting on the prey? A tiger, at his ruthless play? Or, is it, that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem, viewed with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly-sportive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown, Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, When thou becomest a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board. And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favoured playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove, When time hath spoiled thee of our love; Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat,
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