"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 The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred 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 Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to ev'ry wat'ry god Some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.

“The Progress of Poesy”

it begins: Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers that round them blow Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of Music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign; Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

“The Bard”

a long poem that begins: 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria'sÊ curse, from Cambria's tears!' Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 10 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideÊ He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

Robert Blair

A Scottish poet,his sole work, “The Grave” (1743), is a poem written in blank verse, and is much less conventional than its gloomy title might lead one to expect. Its religious subject no doubt contributed to its great popularity, especially in Scotland. It extends to 767 lines of very various merit, in some passages rising to great sublimity, and in others sinking to commonplace. It inspired William Blake to undertake a series of twelve illustrative designs, which were engraved by Luigi Schiavonetti, and published in 1808.