Classic Poem

When vernal nature smiled around,
And all was fresh and gay,
When opening flow'rets deck'd the ground,
In honor of the May,

Then luckless Bully left my cot!
His loss I still deplore;
For ruthless grief hath been my lot,
Since Bully was no more!

Ye thoughtless Cats — O lend an ear,
How can ye frisk and play?
While pensive Muses drop the tear,
To see ye all so gay:

How were ye wont to watch each look,
His ev'ry turn pursue;
And when in mews my Bully spoke,
Ye echo'd back the mew.

The fairest female of the train,
In native ermine drest,
Of em'ral'd eye and whisker vain
And vain of snowy breast —

All disregardful of the throng,
Would woo him to the grove;
Ere Philomel returned her song —
Her song of plaintive love.

But now regardless of his doom,
Ye negligently stray;
Nor call the genii round the tomb,
To raise the fun'ral lay:

When cats like him, submit to fate
And seek the stygian strand;
In silent woe, and mimic state,
Should mourn the feline band.

For me — full oft at eventide,
Enrapt in thought profound —
I hear his solemn footsteps glide,
And startle at the sound!

Oft as the murm'ring gale draws near
(To fancy's rule consigned)
His tuneful purr salutes mine ear
Soft floating on the wind.

Among the aerial train, perchance,
My Bully now resides;
Or with the nymphs leads up the dance —
Or skims the argent tides:

Ye rapid Muses haste away,
His wand'ring shade attend,
Hunt him thro' bush and fallow gray,
And up the hill ascend:

O'er russet heath extend your view
And thro' th' imbrowning wood;
On the brisk gale his form pursue
Or trace him o'er the flood:

If he a lucid Sylph should fly,
With various hues bedight;
The Muse's keen pervading eye,
Shall catch the streaming light:

Or if transformed to a Faun,
Or Satyr droll he rove;
You'll find him on the upland lawn,
Or 'neath the shelt'ring grove:

If gliding down the gurgling rill
You mark a Naiad fair,
Perchance your all discerning skill
May find the vagrant there.

Bring, O ye Muses, to mine ear,
The story of his doom;
Or with his pensive mistress rear,
The solitary tomb:

We'll hang the chaplets round the stone,
In elegies deplore, —
That Bully, best of cats, is flown,
And purrs — alas! no more.