“I remember, I remember,” how one night I “fleeted by,” And gain’d the blessed tiles and gazed into the cold clear sky. “I remember, I remember, how my little lovers came;” And there, beneath the crescent moon, play’d many a little game. They fought—by good St. Catharine, ’twas a fearsome sight to see The coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of one gigantic He. Like bow by some tall bowman bent at Hastings or Poictiers, His huge back curved, till none observed a vestige of his ears: He stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory moon; Then raised the pibroch of his race, the Song without a Tune; Gleam’d his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved darkly to and fro, As with one complex yell he burst, all claws, upon the foe. It thrills me now, that final Miaow—that weird unearthly din: Lone maidens heard it far away, and leap’d out of their skin. A potboy from his den o’erhead peep’d with a scared wan face; Then sent a random brickbat down, which knock’d me into space. Nine days I fell, or thereabouts: and, had we not nine lives, I wis I ne’er had seen again thy sausage-shop, St. Ives! Had I, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly I would lick The hand, and person generally, of him who heaved that brick! For me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the choice sardine: But ah! I nevermore shall be the cat I once have been! The memories of that fatal night they haunt me even now: In dreams I see that rampant He, and tremble at that Miaow. COMPANIONS. A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER. BY THE AUTHOR OF “DEWY MEMORIES,” &c. I KNOW not of what we ponder’d Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander’d Tow’rd the pool by the limetree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno’s own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone? What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurr’d with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears. Her teeth, I presume, were “pearly”: But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle’s wand? That I fail’d to remark;—it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond. Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine—was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! _My_ eyes were p’raps blurr’d; and besides I’d heard That it’s horribly rude to stare.