THE CAT 



Sad Memories 



They tell me I am beautiful, they praise my silken 



hair, 

 My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair ; 

 They praise my pretty, trustful face, and innocent 



grey eye; 

 Fond hands caress me oftentimes, — yet would that I 



might die ! 



Why was I born to be abhorr'd of man, and bird, and 



beast ? 

 The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his 



song hath ceased; 

 The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; 



and, worse than that, 

 The house-dog he flees after me, — why was I born a 



cat? 



Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his 



native land, 

 Who wags a mercenary tail, and licks a tyrant hand. 

 The leal true cat they prize not, that, if e'er compelTd 



to roam, 

 Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home. 



They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or song- 

 bird feels? 



in 



