THE CAT: 



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, un- 

 earthly din; 



Lone maidens heard it far away, and leap'd out of 

 their skin; 



A pot-boy 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 



129 



