THE
LINNET
AND
THE
CAT
.
WHEN
fading
Autumn's
latest
hours
Strip
the
brown
wood
,
and
chill
the
flowers
,
—
When
evening
,
wint'ry
,
short
,
and
pale
,
Expires
in
many
a
hollow
gale
,
—
And
only
morn
herself
looks
gay
,
When
first
she
throws
her
quiv'ring
ray
Where
the
light
frost
congeals
the
dew
,
Flushing
the
turf
with
purple
hue
;
Gay
bloom
,
whose
transient
glow
can
shed
A
charm
like
Summer
when
'tis
fled
!
—
A
Linnet
among
leafless
trees
Sung
,
in
the
pauses
of
the
breeze
,
His
farewell
note
,
to
fancy
dear
,
That
ends
the
music
of
the
year
.
The
short'ning
day
,
the
sadd'ning
sky
,
With
frost
and
famine
low'ring
nigh
;
The
Summer's
dirge
he
seem'd
to
sing
,
And
droop'd
his
elegiac
wing
.
Poor
Bird
!
he
read
amiss
his
fate
,
Nor
saw
the
horrors
of
his
state
:
A
prowling
Cat
,
with
jetty
skin
,
—
Dark
emblem
of
the
mind
within
,
—
Who
feels
no
sympathetic
pain
,
Who
hears
unmov'd
the
sweetest
strain
,
—
Fit
but
"
for
stratagem
and
spoil
,
"
Mischief
his
pleasure
and
his
toil
,
Drew
near
—
and
shook
the
wither'd
leaves
;
—
The
Linnet's
flutt'ring
bosom
heaves
—
Alarm'd
he
hears
the
rustling
sound
;
He
starts
—
he
pauses
—
looks
around
;
Too
late
—
more
near
the
savage
draws
,
And
grasps
the
victim
in
his
jaws
!
The
Linnet's
muse
,
a
tim'rous
maid
,
Saw
,
and
to
Molly
A
maid-servant
.
scream'd
for
aid
;
A
tear
then
fill'd
her
earnest
eye
,
Useless
as
dews
on
desarts
lie
;
But
Molly's
pity
fell
like
showers
That
feed
the
plants
,
and
wake
the
flowers
;
Heroic
Molly
dauntless
flew
,
And
,
scorning
all
his
claws
could
do
,
Snatch'd
from
Grimalkin's
teeth
his
prey
,
And
bore
him
in
her
breast
away
.
His
beating
heart
and
wings
declare
How
small
his
hope
of
safety
there
;
Still
the
dire
foe
he
seem'd
to
see
,
And
scarce
could
fancy
he
was
free
.
Awhile
he
cow'rd
on
Molly's
breast
,
Then
upward
sprung
,
and
sought
his
nest
.
Dear
Molly
!
for
thy
tender
speed
,
Thy
fearless
pity's
gentle
deed
,
A
ribbon-garland
,
"
rosy
red
,
"
My
votive
gift
,
shall
deck
thy
head
;
That
garland
at
the
village
fair
Shalt
thou
,
dear
maid
,
in
triumph
wear
;
And
may
the
blooming
wreath
obtain
The
youth
thy
heart
desires
to
gain
.
And
thou
,
sweet
Bird
,
whom
rapture
fills
,
Who
feel'st
no
sense
of
future
ills
,
—
That
sense
which
human
peace
destroys
,
And
murders
all
our
present
joys
,
—
Still
soothe
with
song
th'
autumnal
hours
;
And
when
the
wint'ry
tempest
lowers
,
When
snow
thy
shiv'ring
plumes
shall
fill
,
And
icicles
shall
load
thy
bill
,
Come
fearless
to
my
friendly
shed
,
This
careful
hand
the
crumbs
shall
spread
,
Then
peck
secure
,
these
watchful
eyes
Shall
guard
my
Linnet
from
surprise
.