Tradition says, this Baron great, Upon the Baron fiercely flies: Brave as he was, the shock surprised, And all his senses paralyzed: Quick to his throat the savage flew, At length, with all his strength he tore, But as the creature made a bound, And fell uninjured on the ground, The Baron's hands a branch obtain, Ere it begun the attack again;- The weapon does but little harm; The furious beast doth onward press, And still the Baron's strength grows less. Thus slow retreating, they maintain The cat (as if aware his foe Would thence escape, as weak and slow He staggered on,) couched on the ground, Prepared to give the final wound. The Baron clearly saw that life, Unless he could sustain the strife, Must end upon a new attack.— Then, leaning on the porch his back, He grasps the bough with both his hands, He, rushing on, receives a blow, And after many attempts to rise, Adown upon the ground, and die. For scarce had he the porch attained, When death another victim gained. And still the tesselated floor Shews traces of the purple gore Of both the Baron and his foe;— At least tradition says 'tis so: And on his marble tomb displayed, While at his feet, lies large as life, The cat, which caused the mortal strife. But to return.-Our Vicar still Enraptured, looks from Hangman Hill, And new delights his bosom fill : For as he turns his searching eyeTowards the verdant pastures nigh, Through which meandering Don, in slow Majestic pace, is seen to flow; And on whose bosom, many a sail, The weathercock above the trees, At such a sight, the Vicar's breast. "Happy" he cries, "that bounteous Heaven, "To me so great a boon hath given! |