POETRY.
THE MONK AND HIS WHITE CAT.
(After an Eighth Century Irish Poem recorded by Professor KUM Meyer in his " Ancient Irish Poetry.")
Pangur, my white eat, and I, Silent ply our special crafts; Hunting mice his one pursuit, Mine to shoot keen spirit shafts.
Rest I love, all Fame beyond, In the bond of some rare book ; Yet white Pangur from his play Casts, my way, no jealous look.
Thus alone within one cell
Safe we dwell—not dull the tale—
Since his ever-favourite sport Each to court will never fail.
Now a mouse to swell his spoils In his toils he spears with skill ; Now a meaning deeply thought I have caught with startled thrill.
Now his green full-shining gaze Darts its rays against the wall ; Now my feebler glances mark Through the dark bright knowledge fall.
Leaping up with joyful purr, In mouse fur his sharp claw sticks ; Problems difficult and dear With my spear I, too, transfix.
Crossing not each other's will, Diverse still, yet still allied,
Following each his own lone ends, Constant friends we here abide.
Pangur, master of his art, Plays his part in pranksome youth; While in as sedate I clear Shadows from the sphere of Truth.
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
[We wish some naturalist of learning would tell us what an Irish cat about the year 750 looked like. Was it long- eared, thin-tailed, and sharp-nosed, like the cat of Liguria and the South, or short-eared and flat-faced, like the old-fashioned English tabby ? Anyway, we refuse to believe that Pangur was of the Manx breed. No tailless cat has dignity, and the monastic cat should certainly be of a good presence.—En. Spectator.]
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