POETRY.
PETER..
(A Kitten-Buried of Bea.)
NOT in a garden of rose and lily Where the bee and the blackbird play, Not in a cloistered crypt and:chilly Under the minster grey;
But-under the faitand open Heaven, Longitude fifty, latitude seven,
The wind in the eaet•and the hour eleven, Peter was laid away.
A dirge for Peter, son of the morning, A dirge for Peter, infant of dears, Snatched from the sun with never a warning, Plunged in the nether ways:
Down whete the fearsome deep-sea cattle Stare and terrify, rend and battle, And,tha.lnmes of long-lost mariners rattle,
Poor little Peter strays. And yet, down there,—tbere can be no .telling
And a mortal may not know—
A kindlier folk may keep their dwelling Where a little cat could go:
And he must have met with the Sea-King's rangers, Aye on the watch for land-born strangers
To guide their feet through the deep-sea dangers:— At least let us have it so.
So now he lives upon lordly dishes, Sleeps on a princely mat, Hunts all day for the little fishes, Waxes exceeding fat ; And courtiers cry to him—sorely smitten By Peter's claws, and probably bitten-•- " Hail, oh Peter ! a land-child's kitten, Peter, the Sea-King's Cat C. HILTON BROWN.
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