'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled)
The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mewed to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred:
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard.
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there, 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow: 
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near: 
I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see: 
Forgetful of its struggles past, 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; 
And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan; 
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 
Where all have gone, and all must go! 
To be the nothing that I was 
Ere born to life and living woe! — 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be.