Obituary of BB Tisa-Wesner

Years saw me still Acasto’s mansion grace,

The gentlest, fondest of the tabby race;

Before him frisking through the garden glade,

Or at his feet in quiet slumber laid;

Praised for my glossy back of zebra streak,

And wreaths of jet encircling round my neck;

Soft paws that ne’er extend the clawing nail,

The snowy whisker and the sinuous tail;

Now feeble age each glazing eyeball dims,

And pain has stiffened these once supple limbs;

Fate of eight lives the forfeit gasp obtains,

And e’en the ninth creeps languid through my veins.

Much sure of good the future has in store,

When on my master’s hearth I bask no more,

In those blest climes, where fishes oft forsake

The winding river and the glassy lake;

There, as our silent-footed race behold

The crimson spots and fins of lucid gold,

Venturing without the shielding waves to play,

They gasp on shelving banks, our easy prey:

While birds unwinged hop careless o’er the ground,

And the plump mouse incessant trots around,

Near wells of cream that mortals never skim,

Warm marum creeping round their shallow brim;

Where green valerian tufts, luxuriant spread,

Cleanse the sleek hide and form the fragrant bed.

Yet, stern dispenser of the final blow,

Before thou lay’st an aged grimalkin low,

Bend to her last request a gracious ear,

Some days, some few short days, to linger here;

So to the guardian of his tabby’s weal

Shall softest purrs these tender truths reveal:

‘Ne’er shall thy now expiring puss forget

To thy kind care her long-enduring debt,

Nor shall the joys that painless realms decree

Efface the comforts once bestowed by thee;

To countless mice thy chicken-bones preferred,

Thy toast to golden fish and wingless bird;

O’er marum borders and valerian bed

Thy Selima shall bend her moping head,

Sigh that no more she climbs, with grateful glee,

Thy downy sofa and thy cradling knee;

Nay, e’en at founts of cream shall sullen swear,

Since thou, her more loved master, art not there.’

~ Anna Seward