Nothing could be prettier than these four lines. They surpass even the four lines in Heine's "Fireside Piece," where the poet sits meditating by the hearth, while his cat, close cuddled, drowsy with warmth, purrs a soft refrain to his rhythmic dreams. They find their echo in that charming letter of Shelley's to Peacock, which describes the shrines of the Penates, "whose hymns are the purring of kittens, the hissing of kettles, the long talks over the past and dead, the laugh of children, the warm wind of summer filling the quiet house, and the pelting storm of winter struggling in vain for entrance."
Such things bring peace to our souls; even the reading of them is fraught with an exquisite sense of tranquillity; but be it remembered that little kittens purr the first soft notes of this domestic hymn.
Herrick alone in his generation paid tribute to Pussy's fireside qualities. Other English poets had observed her valour and grace; and George Turberville, half a century earlier, had expressed in amorous verse his ardent desire to be a cat, inasmuch as his dear Mistresse greatly feared a mouse.
"The Squirrel thinking nought,
That feately cracks the nut;
The greedie Goshawke wanting prey,
In dread of Death doth put;
