Erect she stood, she walk’d with stately mien,
Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and lean. 
   There long she lived in maiden-state immured,
From looks of love and treacherous man secured;
Though evil fame—­(but that was long before)
Had blown her dubious blast at Catherine’s door: 
A Captain thither, rich from India came,
And though a cousin call’d, it touch’d her fame: 
Her annual stipend rose from his behest,
And all the long-prized treasures she possess’d:-
If aught like joy awhile appear’d to stay
In that stern face, and chase those frowns away,
’Twas when her treasures she disposed for view
And heard the praises to their splendour due;
Silks beyond price, so rich, they’d stand alone,
And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone;
Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,
And bracelets fair in box of glossy jet;
Bright polish’d amber precious from its size,
Or forms the fairest fancy could devise: 
Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs,
Conceal’d the watch of gold and rubied rings;
Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine
Round the pink’d rims of crisped Valentine. 
Her china-closet, cause of daily care,
For woman’s wonder held her pencill’d ware;
That pictured wealth of China and Japan,
Like its cold mistress, shunn’d the eye of man. 
   Her neat small room, adorn’d with maiden-taste,
A clipp’d French puppy, first of favourites, graced: 
A parrot next, but dead and stuff’d with art;
(For Poll, when living, lost the Lady’s heart,
And then his life; for he was heard to speak
Such frightful words as tinged his Lady’s cheek:)
Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,
Save by such speech, his gratitude and love. 
A gray old cat his whiskers lick’d beside;
A type of sadness in the house of pride. 
The polish’d surface of an India chest,
A glassy globe, in frame of ivory, press’d;
Where swam two finny creatures; one of gold,
Of silver one; both beauteous to behold:-
All these were form’d the guiding taste to suit;
The beast well-manner’d and the fishes mute. 
A widow’d Aunt was there, compell’d by need
The nymph to flatter and her tribe to feed;
Who veiling well her scorn, endured the clog,
Mute as the fish and fawning as the dog. 
   As years increased, these treasures, her delight,
Arose in value in their owner’s sight: 
A miser knows that, view it as he will,
A guinea kept is but a guinea still;
And so he puts it to its proper use,
That something more this guinea may produce;
But silks and rings, in the possessor’s eyes,
The oft’ner seen, the more in value rise,
And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow
The kind of pleasure that with years will grow. 
   But what avail’d their worth—­if worth had they —
In the sad summer of her slow decay? 
   Then we beheld her turn an anxious look
From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, —