Thou dogged Cineas, hated like a dog,For still thou grumblest like a masty dog,Compar'st thyself to nothing but a dog;Thou say'st thou art as weary as a dog,As angry, sick, and hungry as a dog,As dull and melancholy as a dog,As lazy, sleepy, idle as a dog.But why dost thou compare thee to a dogIn that for which all men despise a dog?I will compare thee better to a dog;Thou art as fair and comely as a dog,Thou art as true and honest as a dog,Thou art as kind and liberal as a dog,Thou art as wise and valiant as a dog,But, Cineas, I have often heard thee tellThou art as like thy father as may be:'Tis like enough; and, faith, I like it well;But I am glad thou art not like to me.
Thou dogged Cineas, hated like a dog,For still thou grumblest like a masty dog,Compar'st thyself to nothing but a dog;Thou say'st thou art as weary as a dog,As angry, sick, and hungry as a dog,As dull and melancholy as a dog,As lazy, sleepy, idle as a dog.But why dost thou compare thee to a dogIn that for which all men despise a dog?I will compare thee better to a dog;Thou art as fair and comely as a dog,Thou art as true and honest as a dog,Thou art as kind and liberal as a dog,Thou art as wise and valiant as a dog,But, Cineas, I have often heard thee tellThou art as like thy father as may be:'Tis like enough; and, faith, I like it well;But I am glad thou art not like to me.
Sir John Davies.
I am only a dog, and I've had my day;So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I layIn the welcome warmth of the summer sun,A poor old hunter whose work is done.Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog.Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log?Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,Far away in the top of the hickory tree,Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,Till the hand, true and steady, a messenger shot,And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not?Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then;And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen,The hare on the common, the birds on the bough,Were afraid. They are safe enough now,For all we can harm them, old master and I.We have had our last hunt, the game must go by,While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door,For a living. We'll never hunt more.For time, cold and hardship have stiffened his knee,And since little Lottie died, often I seeHis hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes,For the lost baby daughter, so pretty and wise.Oh, it's sad to be old, and to see the blue skyLook far away to the dim, fading eye;To feel the fleet foot growing weary and soreThat in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.I am going—I hear the great wolf on my track;Already around me his shadow falls black.One hunting cry more! Oh, master, come nigh,And lay the white paw in your own as I die!Oh, come to me, master; the last hedge is passed—Our tramps in the wildwood are over at last;Stoop lower, and lay my head on your knee.What! Tears for a useless old hunter like me?You will see little Lottie again by and by.I shan't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.Tell her, loving and trusty, beside you I died,And—bury me, master, not far from her side.For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.Ha, master, the shadow! Fire low—it is nigh—There was never a sound in the still morning heard,But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred.As he flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat,And watched the faint life in its quivering throatTill it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won,And the death-hunted hound into cover had run.But long ere the snow over graves softly fell,Old Matthew was resting from labor as well;While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hillThe voice of the hound in the morn echoed still.
I am only a dog, and I've had my day;So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I layIn the welcome warmth of the summer sun,A poor old hunter whose work is done.
Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog.Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log?Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,
Far away in the top of the hickory tree,Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,Till the hand, true and steady, a messenger shot,And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not?
Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then;And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen,The hare on the common, the birds on the bough,Were afraid. They are safe enough now,
For all we can harm them, old master and I.We have had our last hunt, the game must go by,While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door,For a living. We'll never hunt more.
For time, cold and hardship have stiffened his knee,And since little Lottie died, often I seeHis hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes,For the lost baby daughter, so pretty and wise.
Oh, it's sad to be old, and to see the blue skyLook far away to the dim, fading eye;To feel the fleet foot growing weary and soreThat in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.
I am going—I hear the great wolf on my track;Already around me his shadow falls black.One hunting cry more! Oh, master, come nigh,And lay the white paw in your own as I die!
Oh, come to me, master; the last hedge is passed—Our tramps in the wildwood are over at last;Stoop lower, and lay my head on your knee.What! Tears for a useless old hunter like me?
You will see little Lottie again by and by.I shan't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.Tell her, loving and trusty, beside you I died,And—bury me, master, not far from her side.
For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.Ha, master, the shadow! Fire low—it is nigh—There was never a sound in the still morning heard,But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred.
As he flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat,And watched the faint life in its quivering throatTill it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won,And the death-hunted hound into cover had run.
But long ere the snow over graves softly fell,Old Matthew was resting from labor as well;While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hillThe voice of the hound in the morn echoed still.
Anonymous.
He was a dog,But he stayed at homeAnd guarded the family night and day.He was a dogThat didn't roam.He lay on the porch or chased the stray—The tramps, the burglar, the hen, away;For a dog's true heart for that household beatAt morning and evening, in cold and heat.He was a dog.He was a man,And didn't stayTo cherish his wife and his children fair.He was a man.And every dayHis heart grew callous, its love-beats rare,He thought of himself at the close of day,And, cigar in his fingers, hurried awayTo the club, the lodge, the store, the show.But—he had a right to go, you know.He was a man.
He was a dog,But he stayed at homeAnd guarded the family night and day.He was a dogThat didn't roam.He lay on the porch or chased the stray—The tramps, the burglar, the hen, away;For a dog's true heart for that household beatAt morning and evening, in cold and heat.He was a dog.
He was a man,And didn't stayTo cherish his wife and his children fair.He was a man.And every dayHis heart grew callous, its love-beats rare,He thought of himself at the close of day,And, cigar in his fingers, hurried awayTo the club, the lodge, the store, the show.But—he had a right to go, you know.He was a man.
Anonymous.
Old Rover-Dog, he toasts his toesRight by th' chimney-fire wif me.I turned his long ear wrong side outAn' he was s'rprised as he could be!An' nen he reached right out an' tookAn' int'rest in my lolly-pop—That's w'y I shook my finger hardAt him, 'cause he jus' better stop.I ast him which his sweet toof was,An' he jus' laffed an' showed me whereHe keeps um, up an' down his mouf—(I guess there's mos' a hundred there).He's got a cunning little house,But you can't climb right in, at all—Ain't hardly big enough for him;I guess it is a size too small.'Cause when he is "at home" his headStays looking out of his front door;His paws hang out convenient like,So's folks they will shake hands some more.Old Rover-Dog, w'en he likes folks,He thumps th' floor hard wif his tail—Where 'tis you've heard that sound beforeIs w'en your pa, he drives a nail.One time my Uncle Fred p'tendHe's "tramp-mans" an' will come right in;I put my ear on Rover's backSo's I could hear th' growl begin.An' oncet he thought he'd try his napRight in my grampa's big armchair.My grampa, he sat down on him,'Cause "he wa'n't 'spectin' dogs was there."'N Rover walked off dignifiedAn' curled his back up 'gainst th' wall—If grampas ain't got manners, w'y,He isn't goin' to care at all.That's w'y I went an' 'xplained to himHow grampas, they ain't imperlite,A grampa has th' bestest chairBecause his hair is very white.Nen Rover-Dog raise up one earAn' lift his nose fum off his paw,An' say his feelin's aren't all hurtIf that wascandythat he saw!'N w'en he'd et my choc'late creamHe went an' finished up his dream.
Old Rover-Dog, he toasts his toesRight by th' chimney-fire wif me.I turned his long ear wrong side outAn' he was s'rprised as he could be!An' nen he reached right out an' tookAn' int'rest in my lolly-pop—That's w'y I shook my finger hardAt him, 'cause he jus' better stop.
I ast him which his sweet toof was,An' he jus' laffed an' showed me whereHe keeps um, up an' down his mouf—(I guess there's mos' a hundred there).He's got a cunning little house,But you can't climb right in, at all—Ain't hardly big enough for him;I guess it is a size too small.
'Cause when he is "at home" his headStays looking out of his front door;His paws hang out convenient like,So's folks they will shake hands some more.Old Rover-Dog, w'en he likes folks,He thumps th' floor hard wif his tail—Where 'tis you've heard that sound beforeIs w'en your pa, he drives a nail.
One time my Uncle Fred p'tendHe's "tramp-mans" an' will come right in;I put my ear on Rover's backSo's I could hear th' growl begin.An' oncet he thought he'd try his napRight in my grampa's big armchair.My grampa, he sat down on him,'Cause "he wa'n't 'spectin' dogs was there."
'N Rover walked off dignifiedAn' curled his back up 'gainst th' wall—If grampas ain't got manners, w'y,He isn't goin' to care at all.That's w'y I went an' 'xplained to himHow grampas, they ain't imperlite,A grampa has th' bestest chairBecause his hair is very white.
Nen Rover-Dog raise up one earAn' lift his nose fum off his paw,An' say his feelin's aren't all hurtIf that wascandythat he saw!'N w'en he'd et my choc'late creamHe went an' finished up his dream.
Marie Louise Tompkins.
The horse and the dog had tamed a man and fastened him to a fence:Said the horse to the dog: "For the life of me, I don't see a bit of senseIn letting him have the thumbs that grow at the sides of his hands. Do you?"And the dog looked solemn and shook his head, and said: "I'm a goat if I do!"The poor man groaned and tried to get loose, and sadly he begged them, "Stay!You will rob me of things for which I have use by cutting my thumbs away!You will spoil my looks, you will cause me pain; ah, why would you treat me so?As I am, God made me, and He knows best! Oh, masters, pray let me go!"The dog laughed out, and the horse replied, "Oh, the cutting won't hurt you, see?We'll have a hot iron to clap right on, as you did in your docking of me!God gave you your thumbs and all, but still, the Creator, you know, may failTo do the artistic thing, as he did in the furnishing me with a tail."So they bound the man and cut off his thumbs, and were deaf to his pitiful cries,And they seared the stumps, and they viewed their work through happy and dazzled eyes."How trim he appears," the horse exclaimed, "since his awkward thumbs are gone!For the life of me I cannot see why the Lord ever put them on!""Still it seems to me," the dog replied, "that there's something else to do;His ears look rather too long for me, and how do they look to you?"The man cried out: "Oh, spare my ears! God fashioned them as you see,And if you apply your knife to them, you'll surely disfigure me.""But you didn't disfigure me, you know," the dog decisively said,"When you bound me fast and trimmed my ears down close to the top of my head!"So they let him moan and they let him groan while they cropped his ears away,And they praised his looks when they let him up, and proud indeed were they.But that was years and years ago, in an unenlightened age!Such things are ended, now, you know; we've reached a higher stage.The ears and thumbs God gave to man are his to keep and wear,And the cruel horse and dog look on, and never appear to care.
The horse and the dog had tamed a man and fastened him to a fence:Said the horse to the dog: "For the life of me, I don't see a bit of senseIn letting him have the thumbs that grow at the sides of his hands. Do you?"And the dog looked solemn and shook his head, and said: "I'm a goat if I do!"
The poor man groaned and tried to get loose, and sadly he begged them, "Stay!You will rob me of things for which I have use by cutting my thumbs away!You will spoil my looks, you will cause me pain; ah, why would you treat me so?As I am, God made me, and He knows best! Oh, masters, pray let me go!"
The dog laughed out, and the horse replied, "Oh, the cutting won't hurt you, see?We'll have a hot iron to clap right on, as you did in your docking of me!God gave you your thumbs and all, but still, the Creator, you know, may failTo do the artistic thing, as he did in the furnishing me with a tail."
So they bound the man and cut off his thumbs, and were deaf to his pitiful cries,And they seared the stumps, and they viewed their work through happy and dazzled eyes."How trim he appears," the horse exclaimed, "since his awkward thumbs are gone!For the life of me I cannot see why the Lord ever put them on!"
"Still it seems to me," the dog replied, "that there's something else to do;His ears look rather too long for me, and how do they look to you?"The man cried out: "Oh, spare my ears! God fashioned them as you see,And if you apply your knife to them, you'll surely disfigure me."
"But you didn't disfigure me, you know," the dog decisively said,"When you bound me fast and trimmed my ears down close to the top of my head!"So they let him moan and they let him groan while they cropped his ears away,And they praised his looks when they let him up, and proud indeed were they.
But that was years and years ago, in an unenlightened age!Such things are ended, now, you know; we've reached a higher stage.The ears and thumbs God gave to man are his to keep and wear,And the cruel horse and dog look on, and never appear to care.
S.E. Kiser.
Yes, I went to see the bow-wows, and I looked at every one,Proud dogs of each breed and strain that's underneath the sun;But not one could compare with—you may hear it with surprise—A little yellow dog I know that never took a prize.Not that they would have skipped him when they gave the ribbons out,Had there been a class to fit him—though his lineage is in doubt.No judge of dogs could e'er resist the honest, faithful eyesOf that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.Suppose he wasn't trained to hunt, and never killed a rat,And isn't much on tricks or looks or birth—well, what of that?That might be said of lots of folks whom men call great and wise,As well as of that yellow dog that never took a prize.It isn't what a dog can do, or what a dog may be,That hits a man. It's simply this—does he believe in me?And by that test I know there's not the compeer 'neath the skiesOf that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.Oh, he's the finest little pup that ever wagged a tail,And followed man with equal joy to Congress or to jail.I'm going to start a special show—'Twill beat the world for size—For faithful little yellow dogs, and each shall have a prize.
Yes, I went to see the bow-wows, and I looked at every one,Proud dogs of each breed and strain that's underneath the sun;But not one could compare with—you may hear it with surprise—A little yellow dog I know that never took a prize.
Not that they would have skipped him when they gave the ribbons out,Had there been a class to fit him—though his lineage is in doubt.No judge of dogs could e'er resist the honest, faithful eyesOf that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.
Suppose he wasn't trained to hunt, and never killed a rat,And isn't much on tricks or looks or birth—well, what of that?That might be said of lots of folks whom men call great and wise,As well as of that yellow dog that never took a prize.
It isn't what a dog can do, or what a dog may be,That hits a man. It's simply this—does he believe in me?And by that test I know there's not the compeer 'neath the skiesOf that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.
Oh, he's the finest little pup that ever wagged a tail,And followed man with equal joy to Congress or to jail.I'm going to start a special show—'Twill beat the world for size—For faithful little yellow dogs, and each shall have a prize.
Anonymous.
No deeper, truer love could springSpontaneously from human breastThan Cæsar's, who has loved the kingWith all a dear dog's silent zest.A dog's dumb way may not impartThe grief that mortals can express,But who shall say that Cæsar's heartMourns his beloved king the less?Since ours the faith, "Love lives in space,"His love, whene'er his soul takes wing,May be ordained, by Heaven's grace,To reach the spirit of the king.
No deeper, truer love could springSpontaneously from human breastThan Cæsar's, who has loved the kingWith all a dear dog's silent zest.
A dog's dumb way may not impartThe grief that mortals can express,But who shall say that Cæsar's heartMourns his beloved king the less?
Since ours the faith, "Love lives in space,"His love, whene'er his soul takes wing,May be ordained, by Heaven's grace,To reach the spirit of the king.
O. Middleton.
He was just a dog, mister—that's all;And all of us boys called him Bub;He was curly and not very tallAnd he hadn't a tail—just a stub.His tail froze one cold night, you see;We just pulled the rest of him through.No—he didn't have much pedigree—Perhaps that was frozen off, too.He always seemed quite well behaved,And he never had many bad fights;In summer he used to be shavedAnd he slept in the woodshed o' nights.Sometimes he would wake up too soonAnd cry, if his tail got a chill;Some nights he would bark at the moon,But some nights he would sleep very still.He knew how to play hide-and-seekAnd he always would come when you'd call;He would play dead, roll over and speak,And learned it in no time at all.Sometimes he would growl, just in play,But he never would bite, and his worstWas to bark at the postman one day,But the postman, he barked at him first.He used to chase cats up a tree,But that was just only in fun;And a cat was as safe as could be—Unless it should start out to run;Sometimes he'd chase children and throwThem down, just while running along,And then lick their faces to showHe didn't mean anything wrong.He was chasing an automobileWhen the wheel hit him right in the side,So he just gave a queer little squealAnd curled up and stretched out and died.His tail it was not very long,He was curly and not very tall;But he never did anything wrong—He was just our dog, mister—that's all.
He was just a dog, mister—that's all;And all of us boys called him Bub;He was curly and not very tallAnd he hadn't a tail—just a stub.His tail froze one cold night, you see;We just pulled the rest of him through.No—he didn't have much pedigree—Perhaps that was frozen off, too.
He always seemed quite well behaved,And he never had many bad fights;In summer he used to be shavedAnd he slept in the woodshed o' nights.Sometimes he would wake up too soonAnd cry, if his tail got a chill;Some nights he would bark at the moon,But some nights he would sleep very still.
He knew how to play hide-and-seekAnd he always would come when you'd call;He would play dead, roll over and speak,And learned it in no time at all.Sometimes he would growl, just in play,But he never would bite, and his worstWas to bark at the postman one day,But the postman, he barked at him first.
He used to chase cats up a tree,But that was just only in fun;And a cat was as safe as could be—Unless it should start out to run;Sometimes he'd chase children and throwThem down, just while running along,And then lick their faces to showHe didn't mean anything wrong.
He was chasing an automobileWhen the wheel hit him right in the side,So he just gave a queer little squealAnd curled up and stretched out and died.His tail it was not very long,He was curly and not very tall;But he never did anything wrong—He was just our dog, mister—that's all.
Anonymous.
I have still a vision of himRagged Rover, as he layIn the sunshine of the morningOn the door-stone worn and gray;Where the honeysuckle trellisHung its tinted blossoms low,And the well-sweep with its bucketSwung its burden to and fro;Where the maples were a-quiverIn the pleasant June-time breeze;And where droned among the phloxesHalf a hundred golden bees.Yes, I have a vision with meOf a home upon a hill;And my heart is sad with longingAnd my eyes with tear-drops fill.I would be the care-free urchinThat I was so long agoWhen across the sun-lit meadowsRover with me used to goYonder where the graceful lindensThrew their shadows far and cool,And the waters waited for meIn the brimming swimming pool.I can see him drive the cattleFrom the pasture through the laneWith their mellow bells a-tinkle,Sending out a low refrain;I can see him drive them homeward,Speckle, Brindle, Bess and Belle;All the herd from down the valleyAs the shades of even fell.Thus, I wander like a pilgrim—Slow the steps that once were strong;Back to greet him, Ragged Rover,And my childhood's ceaseless song.
I have still a vision of himRagged Rover, as he layIn the sunshine of the morningOn the door-stone worn and gray;Where the honeysuckle trellisHung its tinted blossoms low,And the well-sweep with its bucketSwung its burden to and fro;Where the maples were a-quiverIn the pleasant June-time breeze;And where droned among the phloxesHalf a hundred golden bees.
Yes, I have a vision with meOf a home upon a hill;And my heart is sad with longingAnd my eyes with tear-drops fill.I would be the care-free urchinThat I was so long agoWhen across the sun-lit meadowsRover with me used to goYonder where the graceful lindensThrew their shadows far and cool,And the waters waited for meIn the brimming swimming pool.
I can see him drive the cattleFrom the pasture through the laneWith their mellow bells a-tinkle,Sending out a low refrain;I can see him drive them homeward,Speckle, Brindle, Bess and Belle;All the herd from down the valleyAs the shades of even fell.Thus, I wander like a pilgrim—Slow the steps that once were strong;Back to greet him, Ragged Rover,And my childhood's ceaseless song.
Leslie Clare Manchester.
ILoving friend, the gift of oneWho her own true faith has runThrough thy lower nature,Be my benediction saidWith my hand upon thy head,Gentle fellow-creature!IILike a lady's ringlets brown,Flow thy silken ears adownEither side demurelyOf thy silver-suited breast,Shining out from all the restOf thy body purely.IIIDarkly brown thy body is,Till the sunshine striking thisAlchemize its dulness,When the sleek curls manifoldFlash all over into goldWith a burnished fulness.IVUnderneath my stroking hand.Startled eyes of hazel blandKindling, growing larger,Up thou leanest with a spring,Full of prank and curvetting,Leaping like a charger.VLeap! thy broad tail waves a light,Leap! thy slender feet are bright,Canopied in fringes;Leap! those tasselled ears of thineFlicker strangely, fair and fineDown their gold inches.VIYet, my pretty sportive friend,Little is't to such an endThat I praise thy rareness:Other dogs may be thy peersHappy in these drooping earsAnd this glossy fairness.VIIBut oftheeit shall be said,This dog watched beside a bedDay and night unweary,—Watched within a curtained roomWhere no sunbeam brake the gloom,Round the sick and dreary.VIIIRoses, gathered for a vase,In that chamber died space,Beam and breeze resigning:This dog only waited on,Knowing, that, when light is gone,Love remains for shining.IXOther dogs in thymy dewTracked the hares, and followed throughSunny moor or meadow:This dog only crept and creptNext a languid cheek that slept,Sharing in the shadow.XOther dogs of loyal cheerBounded at the whistle clear,Up the woodside hieing:This dog only watched in reachOf a faintly uttered speech,Or a louder sighing.XIAnd if one or two quick tearsDropped upon his glossy ears,Or a sigh came double,Up he sprang in eager haste,Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,In a tender trouble.XIIAnd this dog was satisfiedIf a pale, thin hand would glideDown his dewlaps sloping,—Which he pushed his nose within,After,—platforming his chinOn the palm left open.XIIIThis dog, if a friendly voiceCall him now to blither choiceThan such chamber-keeping,"Come out!" praying from the door,Presseth backward as before,Up against me leaping.XIVTherefore to this dog will I,Tenderly, not scornfully,Render praise and favor:With my hand upon his head,Is my benediction saidTherefore and forever.XVAnd because he loves me so,Better than his kind will doOften man or woman,Give I back more love againThan dogs often take of men,Leaning from my human.XVIBlessings on thee, dog of mine,Pretty collars make thee fine,Sugared milk may fat thee!Pleasures wag on in thy tail,Hands of gentle motion failNevermore to pat thee!XVIIDowny pillow take thy head,Silken coverlet bestead,Sunshine help thy sleeping!No fly's buzzing wake thee up,No man break thy purple cupSet for drinking deep in!XVIIIWhiskered cats aroynted flee,Sturdy stoppers keep from theeCologne distillations;Nuts lie in thy path for stones,And thy feast-day macaroonsTurn to daily rations!XIXMock I thee, in wishing weal?Tears are in my eyes to feelThou art made so straitly:Blessings need must straiten too,—Little canst thou joy or doThou who lovestgreatly.XXYet be blessed to the heightOf all good and all delightPervious to thy nature;Onlylovedbeyond that line,With a love that answers thine,Loving fellow-creature!
I
Loving friend, the gift of oneWho her own true faith has runThrough thy lower nature,Be my benediction saidWith my hand upon thy head,Gentle fellow-creature!
II
Like a lady's ringlets brown,Flow thy silken ears adownEither side demurelyOf thy silver-suited breast,Shining out from all the restOf thy body purely.
III
Darkly brown thy body is,Till the sunshine striking thisAlchemize its dulness,When the sleek curls manifoldFlash all over into goldWith a burnished fulness.
IV
Underneath my stroking hand.Startled eyes of hazel blandKindling, growing larger,Up thou leanest with a spring,Full of prank and curvetting,Leaping like a charger.
V
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,Leap! thy slender feet are bright,Canopied in fringes;Leap! those tasselled ears of thineFlicker strangely, fair and fineDown their gold inches.
VI
Yet, my pretty sportive friend,Little is't to such an endThat I praise thy rareness:Other dogs may be thy peersHappy in these drooping earsAnd this glossy fairness.
VII
But oftheeit shall be said,This dog watched beside a bedDay and night unweary,—Watched within a curtained roomWhere no sunbeam brake the gloom,Round the sick and dreary.
VIII
Roses, gathered for a vase,In that chamber died space,Beam and breeze resigning:This dog only waited on,Knowing, that, when light is gone,Love remains for shining.
IX
Other dogs in thymy dewTracked the hares, and followed throughSunny moor or meadow:This dog only crept and creptNext a languid cheek that slept,Sharing in the shadow.
X
Other dogs of loyal cheerBounded at the whistle clear,Up the woodside hieing:This dog only watched in reachOf a faintly uttered speech,Or a louder sighing.
XI
And if one or two quick tearsDropped upon his glossy ears,Or a sigh came double,Up he sprang in eager haste,Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,In a tender trouble.
XII
And this dog was satisfiedIf a pale, thin hand would glideDown his dewlaps sloping,—Which he pushed his nose within,After,—platforming his chinOn the palm left open.
XIII
This dog, if a friendly voiceCall him now to blither choiceThan such chamber-keeping,"Come out!" praying from the door,Presseth backward as before,Up against me leaping.
XIV
Therefore to this dog will I,Tenderly, not scornfully,Render praise and favor:With my hand upon his head,Is my benediction saidTherefore and forever.
XV
And because he loves me so,Better than his kind will doOften man or woman,Give I back more love againThan dogs often take of men,Leaning from my human.
XVI
Blessings on thee, dog of mine,Pretty collars make thee fine,Sugared milk may fat thee!Pleasures wag on in thy tail,Hands of gentle motion failNevermore to pat thee!
XVII
Downy pillow take thy head,Silken coverlet bestead,Sunshine help thy sleeping!No fly's buzzing wake thee up,No man break thy purple cupSet for drinking deep in!
XVIII
Whiskered cats aroynted flee,Sturdy stoppers keep from theeCologne distillations;Nuts lie in thy path for stones,And thy feast-day macaroonsTurn to daily rations!
XIX
Mock I thee, in wishing weal?Tears are in my eyes to feelThou art made so straitly:Blessings need must straiten too,—Little canst thou joy or doThou who lovestgreatly.
XX
Yet be blessed to the heightOf all good and all delightPervious to thy nature;Onlylovedbeyond that line,With a love that answers thine,Loving fellow-creature!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
You were a friend, Frances, a friend,With feeling and regard and capable of woe.Oh, yes, I know you were a dog, but I was just a man.I did not buy you; no, you simply came,Lost, and squatted on my doorstep.The place was strange—you quivered, but stayed on,And I had need of you.No other fellow could make you follow him,For you had chosen me to be your pal.My whistle was your law,You put your pawUpon my palm,And in your calm, deep eyes was writThe promise of long comradeship.When I came home from work,Late and ill-tempered,Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;Your nose was at the door-crack;And whether I'd been bad or good that dayYou fawned, and loved me just the same.It was your way to understand.And if I struck you, my harsh handWas met with your caresses.You took my leavings, crumb and bone,And stuck by me through thick and thin—You were my kin.And then one day you diedAnd were put deep.But though you sleep, and ever sleep,I sense you at my heels.
You were a friend, Frances, a friend,With feeling and regard and capable of woe.Oh, yes, I know you were a dog, but I was just a man.I did not buy you; no, you simply came,Lost, and squatted on my doorstep.The place was strange—you quivered, but stayed on,And I had need of you.No other fellow could make you follow him,For you had chosen me to be your pal.My whistle was your law,You put your pawUpon my palm,And in your calm, deep eyes was writThe promise of long comradeship.When I came home from work,Late and ill-tempered,Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;Your nose was at the door-crack;And whether I'd been bad or good that dayYou fawned, and loved me just the same.It was your way to understand.And if I struck you, my harsh handWas met with your caresses.You took my leavings, crumb and bone,And stuck by me through thick and thin—You were my kin.And then one day you diedAnd were put deep.But though you sleep, and ever sleep,I sense you at my heels.
Richard Wightman.
You are a tried and loyal friend;The endOf life will find you leal, unwearyOf tested bonds that naught can rend,And e'en if years be sad and dreary,Our plighted friendship will extend.A truer friend man never had;'Tis sadThat 'mongst all earthly friends the fewestUnfaithful ones should thus be cladIn canine lowliness; yet truestThey, be their treatment good or bad.Within your eyes methinks I findA kindAnd thoughtful look of speechless feelingThat mem'ry's loosened cords unbind,And let the dreamy past come stealingThrough your dumb, reflective mind.Scout, my trusty friend, can it beYou seeAgain, in retrospective dreaming,The run, the woodland, and the lea,With past autumnal sunshine streamingO'er ev'ry frost-dyed field and tree?Or do you see now once againThe glenAnd fern, the highland, and the thistle?And do you still remember whenWe heard the bright-eyed woodcock whistleDown by the rippling, shrub-edged fen?I see you turn a listening earTo hearThe quail upon the flower-pied heather;But, doggie, wait till uplands sere,And then the autumn's waning weatherWill bring the sport we hold so dear.Then we will hunt the loamy swaleAnd trailThe snipe, their cunning wiles o'ercoming;And oft will flush the bevied quail,And hear the partridge slowly drummingDull echoes in the leaf-strewn dale.When wooded hills with crimson lightAre bright,We'll stroll where trees and vines are growing,And see birds warp their southern flightAt sundown, when the Day King's throwingSly kisses to the Queen of Night.
You are a tried and loyal friend;The endOf life will find you leal, unwearyOf tested bonds that naught can rend,And e'en if years be sad and dreary,Our plighted friendship will extend.
A truer friend man never had;'Tis sadThat 'mongst all earthly friends the fewestUnfaithful ones should thus be cladIn canine lowliness; yet truestThey, be their treatment good or bad.
Within your eyes methinks I findA kindAnd thoughtful look of speechless feelingThat mem'ry's loosened cords unbind,And let the dreamy past come stealingThrough your dumb, reflective mind.
Scout, my trusty friend, can it beYou seeAgain, in retrospective dreaming,The run, the woodland, and the lea,With past autumnal sunshine streamingO'er ev'ry frost-dyed field and tree?
Or do you see now once againThe glenAnd fern, the highland, and the thistle?And do you still remember whenWe heard the bright-eyed woodcock whistleDown by the rippling, shrub-edged fen?
I see you turn a listening earTo hearThe quail upon the flower-pied heather;But, doggie, wait till uplands sere,And then the autumn's waning weatherWill bring the sport we hold so dear.
Then we will hunt the loamy swaleAnd trailThe snipe, their cunning wiles o'ercoming;And oft will flush the bevied quail,And hear the partridge slowly drummingDull echoes in the leaf-strewn dale.
When wooded hills with crimson lightAre bright,We'll stroll where trees and vines are growing,And see birds warp their southern flightAt sundown, when the Day King's throwingSly kisses to the Queen of Night.
Frank H. Selden.
Why dost thou strike me?—Ever faithfulIn service to thee do I live;And often when thou wert in perilMy very utmost would I give;My life I would lay down for thee!Why strik'st thou me?In blustering storm and cruel Winter,In murky night or through the day,Obedient I have trotted by theeAnd guarded thee along the way.I've watched thee and protected thee:Why strik'st thou me?When flashed the robber's steel against thee,When thou wert threatened by his arm,And thou didst call for aid and rescue,Who saved thee then from mortal harm?My blood flowed on the sand for thee:Why strik'st thou me?When down the sheer walls of the chasmThat glooms the torrent thou didst slide,Thou there had perished maimed and helplessHad I not sought thee far and wide.Myself forgetting, sought I thee:Why strik'st thou me?When on the furious billows driftingThou heldest up a beckoning hand,And no man dared attempt to save thee,I brought thee safely to the land.From certain death I rescued thee:Why strik'st thou me?Oh doom me not to starve and perish;The poor old Sultan do not slay!For thee, too, will the days soon darkenIn which thy strength will fade away.Then thou wilt beg as I beg thee:—Why strik'st thou me?
Why dost thou strike me?—Ever faithfulIn service to thee do I live;And often when thou wert in perilMy very utmost would I give;My life I would lay down for thee!Why strik'st thou me?
In blustering storm and cruel Winter,In murky night or through the day,Obedient I have trotted by theeAnd guarded thee along the way.I've watched thee and protected thee:Why strik'st thou me?
When flashed the robber's steel against thee,When thou wert threatened by his arm,And thou didst call for aid and rescue,Who saved thee then from mortal harm?My blood flowed on the sand for thee:Why strik'st thou me?
When down the sheer walls of the chasmThat glooms the torrent thou didst slide,Thou there had perished maimed and helplessHad I not sought thee far and wide.Myself forgetting, sought I thee:Why strik'st thou me?
When on the furious billows driftingThou heldest up a beckoning hand,And no man dared attempt to save thee,I brought thee safely to the land.From certain death I rescued thee:Why strik'st thou me?
Oh doom me not to starve and perish;The poor old Sultan do not slay!For thee, too, will the days soon darkenIn which thy strength will fade away.Then thou wilt beg as I beg thee:—Why strik'st thou me?
Nathan Haskell Dole(Translator).
Full dismal blows the windWithout my cabin, here,And many times I findMyself possessed of fear.I often hear a soundAs if a stranger triedTo enter here, but foundThe door made fast inside.The nights are filled with dread,And fancy even scrollsGray visions of the dead—Ghosts of departed souls.But never near me creepsWhat fancy oft invites.My dog a vigil keepsThroughout the awful nights.
Full dismal blows the windWithout my cabin, here,And many times I findMyself possessed of fear.
I often hear a soundAs if a stranger triedTo enter here, but foundThe door made fast inside.
The nights are filled with dread,And fancy even scrollsGray visions of the dead—Ghosts of departed souls.
But never near me creepsWhat fancy oft invites.My dog a vigil keepsThroughout the awful nights.
Howard C. Kegley.
When wise Ulysses, from his native coastLong kept by wars, and long by tempests tost,Arrived at last—poor, old, despised, alone,To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown,Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,Furrowed his rev'rend face, and white his hairs,In his own palace forced to ask his bread,Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed,Forgot of all his own domestic crew,His faithful dog his rightful master knew!Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clayLike an old servant, now cashiered, he lay;And though ev'n then expiring on the plain,Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,And longing to behold his ancient lord again,Him when he saw, he rose, and crawled to meet('Twas all he could), and fawned, and kissed his feet,Seized with dumb joy; then falling by his side,Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died.
When wise Ulysses, from his native coastLong kept by wars, and long by tempests tost,Arrived at last—poor, old, despised, alone,To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown,Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,Furrowed his rev'rend face, and white his hairs,In his own palace forced to ask his bread,Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed,Forgot of all his own domestic crew,His faithful dog his rightful master knew!
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clayLike an old servant, now cashiered, he lay;And though ev'n then expiring on the plain,Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,And longing to behold his ancient lord again,Him when he saw, he rose, and crawled to meet('Twas all he could), and fawned, and kissed his feet,Seized with dumb joy; then falling by his side,Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died.
Alexander Pope.
'Twas only a dog in a kennelAnd little noise he made,But it seemed to me as I heard itI knew what that old dog said."Another long month to get over;Will nobody loosen my chain?Just for a run 'round the meadow,Then fasten me up again."Give me my old life of freedom,Give me a plunge and a swim,A dash and a dive in the river,A shake and a splash on the brim."I patted his head and spoke kindly,I thought that his case was hard,Oh, give him a run in the open,Your dog chained up in the yard!
'Twas only a dog in a kennelAnd little noise he made,But it seemed to me as I heard itI knew what that old dog said.
"Another long month to get over;Will nobody loosen my chain?Just for a run 'round the meadow,Then fasten me up again.
"Give me my old life of freedom,Give me a plunge and a swim,A dash and a dive in the river,A shake and a splash on the brim."
I patted his head and spoke kindly,I thought that his case was hard,Oh, give him a run in the open,Your dog chained up in the yard!
Anonymous.
"What makes the dog's nose always cold?"I'll try to tell you, curls of gold,If you will sit upon my kneeAnd very good and quiet be.Well, years and years and years ago—How many I don't really know—There came a rain on sea and shore;Its like was never seen beforeOr since. It fell unceasing downTill all the world began to drown.But just before it down did pour,An old, old man—his name was Noah—Built him an ark, that he might saveHis family from a watery grave;And in it also he designedTo shelter two of every kindOf beast. Well, dear, when it was done,And heavy clouds obscured the sun,The Noah folks to it quickly ran,And then the animals beganTo gravely march along in pairs.The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,The deer, the hippopotamuses,The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,The camels, goats, and cats, and donkeys,The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,The rats, the big rhinoceroses,The dromedaries and the horses,The sheep, the mice, the kangaroos,Hyenas, elephants, koodoos,And many more—'twould take all day,My dear, the very names to say—And at the very, very endOf the procession, by his friendAnd master, faithful dog was seen.The lifelong time he'd helping beenTo drive the crowd of creatures in;And now, with loud, exultant bark,He gayly sprang aboard the bark.Alas! So crowded was the spaceHe could not in it find a place;So, patiently, he turned about,—Stood half-way in, and half-way out,And those extremely heavy showersDescended through nine hundred hoursAnd more; and, darling, at their closeMost frozen was his honest nose;And never could it lose againThe dampness of that dreadful rain.And that is what, my curls of gold,Made all the doggies' noses cold.
"What makes the dog's nose always cold?"I'll try to tell you, curls of gold,If you will sit upon my kneeAnd very good and quiet be.
Well, years and years and years ago—How many I don't really know—There came a rain on sea and shore;Its like was never seen beforeOr since. It fell unceasing downTill all the world began to drown.
But just before it down did pour,An old, old man—his name was Noah—Built him an ark, that he might saveHis family from a watery grave;And in it also he designedTo shelter two of every kindOf beast. Well, dear, when it was done,And heavy clouds obscured the sun,The Noah folks to it quickly ran,And then the animals beganTo gravely march along in pairs.
The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,The deer, the hippopotamuses,The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,The camels, goats, and cats, and donkeys,The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,The rats, the big rhinoceroses,The dromedaries and the horses,The sheep, the mice, the kangaroos,Hyenas, elephants, koodoos,And many more—'twould take all day,My dear, the very names to say—And at the very, very endOf the procession, by his friendAnd master, faithful dog was seen.
The lifelong time he'd helping beenTo drive the crowd of creatures in;And now, with loud, exultant bark,He gayly sprang aboard the bark.
Alas! So crowded was the spaceHe could not in it find a place;So, patiently, he turned about,—Stood half-way in, and half-way out,And those extremely heavy showersDescended through nine hundred hoursAnd more; and, darling, at their closeMost frozen was his honest nose;And never could it lose againThe dampness of that dreadful rain.
And that is what, my curls of gold,Made all the doggies' noses cold.
Margaret Eytinge.