He lies in the soft earth under the grass,Where they who love him often pass,And his grave is under a tall young lime,In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?It was God who made him—God knows best.
He lies in the soft earth under the grass,Where they who love him often pass,And his grave is under a tall young lime,In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?It was God who made him—God knows best.
Mortimer Collins.
Ten years of loving loyaltyUnthankéd should not go to earth,And I, who had no less from thee,Devote this tribute to thy worth.For thou didst give to me, old friend,Thy service while thy life did last;Thy life and service have an end,And here I thank thee for the past.Trusted and faithful, tried and true,Watchful and swift to do my will,Grateful for care that was thy due,To duty's call obedient still,From ill thou knew'st thou didst refrain,The good thou knew'st thou strove to do,Nor dream of fame, nor greed of gain,Man's keenest spurs, urged thee thereto.Brute, with a heart of human love,And speechless soul of instinct fine!How few by reason's law who moveDeserve an epitaph like thine!
Ten years of loving loyaltyUnthankéd should not go to earth,And I, who had no less from thee,Devote this tribute to thy worth.
For thou didst give to me, old friend,Thy service while thy life did last;Thy life and service have an end,And here I thank thee for the past.
Trusted and faithful, tried and true,Watchful and swift to do my will,Grateful for care that was thy due,To duty's call obedient still,
From ill thou knew'st thou didst refrain,The good thou knew'st thou strove to do,Nor dream of fame, nor greed of gain,Man's keenest spurs, urged thee thereto.
Brute, with a heart of human love,And speechless soul of instinct fine!How few by reason's law who moveDeserve an epitaph like thine!
Fanny Kemble Butler.
Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressedWith agile feet, a dog is laid to rest;Him, as he sleeps, no well-known sound shall stir,The rabbit's patter, or the pheasant's whir;The keeper's "Over"—far, but well defined,That speeds the startled partridge down the wind;The whistled warning as the winged ones riseLarge and more large upon our straining eyes,Till with a sweep, while every nerve is tense,The chattering covey hurtles o'er the fence;The double crack of every lifted gun,The dinting thud of birds whose course is done—These sounds, delightful to his listening ear,He heeds no longer, for he cannot hear.None stauncher, till the drive was done, defiedTemptation, rooted to his master's side;None swifter, when his master gave the word,Leapt on his course to track the running bird,And bore it back—ah, many a time and oft—His nose as faultless as his mouth was soft.How consciously, how proudly unconcerned,Straight to his master's side he then returned,Wagged a glad tail, and deemed himself repaidAs in that master's hand the bird he laid,If, while a word of praise was duly said,The hand should stroke his smooth and honest head.Through spring and summer, in the sportless days,Cheerful he lived a life of simpler ways;Chose, since official dogs at times unbend,The household cat for confidante and friend;With children friendly, but untaught to fawn,Romped through the walks and rollicked on the lawn,Rejoiced, if one the frequent ball should throw,To fetch it, scampering gaily to and fro,Content through every change of sportive moodIf one dear voice, one only, called him good.Such was my dog, who now, without my aid,Hunts through the shadowland, himself a shade,Or crouched intent before some ghostly gate,Waits for my step, as here he used to wait.
Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressedWith agile feet, a dog is laid to rest;Him, as he sleeps, no well-known sound shall stir,The rabbit's patter, or the pheasant's whir;The keeper's "Over"—far, but well defined,That speeds the startled partridge down the wind;The whistled warning as the winged ones riseLarge and more large upon our straining eyes,Till with a sweep, while every nerve is tense,The chattering covey hurtles o'er the fence;The double crack of every lifted gun,The dinting thud of birds whose course is done—These sounds, delightful to his listening ear,He heeds no longer, for he cannot hear.None stauncher, till the drive was done, defiedTemptation, rooted to his master's side;None swifter, when his master gave the word,Leapt on his course to track the running bird,And bore it back—ah, many a time and oft—His nose as faultless as his mouth was soft.How consciously, how proudly unconcerned,Straight to his master's side he then returned,Wagged a glad tail, and deemed himself repaidAs in that master's hand the bird he laid,If, while a word of praise was duly said,The hand should stroke his smooth and honest head.Through spring and summer, in the sportless days,Cheerful he lived a life of simpler ways;Chose, since official dogs at times unbend,The household cat for confidante and friend;With children friendly, but untaught to fawn,Romped through the walks and rollicked on the lawn,Rejoiced, if one the frequent ball should throw,To fetch it, scampering gaily to and fro,Content through every change of sportive moodIf one dear voice, one only, called him good.
Such was my dog, who now, without my aid,Hunts through the shadowland, himself a shade,Or crouched intent before some ghostly gate,Waits for my step, as here he used to wait.
Robert C. Lehmann.
THE END
Transcriber's note:
My dog and I: Author is Alice J. Chester in the Table of contents and Alice J. Cleator in the text.