POSTSCRIPT.
Soonafter the first appearance of "The Subaltern" in 'Blackwood's Magazine,' there were published, in the same able work, lines to the memory of my faithful dog, which sorrow for the loss of a creature so dear to me had called forth.
They do not appear to myself to be worthy of republication; but as others have thought differently, I cannot refuse to give a place to them in a volume which, indirectly at least, has told how long and how faithfully Juno served me. I therefore subjoin
MY DOG'S EPITAPH.
Sleep on, sleep on, thou gentle one!Light lie the turf upon thy breast;Thy toil is o'er, thy race is run—Sleep on, and take thy rest!In vain for thee were the 'larum notePoured from the bugle's brazen throat—The rolling drum thou heedest not,Nor noise of signal-gun.Let charger tramp or warrior treadOver the place of thy narrow bed,They will not wake thee from the dead—Thy mortal strife is done!Sleep on, sleep on, thou faithful slave!Unmindful though thy master keepHis vigils by thy nameless grave,And think of thee and weep;Not even his voice, beloved of yore,That stirred thee when the cannon's roarHath failed to rouse, shall rouse thee moreOut of thy slumbers deep!No more for thee his whistle shrillShall sound through wood, o'er moor and hill—Thy cry is mute, thy limbs are stillIn everlasting sleep!Sleep on, sleep on! no morrow's sunShall light thee to the battle back;Thy fight hath closed, thy laurels won,And this thy bivouac.On tented field or bloody plain,For thee the watch-fire flares in vain—Thou wilt not share its warmth againWith him who loved thee well;Nor when with toil and danger spent,He rests beneath the firmament,Thine eye upon his form be bent,Thou trusty sentinel!Sleep on, thou friend and comrade tried,In battle, broil, and peaceful bower!Thou hast left for once thy master's side,But never in danger's hour.Not thus inactive wert thou laid,On that night of perilous ambuscade,When levelled tube and brandished bladeWere at thy master's throat;Then fierce and forward was thy bound,And proud thy footstep pressed the ground,While the tangled greenwood echoed roundWith thy loud warning-note.Sleep on, sleep on! it is not nowThe soldier's cloak, a covering meetFor that kind head—no more art thouCouched at a soldier's feet.What boots it thee if storms be high,Or summer breezes fan the sky?Unheeded both will pass thee by,They cannot reach thee there;Hunger and thirst assail thee not—Peril and pain alike forgot—Be foul or fair thy master's lot,That lot thou canst not share.Then sleep; though gladly would I giveHalf of the life preserved by thee,Couldst thou, once more, my comrade, liveThy short space o'er with me.Vain wish, and impotent as vain;'Tis but a mockery of pain,To dream that aught may bring againThe spirit that hath flown.But years steal by, and they who mournAnother's fate, each in his turnShall tread one path, and reach one bourne,—Then, faithful friend, sleep on!
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.