HELVELLYN.

This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,And starting around me the echoes replied.On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weatherTill the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,The much-loved remains of her master defended,And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?And, oh! was it meet, that—no requiem read o'er him—No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him—Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming,Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weatherTill the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,The much-loved remains of her master defended,And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?And, oh! was it meet, that—no requiem read o'er him—No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him—Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming,Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Walter Scott.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,And cheerily smiled the morn,And many a brach, and many a hound,Attend Llewellyn's horn.And still he blew a louder blast,And gave a louder cheer;"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last,Llewellyn's horn to hear?"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?The flower of all his race!So true, so brave—a lamb at home,A lion in the chase!"That day Llewellyn little lovedThe chase of hart or hare;And scant and small the booty proved,For Gelert was not there.Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,When near the portal seat,His truant Gelert he espied,Bounding his lord to greet.But when he gained the castle door,Aghast the chieftain stood:The hound was smeared with drops of gore;His lips and fangs ran blood.Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,Unused such looks to meet;His favorite checked his joyful guise,And crouched and licked his feet.Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,(And on went Gelert too;)And still, where'er his eyes were cast,Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.O'erturned his infant's bed he found,The blood-stained cover rentAnd all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent.He called his child—no voice replied;He searched—with terror wild;Blood! blood! he found on every side,But nowhere found the child!"Monster, by thee my child's devoured!"The frantic father cried,And to the hilt his vengeful swordHe plunged in Gelert's side.His suppliant, as to earth he fell,No pity could impart;But still his Gelert's dying yell,Passed heavy o'er his heart.Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,Some slumberer wakened nigh:What words the parent's joy can tellTo hear his infant cry!Concealed beneath a mangled heapHis hurried search had missed:All glowing from his rosy sleep,His cherub boy he kissed.Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;But the same couch beneathLay a great wolf, all torn and dead—Tremendous still in death.Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!For now the truth was clear;The gallant hound the wolf had slainTo save Llewellyn's heir.Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe—"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic deed which laid thee lowThis heart shall ever rue."And now a gallant tomb they raise,With costly sculpture decked;And marbles, storied with his praise,Poor Gelert's bones protect.Here never could the spearman pass,Or forester unmoved;Here oft the tear-besprinkled grassLlewellyn's sorrow proved.And here he hung his horn and spear;And oft, as evening fell,In fancy's piercing sounds would hearPoor Gelert's dying yell.

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?The flower of all his race!So true, so brave—a lamb at home,A lion in the chase!"That day Llewellyn little lovedThe chase of hart or hare;And scant and small the booty proved,For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,When near the portal seat,His truant Gelert he espied,Bounding his lord to greet.But when he gained the castle door,Aghast the chieftain stood:The hound was smeared with drops of gore;His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,Unused such looks to meet;His favorite checked his joyful guise,And crouched and licked his feet.Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,(And on went Gelert too;)And still, where'er his eyes were cast,Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,The blood-stained cover rentAnd all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent.He called his child—no voice replied;He searched—with terror wild;Blood! blood! he found on every side,But nowhere found the child!

"Monster, by thee my child's devoured!"The frantic father cried,And to the hilt his vengeful swordHe plunged in Gelert's side.His suppliant, as to earth he fell,No pity could impart;But still his Gelert's dying yell,Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,Some slumberer wakened nigh:What words the parent's joy can tellTo hear his infant cry!Concealed beneath a mangled heapHis hurried search had missed:All glowing from his rosy sleep,His cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;But the same couch beneathLay a great wolf, all torn and dead—Tremendous still in death.Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!For now the truth was clear;The gallant hound the wolf had slainTo save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe—"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic deed which laid thee lowThis heart shall ever rue."And now a gallant tomb they raise,With costly sculpture decked;And marbles, storied with his praise,Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,Or forester unmoved;Here oft the tear-besprinkled grassLlewellyn's sorrow proved.And here he hung his horn and spear;And oft, as evening fell,In fancy's piercing sounds would hearPoor Gelert's dying yell.

Spenser.

The Master came one evening to the gateOf a far city; it was growing late,And sending his disciples to buy food,He wandered forth intent on doing good,As was his wont. And in the market-placeHe saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground.Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he foundA noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,—A dead dog with a halter round his neck.And those who stood by mocked the object there,And one said scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-nightShall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?""Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,—"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"A fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!""He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried,And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,Looked on the poor spent creature at his feet,And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,"Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And thenThe people at each other gazed, asking,"Who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?"Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;This must be Jesus, for none else but heSomething to praise in a dead dog could see!"And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

Alger'sEastern Poetry.

"Kind traveller, do not pass me by,And thus a poor old dog forsake;But stop a moment on your way,And hear my woe for pity's sake!"My name is Rover; yonder houseWas once my home for many a year;My master loved me; every handCaressed young Rover, far and near."The children rode upon my back,And I could hear my praises sung;With joy I licked their pretty feet,As round my shaggy sides they clung."I watched them while they played or slept;I gave them all I had to give:My strength was theirs from morn till night;For them I only cared to live."Now I am old, and blind, and lame,They've turned me out to die alone,Without a shelter for my head,Without a scrap of bread or bone."This morning I can hardly crawl,While shivering in the snow and hail;My teeth are dropping, one by one;I scarce have strength to wag my tail."I'm palsied grown with mortal pains,My withered limbs are useless now;My voice is almost gone you see,And I can hardly make my bow."Perhaps you'll lead me to a shedWhere I may find some friendly strawOn which to lay my aching limbs,And rest my helpless, broken paw."Stranger, excuse this story long,And pardon, pray, my last appeal;You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps,And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."Yes, poor old Rover, come with me;Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply;And Heaven forgive the cruel soulsWho drove you forth to starve and die!

"Kind traveller, do not pass me by,And thus a poor old dog forsake;But stop a moment on your way,And hear my woe for pity's sake!

"My name is Rover; yonder houseWas once my home for many a year;My master loved me; every handCaressed young Rover, far and near.

"The children rode upon my back,And I could hear my praises sung;With joy I licked their pretty feet,As round my shaggy sides they clung.

"I watched them while they played or slept;I gave them all I had to give:My strength was theirs from morn till night;For them I only cared to live.

"Now I am old, and blind, and lame,They've turned me out to die alone,Without a shelter for my head,Without a scrap of bread or bone.

"This morning I can hardly crawl,While shivering in the snow and hail;My teeth are dropping, one by one;I scarce have strength to wag my tail.

"I'm palsied grown with mortal pains,My withered limbs are useless now;My voice is almost gone you see,And I can hardly make my bow.

"Perhaps you'll lead me to a shedWhere I may find some friendly strawOn which to lay my aching limbs,And rest my helpless, broken paw.

"Stranger, excuse this story long,And pardon, pray, my last appeal;You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps,And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."

Yes, poor old Rover, come with me;Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply;And Heaven forgive the cruel soulsWho drove you forth to starve and die!

J. T. Fields.

My dear dumb friend, low lying there,A willing vassal at my feet,Glad partner of my home and fare,My shadow in the street.I look into your great brown eyes,Where love and loyal homage shine,And wonder where the difference liesBetween your soul and mine!For all of good that I have foundWithin myself or humankind,Hath royalty informed and crownedYour gentle heart and mind.I scan the whole broad earth aroundFor that one heart which, leal and true,Bears friendship without end or bound,And find the prize in you.I trust you as I trust the stars;Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars,Can move you from my side!As patient under injuryAs any Christian saint of old,As gentle as a lamb with me,But with your brothers bold;More playful than a frolic boy,More watchful than a sentinel,By day and night your constant joy,To guard and please me well:I clasp your head upon my breast—And while you whine and lick my hand—And thus our friendship is confessedAnd thus we understand!Ah, Blanco! did I worship GodAs truly as you worship me,Or follow where my master trodWith your humility;Did I sit fondly at His feet,As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,And watch him with a love as sweet,My life would grow divine!

My dear dumb friend, low lying there,A willing vassal at my feet,Glad partner of my home and fare,My shadow in the street.

I look into your great brown eyes,Where love and loyal homage shine,And wonder where the difference liesBetween your soul and mine!

For all of good that I have foundWithin myself or humankind,Hath royalty informed and crownedYour gentle heart and mind.

I scan the whole broad earth aroundFor that one heart which, leal and true,Bears friendship without end or bound,And find the prize in you.

I trust you as I trust the stars;Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars,Can move you from my side!

As patient under injuryAs any Christian saint of old,As gentle as a lamb with me,But with your brothers bold;

More playful than a frolic boy,More watchful than a sentinel,By day and night your constant joy,To guard and please me well:

I clasp your head upon my breast—And while you whine and lick my hand—And thus our friendship is confessedAnd thus we understand!

Ah, Blanco! did I worship GodAs truly as you worship me,Or follow where my master trodWith your humility;

Did I sit fondly at His feet,As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,And watch him with a love as sweet,My life would grow divine!

J. G. Holland.

"Pay down three dollars for my hound!May lightning strike me to the ground!What mean the Messieurs of police?And when and where shall this mockery cease?"I am a poor, old, sickly man,And earn a penny I no wise can;I have no money, I have no bread,And live upon hunger and want, instead."Who pitied me, when I grew sick and poor,And neighbors turned me from their door?And who, when I was left aloneIn God's wide world, made my fortunes his own?"Who loved me, when I was weak and old?And warmed me, when I was numb with cold?And who, when I in poverty pined,Has shared my hunger and never whined?"Here is the noose, and here the stone,And there the water—it must be done!Come hither, poor Pomp, and look not on me,One kick—it is over—and thou art free!"As over his head he lifted the band,The fawning dog licked his master's hand;Back in an instant the noose he drew,And round his own neck in a twinkling threw.The dog sprang after him into the deep,His howlings startled the sailors from sleep;Moaning and twitching he showed them the spot:They found the beggar, but life was not!They laid him silently in the ground,His only mourner the whimpering houndWho stretched himself out on the grave and criedLike an orphan child—and so he died.

"Pay down three dollars for my hound!May lightning strike me to the ground!What mean the Messieurs of police?And when and where shall this mockery cease?

"I am a poor, old, sickly man,And earn a penny I no wise can;I have no money, I have no bread,And live upon hunger and want, instead.

"Who pitied me, when I grew sick and poor,And neighbors turned me from their door?And who, when I was left aloneIn God's wide world, made my fortunes his own?

"Who loved me, when I was weak and old?And warmed me, when I was numb with cold?And who, when I in poverty pined,Has shared my hunger and never whined?

"Here is the noose, and here the stone,And there the water—it must be done!Come hither, poor Pomp, and look not on me,One kick—it is over—and thou art free!"

As over his head he lifted the band,The fawning dog licked his master's hand;Back in an instant the noose he drew,And round his own neck in a twinkling threw.

The dog sprang after him into the deep,His howlings startled the sailors from sleep;Moaning and twitching he showed them the spot:They found the beggar, but life was not!

They laid him silently in the ground,His only mourner the whimpering houndWho stretched himself out on the grave and criedLike an orphan child—and so he died.

Chamisso, tr. byC. T. Brooks.

This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir,Just as lions outrank frogs, sir,Just as the eagles are superiorTo buzzards and that tribe inferior.He's a shepherd lad—a beauty—And to praise him seems a duty,But it puts my pen to shame, sir,When his virtues I would name, sir."Don! come here and bend your head now,Let us see your best well-bred bow!"Was there ever such a creature!Common sense in every feature!"Don! rise up and look around you!"Blessings on the day we found you.Sellhim! well, upon my word, sir,That's a notion too absurd, sir.Would I sell our little Ally,Barter Tom, dispose of Sally?Think you I'd negotiateFor mywife, at any rate?Sellour Don! you're surely joking,And 'tis fun at us you're poking!Twenty voyages we've tried, sir,Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir,And Don and I will not divide, sir;He's myfriend, that's why I love him,—And no mortal dog's above him!He prefers a life aquatic,But never dog was less dogmatic.Years ago when I was masterOf a tight brig called the Castor,Don and I were bound for Cadiz,With the loveliest of ladiesAnd her boy—a stalwart, hearty,Crowing one-year infant party,Full of childhood's myriad graces,Bubbling sunshine in our facesAs we bowled along so steady,Half-way home, or more, already.How the sailors loved our darling!No more swearing, no more snarling;On their backs, when not on duty,Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,—Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,—All the crew took turns in dancing;Every tar playing PunchinelloWith the pretty, laughing fellow;Even the second mate gave sly winksAt the noisy mid-day high jinks.Never was a crew so happyWith a curly-headed chappy,Never were such sports gigantic,Never dog with joy more antic.While thus jolly, all together,There blew up a change of weather,Nothing stormy, but quite breezy,And the wind grew damp and wheezy,Like a gale in too low spiritsTo put forth one half its merits,But, perchance, a dry-land rangerMight suspect some kind of danger.Soon our stanch and gallant vesselWith the waves began to wrestle,And to jump about a trifle,Sometimes kicking like a rifleWhen 'tis slightly overloaded,But by no means nigh exploded.'Twas the coming on of twilight,As we stood abaft the skylight,Scampering round to please the baby,(Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,)When the youngster stretched his fingersTowards the spot where sunset lingers,And with strong and sudden motionLeaped into the weltering ocean!"Whatdid Don do?" Can't you guess, sir?He sprang also—by express, sir;Seized the infant's little dress, sir,Held the baby's head up boldlyFrom the waves that rushed so coldly;And in just about a minuteOur boat had them safe within it.Sellhim! Would you sell your brother?Don and Iloveone another.

This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir,Just as lions outrank frogs, sir,Just as the eagles are superiorTo buzzards and that tribe inferior.

He's a shepherd lad—a beauty—And to praise him seems a duty,But it puts my pen to shame, sir,When his virtues I would name, sir."Don! come here and bend your head now,Let us see your best well-bred bow!"Was there ever such a creature!Common sense in every feature!"Don! rise up and look around you!"Blessings on the day we found you.

Sellhim! well, upon my word, sir,That's a notion too absurd, sir.Would I sell our little Ally,Barter Tom, dispose of Sally?Think you I'd negotiateFor mywife, at any rate?

Sellour Don! you're surely joking,And 'tis fun at us you're poking!Twenty voyages we've tried, sir,Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir,And Don and I will not divide, sir;He's myfriend, that's why I love him,—And no mortal dog's above him!

He prefers a life aquatic,But never dog was less dogmatic.Years ago when I was masterOf a tight brig called the Castor,Don and I were bound for Cadiz,With the loveliest of ladiesAnd her boy—a stalwart, hearty,Crowing one-year infant party,Full of childhood's myriad graces,Bubbling sunshine in our facesAs we bowled along so steady,Half-way home, or more, already.

How the sailors loved our darling!No more swearing, no more snarling;On their backs, when not on duty,Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,—Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,—All the crew took turns in dancing;Every tar playing PunchinelloWith the pretty, laughing fellow;Even the second mate gave sly winksAt the noisy mid-day high jinks.Never was a crew so happyWith a curly-headed chappy,Never were such sports gigantic,Never dog with joy more antic.

While thus jolly, all together,There blew up a change of weather,Nothing stormy, but quite breezy,And the wind grew damp and wheezy,Like a gale in too low spiritsTo put forth one half its merits,But, perchance, a dry-land rangerMight suspect some kind of danger.

Soon our stanch and gallant vesselWith the waves began to wrestle,And to jump about a trifle,Sometimes kicking like a rifleWhen 'tis slightly overloaded,But by no means nigh exploded.

'Twas the coming on of twilight,As we stood abaft the skylight,Scampering round to please the baby,(Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,)When the youngster stretched his fingersTowards the spot where sunset lingers,And with strong and sudden motionLeaped into the weltering ocean!"Whatdid Don do?" Can't you guess, sir?He sprang also—by express, sir;Seized the infant's little dress, sir,Held the baby's head up boldlyFrom the waves that rushed so coldly;And in just about a minuteOur boat had them safe within it.

Sellhim! Would you sell your brother?Don and Iloveone another.

J. T. Fields.

Four years!—and didst thou stay aboveThe ground, which hides thee now, but four?And all that life, and all that love,Were crowded, Geist! into no more?Only four years those winning ways,Which make me for thy presence yearn,Called us to pet thee or to praise,Dear little friend! at every turn?That loving heart, that patient soul,Had they indeed no longer span,To run their course, and reach their goal,And read their homily to man?That liquid, melancholy eye,From whose pathetic, soul-fed springsSeemed surging the Virgilian cry.1The sense of tears in mortal things—That steadfast, mournful strain, consoledBy spirits gloriously gay,And temper of heroic mould—What, was four years their whole short day?Yes, only four!—and not the courseOf all the centuries to come,And not the infinite resourceOf nature, with her countless sum.Of figures, with her fulness vastOf new creation evermore,Can ever quite repeat the past,Or just thy little self restore.Stern law of every mortal lot!Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,And builds himself I know not whatOf second life I know not where.But thou, when struck thine hour to go,On us, who stood despondent by,A meek last glance of love didst throw,And humbly lay thee down to die.Yet would we keep thee in our heart—Would fix our favorite on the scene,Nor let thee utterly departAnd be as if thou ne'er hadst been.And so there rise these lines of verseOn lips that rarely form them now;While to each other we rehearse:Such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!We stroke thy broad, brown paws again,We bid thee to thy vacant chair,We greet thee by the window-pane,We hear thy scuffle on the stair;We see the flaps of thy large earsQuick raised to ask which way we go:Crossing the frozen lake appearsThy small black figure on the snow!Nor to us only art thou dearWho mourn thee in thine English home;Thou hast thine absent master's tear,Dropt by the far Australian foam.Thy memory lasts both here and there,And thou shalt live as long as we.And after that—thou dost not care?In us was all the world to thee.Yet fondly zealous for thy fame,Even to a date beyond thine ownWe strive to carry down thy name,By mounded turf, and graven stone.We lay thee, close within our reach,Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,Between the holly and the beech,Where oft we watched thy couchant form,Asleep, yet lending half an earTo travellers on the Portsmouth road—There choose we thee, O guardian dear,Marked with a stone, thy last abode!Then some, who through the garden pass,When we too, like thyself, are clay,Shall see thy grave upon the grass,And stop before the stone, and say:—People who lived here long agoDid by this stone, it seems, intendTo name for future times to knowThe dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.

Four years!—and didst thou stay aboveThe ground, which hides thee now, but four?And all that life, and all that love,Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

Only four years those winning ways,Which make me for thy presence yearn,Called us to pet thee or to praise,Dear little friend! at every turn?

That loving heart, that patient soul,Had they indeed no longer span,To run their course, and reach their goal,And read their homily to man?

That liquid, melancholy eye,From whose pathetic, soul-fed springsSeemed surging the Virgilian cry.1The sense of tears in mortal things—

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoledBy spirits gloriously gay,And temper of heroic mould—What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!—and not the courseOf all the centuries to come,And not the infinite resourceOf nature, with her countless sum.

Of figures, with her fulness vastOf new creation evermore,Can ever quite repeat the past,Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot!Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,And builds himself I know not whatOf second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go,On us, who stood despondent by,A meek last glance of love didst throw,And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart—Would fix our favorite on the scene,Nor let thee utterly departAnd be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verseOn lips that rarely form them now;While to each other we rehearse:Such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!

We stroke thy broad, brown paws again,We bid thee to thy vacant chair,We greet thee by the window-pane,We hear thy scuffle on the stair;

We see the flaps of thy large earsQuick raised to ask which way we go:Crossing the frozen lake appearsThy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dearWho mourn thee in thine English home;Thou hast thine absent master's tear,Dropt by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there,And thou shalt live as long as we.And after that—thou dost not care?In us was all the world to thee.

Yet fondly zealous for thy fame,Even to a date beyond thine ownWe strive to carry down thy name,By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach,Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,Between the holly and the beech,Where oft we watched thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an earTo travellers on the Portsmouth road—There choose we thee, O guardian dear,Marked with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through the garden pass,When we too, like thyself, are clay,Shall see thy grave upon the grass,And stop before the stone, and say:—

People who lived here long agoDid by this stone, it seems, intendTo name for future times to knowThe dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.

Matthew Arnold.

Poor old friend, how earnestlyWould I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst beenStill the companion of my boyish sports;And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,From many a day-dream has thy short, quick barkRecalled my wandering soul. I have beguiledOften the melancholy hours at school,Soured by some little tyrant, with the thoughtOf distant home, and I remembered thenThy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy,Returning at the happy holidays,I felt from thy dumb welcome. PensivelySometimes have I remarked thy slow decay,Feeling myself changed too, and musing muchOn many a sad vicissitude of life.Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst lastThy master's parting footsteps to the gateWhich closed forever on him, thou didst loseThy truest friend, and none was left to pleadFor the old age of brute fidelity.But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;And He who gave thee being did not frameThe mystery of life to be the sportOf merciless man. There is another worldFor all that live and move—a better one!Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confineInfinite Goodness to the little boundsOf their own charity, may envy thee.

Robert Southey.

The monument erected at Edinburgh to the memory of "Grey Friars' Bobby" by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts has a Greek inscription by Professor Blackie. The translation is as follows:

This monumentwas erected by a noble lady,The Baroness Burdett-coutts,to the memory ofGREY FRIARS' BOBBY,a faithful and affectionateLittle Dog,who followed the remains of his beloved masterto the churchyard,in the year 1858,and became a constant visitor to the grave,refusing to be separated from the spotuntil he diedin the year 1872.

When some proud son of man returns to earth,Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,And storied urns record who rests below;When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,Not what he was, but what he should have been:But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend,Whose honest heart is still his master's own,Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,Pass on,—it honors none you wish to mourn;To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,Pass on,—it honors none you wish to mourn;To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

Lord Byron, 1808.

Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise,Away! Thou standest to his heart too near,Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer;Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies.Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise,Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere,Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here,Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes.He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee;More than the voices of his kind thy wordLives in his heart; for him thy very rodHas flowers: he only in thy will is free.Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herdWould turn and rend him, pining for his God.

He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee;More than the voices of his kind thy wordLives in his heart; for him thy very rodHas flowers: he only in thy will is free.Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herdWould turn and rend him, pining for his God.

Emily Pfeiffer.

A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day,Low-spirited, weary, and sad,From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away,And followed a dear little lad.Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue,Made doggie think, "Hereis agoodboy and true!"So, wagging his tail and expressing his viewsWith a sort of affectionate whine,Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose,To beanydog's master, bemine."And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight,And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad,A newspaper notice he read,"Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he hadA spot on the top of his head.Whoever returns him to me may believeA fair compensation he'll surely receive."Johnny didn't wantmoney, not he; 'twasn'tthatThat made him justsit down to think,And made a grave look on his rosy face fat,And made those blue eyes of his winkTo keep back the tears that were ready to flow,As he thought to himself, "Mustthe dear doggie go?"'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just thereWith his own little conscience so true."It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair,There is only one thing you can do;Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay,But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"No wonder he sat all so silent and still,Forgetting to fondle his pet—The poor little boy thinkinghardwith awill;While thought doggie, "What makes him forget,I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,Andwhydoes he wear such a sorrowful brow?"Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought,And the victory given to him:The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim.But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this dayWhenever our Johnny is passing that way.

So, wagging his tail and expressing his viewsWith a sort of affectionate whine,Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose,To beanydog's master, bemine."And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight,And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.

But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad,A newspaper notice he read,"Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he hadA spot on the top of his head.Whoever returns him to me may believeA fair compensation he'll surely receive."

Johnny didn't wantmoney, not he; 'twasn'tthatThat made him justsit down to think,And made a grave look on his rosy face fat,And made those blue eyes of his winkTo keep back the tears that were ready to flow,As he thought to himself, "Mustthe dear doggie go?"

'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just thereWith his own little conscience so true."It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair,There is only one thing you can do;Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay,But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"

No wonder he sat all so silent and still,Forgetting to fondle his pet—The poor little boy thinkinghardwith awill;While thought doggie, "What makes him forget,I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,Andwhydoes he wear such a sorrowful brow?"

Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought,And the victory given to him:The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim.But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this dayWhenever our Johnny is passing that way.

Mary D. Brine.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away!And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;He constantly loved me although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray!And he licked me for kindness,—my poor dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away!And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;He constantly loved me although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray!And he licked me for kindness,—my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

Thomas Campbell.

Never again shall her leaping welcomeHail my coming at eventide;Never again shall her glancing footfallRange the fallow from side to side.Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,Down in a narrow and darksome bed,Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,Statue-still at the call of "steady,"Eyes as clear as the stars of night.Laughing breadths of the yellow stubbleNow shall rustle to alien tread,And rabbits run in the dew-dim cloverSafe—for my beautiful lieth dead."Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic?Only a dog, but as truth I prize,The truest love I have won in livingLay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.Frosts of winter nor heat of summerCould make her fail if my footsteps led;And memory holds in its treasure-casketThe name of my darling who lieth dead.

Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,Statue-still at the call of "steady,"Eyes as clear as the stars of night.Laughing breadths of the yellow stubbleNow shall rustle to alien tread,And rabbits run in the dew-dim cloverSafe—for my beautiful lieth dead.

"Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic?Only a dog, but as truth I prize,The truest love I have won in livingLay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.Frosts of winter nor heat of summerCould make her fail if my footsteps led;And memory holds in its treasure-casketThe name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. inEvening Post.

As fly the shadows o'er the grass,He flies with step as light and sure.He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,And starts the deer by Lisanoure.The music of the Sabbath bells,O Con! has not a sweeter sound,Than when along the valley swellsThe cry of John McDonnell's hound.His stature tall, his body long,His back like night, his breast like snow,His fore leg pillar-like and strong,His hind leg bended like a bow;Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,His ear a leaf so small and round;Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,Could rival John McDonnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long,His back like night, his breast like snow,His fore leg pillar-like and strong,His hind leg bended like a bow;Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,His ear a leaf so small and round;Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,Could rival John McDonnell's hound.

Denis Florence Maccarthy.

My little rough dog and ILive a life that is rather rare,We have so many good walks to take,And so few bad things to bear;So much that gladdens and recreates,So little of wear and tear.Sometimes it blows and rains,But still the six feet ply;No care at all to the following fourIf the leading two knows why,'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,My little rough dog and I.And we travel all one way;'Tis a thing we should never do,To reckon the two without the four,Or the four without the two;It would not be right if any one tried,Because it would not be true.And who shall look up and say,That it ought not so to be,Though the earth that is heaven enough for him,Is less than that to me,For a little rough dog can wake a joyThat enters eternity.

My little rough dog and ILive a life that is rather rare,We have so many good walks to take,And so few bad things to bear;So much that gladdens and recreates,So little of wear and tear.

Sometimes it blows and rains,But still the six feet ply;No care at all to the following fourIf the leading two knows why,'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,My little rough dog and I.

And we travel all one way;'Tis a thing we should never do,To reckon the two without the four,Or the four without the two;It would not be right if any one tried,Because it would not be true.

And who shall look up and say,That it ought not so to be,Though the earth that is heaven enough for him,Is less than that to me,For a little rough dog can wake a joyThat enters eternity.

Humane Journal.

Ah, Rover, by those lustrous eyesThat follow me with longing gaze,Which sometimes seem so human-wise,I look for human speech and ways.By your quick instinct, matchless love,Your eager welcome, mute caress,That all my heart's emotions move,And loneliest moods and hours bless,I do believe, my dog, that youHave some beyond, some future new.Why not? In heaven's inheritanceSpace must be cheap where worldly lightIn boundless, limitless expanseRolls grandly far from human sight.He who has given such patient care,Such constancy, such tender trust,Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare,And made you something more than dust,May yet release the speechless thrallAt death—there's room enough for all.

Why not? In heaven's inheritanceSpace must be cheap where worldly lightIn boundless, limitless expanseRolls grandly far from human sight.He who has given such patient care,Such constancy, such tender trust,Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare,And made you something more than dust,May yet release the speechless thrallAt death—there's room enough for all.

Our Continent.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mindSees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;His soul proud science never taught to strayFar as the solar walk, or milky way;Yet simple nature to his hope has given,Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven;Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,Some happier island in the watery waste,Where slaves once more their native land behold,No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.To be, contents his natural desire,He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,His faithful dog shall bear him company.

Pope.

A traveller, by the faithful hound,Half-buried in the snow was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThat banner with the strange device,Excelsior!

H. W. Longfellow.

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