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 own We strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone.

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

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To 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 pa.s.s, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the gra.s.s, And stop before the stone, and say:--

_People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend_.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[1] Sunt lacrimae rerum.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD SPANIEL.

Poor old friend, how earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been Still 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 bark Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled Often the melancholy hours at school, Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remembered then Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, Returning at the happy holidays, I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of life.

Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity.

But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man. There is another world For all that live and move--a better one!

Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite Goodness to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

EPITAPH IN GREY FRIARS' CHURCHYARD.

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 monument was erected by a n.o.ble lady, THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS, to the memory of GREY FRIARS' BOBBY, a faithful and affectionate LITTLE DOG, who followed the remains of his beloved master to the churchyard, in the year 1858, and became a constant visitor to the grave, refusing to be separated from the spot until he died in the year 1872.

FROM AN INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

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, Pa.s.s 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.

THE DOG.

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 word Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod Has flowers: he only in thy will is free.

Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd Would turn and rend him, pining for his G.o.d.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT.

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, "_Here_ is a _good_ boy and true!"

So, wagging his tail and expressing his views With a sort of affectionate whine, Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose, To be _any_ dog's master, be _mine_."

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 had A spot on the top of his head.

Whoever returns him to me may believe A fair compensation he'll surely receive."

Johnny didn't want _money_, not he; 'twasn't _that_ That made him just _sit down to think_, And made a grave look on his rosy face fat, And made those blue eyes of his wink To keep back the tears that were ready to flow, As he thought to himself, "_Must_ the dear doggie go?"

'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there With 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 thinking _hard_ with a _will_; While thought doggie, "What makes him forget, I wonder, to frolic and play with me now, And _why_ does 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 day Whenever our Johnny is pa.s.sing that way.

MARY D. BRINE.

THE HARPER.

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.