The Dog's Book of Verse Part 10

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 cup Set for drinking deep in!

XVIII

Whiskered cats aroynted flee, St.u.r.dy stoppers keep from thee Cologne distillations; Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons Turn to daily rations!

XIX

Mock I thee, in wishing weal?

Tears are in my eyes to feel Thou art made so straitly: Blessings need must straiten too,-- Little canst thou joy or do Thou who lovest _greatly_.

XX

Yet be blessed to the height Of all good and all delight Pervious to thy nature; Only _loved_ beyond that line, With a love that answers thine, Loving fellow-creature!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

FRANCES

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 paw Upon my palm, And in your calm, deep eyes was writ The 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 day You fawned, and loved me just the same.

It was your way to understand.

And if I struck you, my harsh hand Was 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 died And were put deep.

But though you sleep, and ever sleep, I sense you at my heels.

RICHARD WIGHTMAN.

TO MY SETTER, SCOUT

You are a tried and loyal friend; The end Of life will find you leal, unweary Of 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 sad That 'mongst all earthly friends the fewest Unfaithful ones should thus be clad In canine lowliness; yet truest They, be their treatment good or bad.

Within your eyes methinks I find A kind And thoughtful look of speechless feeling That mem'ry's loosened cords unbind, And let the dreamy past come stealing Through your dumb, reflective mind.

Scout, my trusty friend, can it be You see Again, in retrospective dreaming, The run, the woodland, and the lea, With past autumnal sunshine streaming O'er ev'ry frost-dyed field and tree?

Or do you see now once again The glen And fern, the highland, and the thistle?

And do you still remember when We heard the bright-eyed woodc.o.c.k whistle Down by the rippling, shrub-edged fen?

I see you turn a listening ear To hear The quail upon the flower-pied heather; But, doggie, wait till uplands sere, And then the autumn's waning weather Will bring the sport we hold so dear.

Then we will hunt the loamy swale And trail The snipe, their cunning wiles o'ercoming; And oft will flush the bevied quail, And hear the partridge slowly drumming Dull echoes in the leaf-strewn dale.

When wooded hills with crimson light Are bright, We'll stroll where trees and vines are growing, And see birds warp their southern flight At sundown, when the Day King's throwing Sly kisses to the Queen of Night.

FRANK H. SELDEN.

WHY STRIK'ST THOU ME?

Why dost thou strike me?--Ever faithful In service to thee do I live; And often when thou wert in peril My very utmost would I give; My life I would lay down for thee!

Why strik'st thou me?

In bl.u.s.tering storm and cruel Winter, In murky night or through the day, Obedient I have trotted by thee And 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 chasm That glooms the torrent thou didst slide, Thou there had perished maimed and helpless Had I not sought thee far and wide.

Myself forgetting, sought I thee: Why strik'st thou me?

When on the furious billows drifting Thou 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 darken In which thy strength will fade away.

Then thou wilt beg as I beg thee:-- Why strik'st thou me?

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE (_Translator_).

CONSOLATION