The Dog's Book of Verse Part 20

So long my heart will feel a void-- Grieving, my mind will be employed-- When I, returning to my door, Shall miss what I shall find no more.

When we, at last, shall pa.s.s away, And see no more the light of day, Will many hearts as vacant mourn-- As truly wish for our return?

Yet love that's true will ever know The pain of parting. Better so!

"Better to love and lose" than cold, And colder still, let hearts grow old.

So let the cynic snarl or smile, And his great intellect beguile; My little dog, so true to me, Will dear to heart and memory be.

HENRY WILLETT.

QUESTIONS

Is there not something in the pleading eye Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns The law that bids it suffer? Has it not A claim for some remembrance in the book That fills its pages with the idle words Spoken of man? Or is it only clay, Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, Yet all his own to treat it as he will, And when he will to cast it at his feet, Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?

My dog loves me, but could he look beyond His earthly master, would his love extend To Him who--hush! I will not doubt that He Is better than our fears, and will not wrong The least, the meanest of created things.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

OUR DOG JOCK

A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old c.o.c.k As ever did nothing was our dog Jock; A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast, As slow at a fight as swift at a feast; A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail, One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail, When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim, And his course of bark could not strengthen him.

Never more now shall our knees be pressed By his dear old chops in their s...o...b..ry rest, Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks, As wise, and as dull, as divinity books.

Our old friend's dead, but we all well know He's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go, Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be, And his old head never need turn for a flea.

JAMES PAYN.

TORY, A PUPPY

He lies in the soft earth under the gra.s.s, Where they who love him often pa.s.s, 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 G.o.d who made him--G.o.d knows best.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

ON AN IRISH RETRIEVER

Ten years of loving loyalty Unthanked 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 move Deserve an epitaph like thine!

f.a.n.n.y KEMBLE BUTLER.

A RETRIEVER'S EPITAPH

Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressed With 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 rise Large 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, defied Temptation, 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 repaid As 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 mood If 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