Voices for the Speechless Part 35

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 alone In G.o.d'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 hound Who stretched himself out on the grave and cried Like an orphan child--and so he died.

_Chamisso, tr. by_ C. T. BROOKS.

DON.

This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir, Just as lions outrank frogs, sir, Just as the eagles are superior To 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.

_Sell_ him! 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 negotiate For my _wife_, at any rate?

_Sell_ our 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 my _friend_, 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 master Of a tight brig called the Castor, Don and I were bound for Cadiz, With the loveliest of ladies And her boy--a stalwart, hearty, Crowing one-year infant party, Full of childhood's myriad graces, Bubbling sunshine in our faces As 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 Punchinello With the pretty, laughing fellow; Even the second mate gave sly winks At the noisy mid-day high jinks.

Never was a crew so happy With 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 spirits To put forth one half its merits, But, perchance, a dry-land ranger Might suspect some kind of danger.

Soon our stanch and gallant vessel With the waves began to wrestle, And to jump about a trifle, Sometimes kicking like a rifle When '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 fingers Towards the spot where sunset lingers, And with strong and sudden motion Leaped into the weltering ocean!

"_What_ did 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 boldly From the waves that rushed so coldly; And in just about a minute Our boat had them safe within it.

_Sell_ him! Would you sell your brother?

Don and I _love_ one another.

J. T. FIELDS.

GEIST'S GRAVE.

Four years!--and didst thou stay above The 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 springs Seemed surging the Virgilian cry.[1]

The sense of tears in mortal things--

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

Yes, only four!--and not the course Of all the centuries to come, And not the infinite resource Of nature, with her countless sum.

Of figures, with her fulness vast Of 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 what Of 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 depart And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse On lips that rarely form them now; While to each other we rehea.r.s.e: _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 ears Quick raised to ask which way we go: Crossing the frozen lake appears Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear Who 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.