Voices for the Speechless Part 37

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.

"FLIGHT."

Never again shall her leaping welcome Hail my coming at eventide; Never again shall her glancing footfall Range 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 stubble Now shall rustle to alien tread, And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover Safe--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 living Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.

Frosts of winter nor heat of summer Could make her fail if my footsteps led; And memory holds in its treasure-casket The name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. in _Evening Post_.

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.

As fly the shadows o'er the gra.s.s, He flies with step as light and sure.

He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pa.s.s, And starts the deer by Lisanoure.

The music of the Sabbath bells, O Con! has not a sweeter sound, Than when along the valley swells The 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.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

SIX FEET.

My little rough dog and I Live 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 four If 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 joy That enters eternity.

_Humane Journal._

THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.

Ah, Rover, by those l.u.s.trous eyes That 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 you Have some beyond, some future new.

Why not? In heaven's inheritance s.p.a.ce must be cheap where worldly light In boundless, limitless expanse Rolls 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 thrall At death--there's room enough for all.

_Our Continent._

HIS FAITHFUL DOG.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees G.o.d in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far 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.

THE FAITHFUL HOUND.

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

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE SPIDER'S LESSON.

Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood, Waiting the hour of doom; Behind him the palace of Holyrood, Before him--a nameless tomb.

And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the day of his past renown, When he won and he wore the Scottish crown: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Time and again I have fronted the tide Of the tyrant's vast array, But only to see on the crimson tide My hopes swept far away;-- Now a landless chief and a crownless king, On the broad, broad earth not a living thing To keep me court, save this insect small, Striving to reach from wall to wall:"

For come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss, Like myself, of your time and pain; The s.p.a.ce is too wide to be bridged across, You but waste your strength in vain!"

And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the sure belief That, howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was the omen sent: And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

As a gambler watches the turning card On which his all is staked,-- As a mother waits for the hopeful word For which her soul has ached,-- It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense Centred alone in that look intense; All rigid he stood, with scattered breath-- Now white, now red, but as still as death: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.