OF BIRDS.
See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble
sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor
and preacher to the wisest of men.
Martin Luther.
BIRDS IN SPRING.
Listen! What a sudden rustle
Fills the air!
All the birds are in a bustle
Everywhere.
Such a ceaseless croon and twitter
Overhead!
Such a flash of wings that glitter
Wide outspread!
Far away I hear a drumming,—
Tap, tap, tap!
Can the woodpecker be coming
After sap?
Butterflies are hovering over
(Swarms on swarms)
Yonder meadow-patch of clover,
Like snow-storms.
Through the vibrant air a-tingle
Buzzingly,
Throbs and o'er me sails a single
Bumble-bee.
Lissom swayings make the willows
One bright sheen,
Which the breeze puffs out in billows
Foamy green.
From the marshy brook that's smoking
In the fog
I can catch the crool and croaking
Of a frog.
Dogwood stars the slopes are studding,
And I see
Blooms upon the purple-budding
Judas-tree.
Aspen tassels thick are dropping
All about,
And the alder-leaves are cropping
Broader out;
Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle,
Edged with rose;
The park bed of periwinkle
Fresher grows.
Up and down are midges dancing
On the grass:
How their gauzy wings are glancing
As they pass!
What does all this haste and hurry
Mean, I pray—
All this out-door flush and flurry
Seen to-day?
This presaging stir and humming,
Thrill and call?
Mean? It means that spring is coming;
That is all!
Margaret J. Preston.
THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.
Sing away, ay, sing away,
Merry little bird,
Always gayest of the gay,
Though a woodland roundelay
You ne'er sung nor heard;
Though your life from youth to age
Passes in a narrow cage.
Near the window wild birds fly,
Trees are waving round;
Fair things everywhere you spy
Through the glass pane's mystery,
Your small life's small bound:
Nothing hinders your desire
But a little gilded wire.
Like a human soul you seem
Shut in golden bars:
Placed amid earth's sunshine stream,
Singing to the morning beam,
Dreaming 'neath the stars;
Seeing all life's pleasures clear,—
But they never can come near.
Never! Sing, bird-poet mine,
As most poets do;—
Guessing by an instinct fine
At some happiness divine
Which they never knew.
Lonely in a prison bright
Hymning for the world's delight.
Yet, my birdie, you're content
In your tiny cage:
Not a carol thence is sent
But for happiness is meant—
Wisdom pure as sage:
Teaching the pure poet's part
Is to sing with merry heart.
So lie down, thou peevish pen;
Eyes, shake off all tears;
And, my wee bird, sing again:
I'll translate your song to men
In these future years.
"Howsoe'er thy lot's assigned,
Meet it with a cheerful mind."
Mrs. Dinah Maria (Mulock) Craik.
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S-NEST.
Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?
Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave for you a wisp of hay,
And did not take your nest away.
Not I, said the cow, moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean as that, now,
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I, said the dog, bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.
Not I, said the sheep, Oh no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so!
I gave the wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I would not rob a bird,
Said little Mary Green;
I think I never heard
Of any thing so mean.
'Tis very cruel, too,
Said little Alice Neal;
I wonder if she knew
How sad the bird would feel?
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame
He didn't like to tell his name.
Hymns for Mother and Children.
WHO STOLE THE EGGS?
"Oh, what is the matter with Robin,
That makes her cry round here all day?
I think she must be in great trouble,"
Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.
"I know why the Robin is crying,"
Said Wren, with a sob in her breast;
"A naughty bold robber has stolen
Three little blue eggs from her nest.
"He carried them home in his pocket;
I saw him, from up in this tree:
Ah me! how my little heart fluttered
For fear he would come and rob me!"
"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?"
Said Swallow, beginning to cry;
"I wouldn't be guilty of robbing
A dear little bird's-nest—not I."
"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus:
"A cruel and mischievous boy!
I pity his father and mother;
He surely can't give them much joy.
"I guess he forgot what a pleasure
The dear little robins all bring,
In early spring-time and in summer,
By the beautiful songs that they sing.
"I guess he forgot that the rule is,
To do as you'd be always done by;
I guess he forgot that from heaven
There looks down an All-seeing Eye."
Mrs. C. F. Berry.
WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.
When they chatter together,—the robins and sparrows,
Bluebirds and bobolinks,—all the day long;
What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine,
The state of the weather, the last pretty song;
Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles
That go to make bird-life so careless and free;
The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder,
The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;
Of matches in prospect;—how Robin and Jenny
Are planning together to build them a nest;
How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping
At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.
Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip!
Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright!
Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard!
Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!
O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows!
O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May
Without your glad presence,—the songs that you sing us,
And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?
Caroline A. Mason.
Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.
Titus Andronicus, Act 1, Sc. 2.
THE WREN'S NEST.
I took the wren's nest:
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall
That, empty still, and neat and fair,
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit carolling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;—
I took the wren's nest;
Heaven forgive me!
How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
What labors hard through sun and shade
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it—gone!
I took the wren's nest:
Bird, forgive me!
Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear,
Ye have before you all the year,
And every wood holds nooks for you,
In which to sing and build and woo;
One piteous cry of birdish pain—
And ye'll begin your life again,
Forgetting quite the lost, lost home
In many a busy home to come.
But I? your wee house keep I must,
Until it crumble into dust.
I took the wren's nest:
God forgive me!
Dinah Maria (Mulock) Craik.
ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear—
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit in the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
William Blake.
THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.
My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow;
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets blow.
Not a pine in the grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound:
Not a beech's more beautiful green,
But a sweet-brier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
I found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me such plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed;
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of its young;
And I loved her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
Shenstone (d. 1673).
THE WOOD-PIGEON'S HOME.
Come with me, if but in fancy,
To the wood, the green soft shade:
'Tis a haven, pure and lovely,
For the good of mankind made.
Listen! you can hear the cooing,
Soft and soothing, gentle sounds,
Of the pigeons, as they nestle
In the branches all around.
In the city and the open,
Man has built or tilled the land;
But the home of the wood pigeon
Bears the touch of God's own hand.
Anon.
THE SHAG.
"What is that great bird, sister, tell me,
Perched high on the top of the crag?"
"'Tis the cormorant, dear little brother;
The fishermen call it the shag."
"But what does it there, sister, tell me,
Sitting lonely against the black sky?"
"It has settled to rest, little brother;
It hears the wild gale wailing high."
"But I am afraid of it, sister,
For over the sea and the land
It gazes, so black and so silent!"
"Little brother, hold fast to my hand."
"Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder?
Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud,
The wind and the rain and the lightning?"
"Little brother, the thunder roars loud.
"Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean;
Look! over the lighthouse it streams;
And the lightning leaps red, and above us
The gulls fill the air with their screams."
O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly,.
The little white cottage they gain;
And safely they watch from the window
The dance and the rush of the rain.
But the shag kept his place on the headland,
And, when the brief storm had gone by,
He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him
Rise splendid and strong in the sky.
Clinging fast to the gown of his sister,
The little boy laughed as he flew:
"He is gone with the wind and lightning!
And—I am not frightened,—are you?"
Celia Thaxter.
THE LOST BIRD.
My bird has flown away,
Far out of sight has flown, I know not where.
Look in your lawn, I pray,
Ye maidens kind and fair,
And see if my beloved bird be there.
His eyes are full of light;
The eagle of the rock has such an eye;
And plumes, exceeding bright,
Round his smooth temples lie,
And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.
Look where the grass is gay
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
And search, from spray to spray,
The leafy laurel bowers,
For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.
Find him, but do not dwell,
With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
Nor love his song too well;
Send him, at once, to me,
Or leave him to the air and liberty.
For only from my hand
He takes the seed into his golden beak,
And all unwiped shall stand
The tears that wet my cheek,
Till I have found the wanderer I seek.
My sight is darkened o'er,
Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day,
And when I hear no more
The music of his lay,
My heart in utter sadness faints away.
From the Spanish of Carolina Coronado De Perry.
Translated by W. C. Bryant.
THE BIRDS MUST KNOW.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,
Songs make their way.
No messenger to run before,
Devising plan;
No mention of the place or hour
To any man;
No waiting till some sound betrays
A listening ear;
No different voice, no new delays,
If steps draw near.
"What bird is that? Its song is good."
And eager eyes
Go peering through the dusky wood,
In glad surprise.
Then late at night, when by his fire
The traveller sits,
Watching the flame grow brighter, higher,
The sweet song flits
By snatches through his weary brain
To help him rest;
When next he goes that road again
An empty nest
On leafless bough will make him sigh,
"Ah me! last spring
Just here I heard, in passing by,
That rare bird sing!"
But while he sighs, remembering
How sweet the song,
The little bird on tireless wing,
Is borne along
In other air; and other men
With weary feet,
On other roads, the simple strain
Are finding sweet.
The birds must know. Who wisely sings
Will sing as they;
The common air has generous wings,
Songs make their way.
H. H.
THE BIRD KING.
Dost thou the monarch eagle seek?
Thou'lt find him in the tempest's maw,
Where thunders with tornadoes speak,
And forests fly as though of straw;
Or on some lightning-splintered peak,
Sceptred with desolation's law,
The shrubless mountain in his beak,
The barren desert in his claw.
Alger's Oriental Poetry.
SHADOWS OF BIRDS.
In darkened air, alone with pain,
I lay. Like links of heavy chain
The minutes sounded, measuring day,
And slipping lifelessly away.
Sudden across my silent room
A shadow darker than its gloom
Swept swift; a shadow slim and small,
Which poised and darted on the wall,
And vanished quickly as it came.
A shadow, yet it lit like flame;
A shadow, yet I heard it sing,
And heard the rustle of its wing,
Till every pulse with joy was stirred;
It was the shadow of a bird!
Only the shadow! Yet it made
Full summer everywhere it strayed;
And every bird I ever knew
Back and forth in the summer flew,
And breezes wafted over me
The scent of every flower and tree;
Till I forgot the pain and gloom
And silence of my darkened room.
Now, in the glorious open air
I watch the birds fly here and there;
And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves
The sky, if some poor soul that grieves
In lonely, darkened, silent walls,
Will catch the shadow as it falls!
H. H.
THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.
"The rivers rush into the sea,
By castle and town they go;
The winds behind them merrily
Their noisy trumpets blow.
"The clouds are passing far and high,
We little birds in them play;
And everything, that can sing and fly,
Goes with us, and far away.
"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither or whence,
With thy fluttering golden band?"
"I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea,
I haste from the narrow land.
"Full and swollen is every sail;
I see no longer a hill,
I have trusted all to the sounding gale,
And it will not let me stand still.
"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us?
Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall,
For full to sinking is my house
With merry companions all."
"I need not and seek not company,
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone;
For the mainmast tall too heavy am I,
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.
"High over the sails, high over the mast,
Who shall gainsay these joys?
When thy merry companions are still, at last,
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.
"Who neither may rest, nor listen may,
God bless them every one!
I dart away, in the bright blue day,
And the golden fields of the sun.
"Thus do I sing my weary song,
Wherever the four winds blow;
And this same song, my whole life long,
Neither Poet nor Printer may know."
H. W. Longfellow.
A MYTH.
Afloating, afloating
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing bird
Upon the topmast tree.
"Oh, came you from the isles of Greece,
Or from the banks of Seine?
Or off some tree in forests free
That fringe the western main?"
"I came not off the old world,
Nor yet from off the new;
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through."
"Oh, sing and wake the dawning!
Oh, whistle for the wind!
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind."
"The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow,
Ere thou hast sailed them through."
C. Kingsley.
THE DOG.
CUVIER ON THE DOG.
"The domestic dog," says Cuvier, "is the most complete, the most singular,
and the most useful conquest that man has gained in the animal world. The
whole species has become our property; each individual belongs entirely to
his master, acquires his disposition, knows and defends his property, and
remains attached to him until death; and all this, not through constraint
or necessity, but purely by the influences of gratitude and real
attachment. The swiftness, the strength, the sharp scent of the dog, have
rendered him a powerful ally to man against the lower tribes; and were,
perhaps, necessary for the establishment of the dominion of mankind over
the whole animal creation. The dog is the only animal which has followed
man over the whole earth."
A HINDOO LEGEND.
In the Mahabhàrata, one of the two great Hindoo poems, and of unknown
antiquity, there is a recognition of the obligation of man to a dependent
creature not surpassed in pathos in all literature.
We copy only such portions of the legend as bear upon this point.
The hero, Yudhistthira, leaves his home to go to Mount Meru, among the
Himalayas, to find Indra's heaven and the rest he so much desired; and with
him,
"The five brothers set forth, and Draupadi, and the seventh was a
dog that followed them."
On the way the Princess Draupadi perished, and, after her, one brother
after another, until all had died, and the hero reached his journey's end
accompanied only by his dog.
Lo! suddenly, with a sound which rang through heaven and earth,
Indra came riding on his chariot, and he cried to the king, "Ascend!"
Then, indeed, did the lord of justice look back to his fallen brothers,
And thus unto Indra he spoke, with a sorrowful heart:
"Let my brothers, who yonder lie fallen, go with me;
Not even unto thy heaven would I enter, if they were not there.
And yon fair-faced daughter of a king, Draupadi the all-deserving,
Let her too enter with us! O Indra, approve my prayer!"
INDRA.
In heaven thou shalt find thy brothers,—they are already there before thee;
There are they all, with Draupadi; weep not, then, O son of Bharata!
Thither have they entered, prince, having thrown away their mortal weeds;
But thou alone shalt enter still wearing thy body of flesh.
YUDHISTTHIRA.
O Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through;
Let it go with me into heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.
INDRA.
Immortality and fellowship with me, and the height of joy and felicity,
All these hast thou reached to-day; leave, then, the dog behind thee.
YUDHISTTHIRA.
The good may oft act an evil part, but never a part like this;
Away, then, with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful!
INDRA.
My heaven hath no place for dogs; they steal away our offerings on earth:
Leave, then, thy dog behind thee, nor think in thy heart that it is cruel.
YUDHISTTHIRA.
To abandon the faithful and devoted is an endless crime, like the murder of a Brahmin;
Never, therefore, come weal or woe, will I abandon yon faithful dog.
Yon poor creature, in fear and distress, hath trusted in my power to save it:
Not, therefore, for e'en life itself will I break my plighted word.
INDRA.
If a dog but beholds a sacrifice, men esteem it unholy and void;
Forsake, then, the dog, O hero, and heaven is thine own as a reward.
Already thou hast borne to forsake thy fondly loved brothers, and Draupadi;
Why, then, forsakest thou not the dog? Wherefore now fails thy heart?
YUDHISTTHIRA.
Mortals, when they are dead, are dead to love or hate,—so runs the world's belief;
I could not bring them back to life, but while they lived I never left them.
To oppress the suppliant, to kill a wife, to rob a Brahmin, and to betray one's friend,
These are the four great crimes; and to forsake a dependent I count equal to them.
Alger's Oriental Poetry.
ULYSSES AND ARGUS.
This story, from the Odyssey, is also of an unknown antiquity. Ulysses,
after many years of absence, returns to his home to find himself
unrecognized by his family. With Eumæus Ulysses walked about the familiar
grounds:
Thus near the gates conferring as they drew,
Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew;
He, not unconscious of the voice and tread,
Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head;
Bred by Ulysses, nourished at his board,
But, ah! not fated long to please his lord!
To him, his swiftness and his strength were vain;
The voice of glory called him o'er the main.
Till then, in every sylvan chase renowned,
With Argus, Argus, rung the woods around:
With him the youth pursued the goat or fawn,
Or traced the mazy leveret o'er the lawn;
Now left to man's ingratitude he lay,
Unhoused, neglected in the public way.
He knew his lord: he knew, and strove to meet;
In vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet;
Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes.
Salute his master, and confess his joys.
Soft pity touched the mighty master's soul;
Adown his cheek a tear unhidden stole,
Stole unperceived: he turned his head and dried
The drop humane: then thus impassioned cried:
"What noble beast in this abandoned state
Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate?
His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise:
If, as he seems, he was in better days,
Some care his age deserves; or was he prized
For worthless beauty? therefore now despised:
Such dogs and men there are, mere things of state,
And always cherished by their friends the great."
Not Argus so (Eumæus thus rejoined),
But served a master of a nobler kind,
Who never, never, shall behold him more!
Long, long since perished on a distant shore!
Oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young,
Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong:
Him no fell savage on the plain withstood,
None 'scaped him bosomed in the gloomy wood;
His eye how piercing, and his scent how true,
To wind the vapor in the tainted dew!
Such, when Ulysses left his natal coast:
Now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost.
Odyssey, Pope's translation.
TOM.
Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:—
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining? He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without
Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout—
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
They could not see him, but I could. He sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
Again and again. O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them,—when, suddenly, there at their feet,
The great beams leaned in—they saw him—then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash,—
Jumped to get out of the way,—and I thought,
"All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there,—when swift, at my side,
Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame,
Straight as a dart—caught the child—and then came
Back with him, choking and crying, but—saved!
Saved safe and sound!
Oh, how the men raved,
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire,
Should fall in and bury me.
Oh! you'd admire
To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time.
Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log!
And there comes Tom, too—
Yes, Tom was our dog.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
WILLIAM OF ORANGE SAVED BY HIS DOG.
On the night of the 11th and 12th of September, 1572, a chosen band of six
hundred Spaniards made an attack within the lines of the Dutch army. The
sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment
powerless. The Prince of Orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but
a small spaniel dog," says Mr. Motley, "who always passed the night upon
his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. The creature sprang forward, barking
furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's
face with his paws. There was but just time for the Prince to mount a horse
which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness,
before his enemies sprang into the tent. His servants were cut down, his
master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a
moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's
watchfulness, William of Orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of
his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an
ignominious death. To his death, the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel
of the same race in his bed-chamber."
Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic.
The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small
temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by
columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence,
Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince
in white marble, and at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved
his life at the siege of Malines.
De Amicis' Holland.
THE BLOODHOUND.
Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
Old friend—we must wander the world once more!
For no one now liveth to welcome us back;
So, come!—let us speed on our fated track.
What matter the region,—what matter the weather,
So you and I travel, till death, together?
And in death?—why, e'en there I may still be found
By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.
We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
(How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;)
No joy did divide us; no peril could part
The man from his friend of the noble heart;
Aye, his friend; for where, where shall there ever be found
A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?
What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day
When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay?
When downward they galloped to where we stood,
Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood?
Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
And—he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.
Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound
Must forever be lost in the worthless ground:
Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say),
Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away.
Well, Herod—go tell them whatever may be,
I'll hope I may ever be found by thee.
If in sleep,—in sleep; if with skies around,
Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!
Barry Cornwall.