Voices for the SpeechlessPart 4 out of 5* * * * * LITTLE BROWN BIRD. A little brown bird sat on a stone; The sun shone thereon, but he was alone. "O pretty bird, do you not weary Of this gay summer so long and dreary?" The little bird opened his black bright eyes, And looked at me with great surprise; Then his joyous song broke forth, to say, "Weary of what? I can sing all day." _Posies for Children._ * * * * * LIFE'S SIGN. Wouldst thou the life of souls discern, Not human wisdom nor divine Helps thee by aught beside to learn, _Love_ is life's only sign. KEBLE. * * * * * A BIRD'S MINISTRY. From his home in an Eastern bungalow, In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, Thus wrote my friend:-- "I had travelled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar; "And once, when the daily march was o'er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before. "In swarming city, at wayside fane, By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain, I had taught,--and my teaching all seemed vain. "No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears; The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears Have gloomed their worship this thousand years. "'For Christ and his truth I stand alone In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown Against your temple of ancient stone "'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then, rising, my saddened way I took To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: I gazed, and marvelled;--how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair! For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown: Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand The tree in its living verdure!--Who Could compass the thought?--The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, Did more to shiver this ancient wall Than earthquake,--war,--simoon,--or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall! Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:-- "The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain, _Then_ temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!" MARGARET J. PRESTON. * * * * * 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 Mahabharata, 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 Eumaeus 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 (Eumaeus 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. * * * * * HELVELLYN. This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805. I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that--no requiem read o'er him-- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last, Llewellyn's horn to hear? "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? The flower of all his race! So true, so brave--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase!" That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gained the castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood: The hound was smeared with drops of gore; His lips and fangs ran blood. Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet; His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn passed, (And on went Gelert too;) And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-drops shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The blood-stained cover rent And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child--no voice replied; He searched--with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found the child! "Monster, by thee my child's devoured!" The frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell, Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant cry! Concealed beneath a mangled heap His hurried search had missed: All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed. Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead-- Tremendous still in death. Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewellyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe-- "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue." And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell. SPENSER. * * * * * LOOKING FOR PEARLS. AN ORIENTAL LEGEND. The Master came one evening to the gate Of a far city; it was growing late, And sending his disciples to buy food, He wandered forth intent on doing good, As was his wont. And in the market-place He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground. Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,-- A dead dog with a halter round his neck. And those who stood by mocked the object there, And one said scoffing, "It pollutes the air!" Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,-- "You could not cut even a shoe from it," And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed," A fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!" "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried, And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. Then Jesus, standing by them in the street, Looked on the poor spent creature at his feet, And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "_Pearls are not whiter than his teeth._" And then The people at each other gazed, asking, "Who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?" Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "This surely is the Man of Nazareth; This must be Jesus, for none else but he Something to praise in a dead dog could see!" And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled. ALGER'S _Eastern Poetry_. * * * * * ROVER. "Kind traveller, do not pass me by, And thus a poor old dog forsake; But stop a moment on your way, And hear my woe for pity's sake! "My name is Rover; yonder house Was once my home for many a year; My master loved me; every hand Caressed young Rover, far and near. "The children rode upon my back, And I could hear my praises sung; With joy I licked their pretty feet, As round my shaggy sides they clung. "I watched them while they played or slept; I gave them all I had to give: My strength was theirs from morn till night; For them I only cared to live. "Now I am old, and blind, and lame, They've turned me out to die alone, Without a shelter for my head, Without a scrap of bread or bone. "This morning I can hardly crawl, While shivering in the snow and hail; My teeth are dropping, one by one; I scarce have strength to wag my tail. "I'm palsied grown with mortal pains, My withered limbs are useless now; My voice is almost gone you see, And I can hardly make my bow. "Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed Where I may find some friendly straw On which to lay my aching limbs, And rest my helpless, broken paw. "Stranger, excuse this story long, And pardon, pray, my last appeal; You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, And learned that dogs, like men, can feel." Yes, poor old Rover, come with me; Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply; And Heaven forgive the cruel souls Who drove you forth to starve and die! J. T. FIELDS. * * * * * TO MY DOG "BLANCO." My dear dumb friend, low lying there, A willing vassal at my feet, Glad partner of my home and fare, My shadow in the street. I look into your great brown eyes, Where love and loyal homage shine, And wonder where the difference lies Between your soul and mine! For all of good that I have found Within myself or humankind, Hath royalty informed and crowned Your gentle heart and mind. I scan the whole broad earth around For that one heart which, leal and true, Bears friendship without end or bound, And find the prize in you. I trust you as I trust the stars; Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride, Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars, Can move you from my side! As patient under injury As any Christian saint of old, As gentle as a lamb with me, But with your brothers bold; More playful than a frolic boy, More watchful than a sentinel, By day and night your constant joy, To guard and please me well: I clasp your head upon my breast-- And while you whine and lick my hand-- And thus our friendship is confessed And thus we understand! Ah, Blanco! did I worship God As truly as you worship me, Or follow where my master trod With your humility; Did I sit fondly at His feet, As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine, And watch him with a love as sweet, My life would grow divine! J. G. HOLLAND. * * * * * THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG. "Pay down three dollars for my hound! 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 God'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 rehearse: _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. And after that--thou dost not care? In us was all the world to thee. Yet fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond thine own We strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone. We lay thee, close within our reach, Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watched thy couchant form, Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road-- There choose we thee, O guardian dear, Marked with a stone, thy last abode! Then some, who through the garden pass, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the grass, And stop before the stone, and say:-- _People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend_. MATTHEW ARNOLD. [1] Sunt lacrimae rerum. * * * * * ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD SPANIEL. Poor old friend, how earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been Still the companion of my boyish sports; And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs, From many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled Often the melancholy hours at school, Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remembered then Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, Returning at the happy holidays, I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of life. Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity. But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man. There is another world For all that live and move--a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite Goodness to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee. ROBERT SOUTHEY. * * * * * EPITAPH IN GREY FRIARS' CHURCHYARD. The monument erected at Edinburgh to the memory of "Grey Friars' Bobby" by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts has a Greek inscription by Professor Blackie. The translation is as follows: This monument was erected by a noble lady, THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS, to the memory of GREY FRIARS' BOBBY, a faithful and affectionate LITTLE DOG, who followed the remains of his beloved master to the churchyard, in the year 1858, and became a constant visitor to the grave, refusing to be separated from the spot until he died in the year 1872. * * * * * FROM AN INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth. * * * * * Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on,--it honors none you wish to mourn; To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,--and here he lies. LORD BYRON, 1808. * * * * * THE DOG. Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise, Away! Thou standest to his heart too near, Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer; Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies. Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise, Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes. He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee; More than the voices of his kind thy word Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod Has flowers: he only in thy will is free. Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd Would turn and rend him, pining for his God. EMILY PFEIFFER. * * * * * JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT. A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day, Low-spirited, weary, and sad, From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away, And followed a dear little lad. Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue, Made doggie think, "_Here_ is a _good_ boy and true!" So, wagging his tail and expressing his views With a sort of affectionate whine, Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose, To be _any_ dog's master, be _mine_." And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight, And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight. But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad, A newspaper notice he read, "Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he had A spot on the top of his head. Whoever returns him to me may believe A fair compensation he'll surely receive." Johnny didn't want _money_, not he; 'twasn't _that_ That made him just _sit down to think_, And made a grave look on his rosy face fat, And made those blue eyes of his wink To keep back the tears that were ready to flow, As he thought to himself, "_Must_ the dear doggie go?" 'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there With his own little conscience so true. "It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair, There is only one thing you can do; Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay, But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!" No wonder he sat all so silent and still, Forgetting to fondle his pet-- The poor little boy thinking _hard_ with a _will_; While thought doggie, "What makes him forget, I wonder, to frolic and play with me now, And _why_ does he wear such a sorrowful brow?" Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought, And the victory given to him: The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought, Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim. But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day Whenever our Johnny is passing that way. MARY D. BRINE. * * * * * THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away! And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure; He constantly loved me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray! And he licked me for kindness,--my poor dog Tray. 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 grass, He flies with step as light and sure. He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass, 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 lustrous 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 Space 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 God 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 space is too wide to be bridged across,
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