The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Brave dog was Steadfast, brave and strong,
Faithful as dog has ever been,—
Docile, and never prone to wrong,
With all his instincts quick and keen;
Sagacious, for he reasoned well,
Or seemed to reason, with right will,
And many a shepherd loves to tell
His countless deeds of canine skill.

Duly at morning's early prime
Up the old stair he softly crept—
True to the moment of his time—
To wake his master, if he slept;
With gentle touches of his paw
He stroked his master's drowsy head,
And thus—for custom was his law—
Quickly aroused him from his bed.

From fold to verdurous holm and height,
O'er rugged hill and rifted rock,
It was his duty and delight
To guide and guard the wayward flock:
If danger threatened by the way,
His wakeful instinct told him where,
Then half in earnest, half in play,
He kept aloof his fleecy care.

Sometimes the winter winds would rave
Abrupt among the scattered sheep,
And hurl them in the roaring wave,
Or tomb them in the snow-drift deep;
Then would the dog, with dauntless breast,
Plunge through the storm, blast, rain, or frost,
Nor would he quit his weary quest
Till he had found the treasure lost.

From field to field, from stream to stream,
By stony hollow, reedy fen,
Where chainless cataracts dash and gleam,
On mountain side, in cloven glen—
Bold Steadfast searches, close and well,
His nostrils neighbouring with the ground,
Till he stops short with bark and yell,—
Sign that the buried sheep are found.

Lithe as a mole, with busy strength
He digs a gallery towards the soil,
And human helpers come at length
To aid him in his eager toil!
The flock is saved; a simple feast
Relieves his hunger and his cold,
While all exclaim—“That faithful beast
Is worth his weight in sterling gold!”

Such was old Steadfast; but alas!
Death smote his master in the night;
They dared not let the creature pass,
When came the morning's golden light,
Lest, with his usual care, he sought
To touch the dumb and ghastly head,
And with a sad, instinctive thought,
Lifted his wail above the dead.

They sent him to a distant spot,
Till the funereal rites were o'er,
And when they deemed he had forgot,
They called poor Steadfast home once more;
But, no! he had a different choice,—
He would not tread that dwelling-place;
He did not hear his master's voice,
He did not see his kindly face.

He thought him lost among the hills,
And daily sought him everywhere,
By all the well-known streams and rills,
On all the moorlands brown and bare;
He marshalled each disordered flock
He met by chance upon his way,
But still roamed on from rock to rock,
From dawn until the dusk of day.

But duly at the twilight hour
He came for his allotted food,
And nightly he would whine and cower
Without, in woful solitude;
They spoke to him with stern command,—
They called with gentle words and fair,
They coaxed him with a friendly hand,
In vain, he could not enter there.

From day to day the creature grew
More steeped in gloom, more gaunt and thin;
To wean him home they strove anew,—
Alas! he would not enter in.
His food, his rambles, he forsook,
As if all efforts had been tried,—
Lay down with sad and piteous look,
And on his native threshold—died!