The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Friend of my youthful days, for ever past,
When whim and harmless folly rul'd the hour;
Ah! art thou stretch'd amid the straw at last!—
These eyes with tears thy dying looks devour.

Blest, would I soften thy hard bed of death,
And with new floods the fount of life supply.
O Peter, blest would I prolong thy breath,
Renew each nerve, and cheer thy beamless eye.

But wherefore wish?—Thy lot is that of all—
Thy friend who mourns must yield to Nature's law—
Like thee must sink—and o'er each dark'ning ball,
Will Death's cold hand th' eternal curtain draw.

Piteous thou liftest up thy feeble head,
And mark'st me dimly, with a dumb adieu—
And thus amid thy hopeless looks I read,
‘Faint is thy servant, and his moments few—

‘With thee no longer blest, the lanes I tread—
Those times, so happy, are for ever o'er—
Ah! why should Fate so cruel out our thread,
And part a friendship that must meet no more?

Oh! when these lids shall close (the will of Fate)
Oh! let in peace these aged limbs be laid—
Mid that lov'd field which saw us oft of late,
Beneath our fav'rite willow's ample shade.

270

‘And if my master chance to wander nigh,
Beside the spot where Peter's bones repose;
Oh! let your servant claim one little sigh—
Grant this—and, blest, these eyes for ever close.’

Yes thou poor spirit, yes—thy wish is mine—
Yes, be thy grave beneath the willow's gloom—
There shall the sod, the greenest sod, be thine:
And there the brightest flow'r of spring shall bloom.

Oft to the field as health my footstep draws,
Thy turf shall surely catch thy master's eye;
There on thy sleep of death shall friendship pause,
Dwell on past days, and leave thee with a sigh.

Sweet is remembrance of our youthful hours,
When innocence upon our actions smil'd!—
What though ambition scorn'd our humble pow'rs,
Thou a wild cub, and I a cub as wild?

Pleas'd will I tell how oft we us'd to roam;
How oft we wander'd at the peep of morn;
Till night would wrap the world in spectred gloom,
And Silence listen'd to the beetle's horn.

Thy victories will I recount with joy;
The various trophies by the fleetness won;
And boast that I, thy playfellow, a boy,
Beheld the feats by namesake Peter done.

Yes, yes (for grief must yield at times to glee),
Amidst my friends I oft will tell our tale;
When lo, these friends will rush thy sod to see,
And call thy peaceful region Peter's vale.