Poems By Alfred Domett |
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“He's gone dead.”
Greek Trag. passim.
To “------,”
Which symbol best may representThe “even tenor of her way,”
Her heart and mind (though far indeed from blank
And ever most upright),
Single—straightforward—pure—well-ruled—
No rising vanity—no crooked double-thought;—or,
To “---,”
Which emblem better still may typify
Her feelings all starbright with kindly cheerfulness,
The glowing warmth of her benevolence;—
In short, to her,
Than whom none can afford more charity for the failings of others,
As few can require so little for home-consumption—
Who has a kind glance at all times for all who approach her—
(Except when she's taking a nap)
And a kind word to give to all who address her—
(Except when she has lost her voice);
Who has pity in plenty for the sorrows and pains
Of creatures that walk upon two legs—
And therefore (à fortiori) must feel for the mishaps
Of those who go upon four;—
The following Rhymes,
Prompted by “that sincere admiration” (and so on) of “the Genius”
And that “unfeigned regret” (&c. &c.) for the dissolution of their subject,
Which Biographers and Dedicators are wont to assume,
These Rhymes—
Occasioned by the melancholy decease
Of—A DOG
Who had been her bosom companion for upwards of thirteen years,
And since whose death (as is usually the case) we have suddenly discovered
That he was as “highly esteemed” before that event, as he is “deeply regretted” after it—
These Rhymes (I say a third time, for it's a terribly long sentence)
“Which it is hoped may not altogether,” &c.&c.&c.&c.
“Are humbly, and with the deepest, &c.&c.” &c.&c.&c.&c.
Inscribed by
Her “most grateful and affectionate friend,”
And “obedient humble servant,”
“THE AUTHOR.”
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF FRISK.
Cowper.
Urguet?—cui Pudor, et Justitiæ Soror
Incorrupta Fides—nudaque Veritas
Quando ullum inveniet parem?”
Horace.
Othello.
Glee.
“His time was come—he ran his race,
We hope he's in a better place.”
Swift.
“Poor fellow!—for some reason, surely bad,
They had slain him with five slugs.”
Don Juan, Canto v.
And weltering in his blood—
On the bare earth exposed he lies
And not a friend to close his eyes.”
Dryden.
Don Juan.
From her who prompted David's strain,
When “Brother Jonathan” was slain,
To her, whose sob
Wrung speeches from the Corporal's brain
O'er Master Bob!
When Lycidas was food for fish;
Who wept o'er Keats with Percy Bysshe—
Inspired Marc Antony
When Brutus “carved the Gods a dish”
They scarce could want on high!
Doth Harp or Hurdigurdy ply;
When Thyrza fell,
Or bade Ben Battle “pipe his eye”
For faithless Nell!
That cistern's cock, in which the rain
Of human tears is gathered—deign
Your aid to apply!
Grief is the cock through which you drain
The salt floods dry!
From Greek “αι: αι:”s, “ε: ε”s, “ιω”s,
To our “Alack's,” “Alas's!” “Oh's!”—
Bring groans and sighs,
And handkerchiefs to blow the nose,
And wipe the eyes.
The good—the gentle, and the kind—
The friend sincere—the guest refined—
The foe to none;—
The Star of Dogs has sure declined—
For Frisk is gone!
Makes wise Ulysses fiercely say,
'Twas to the suitors (by the way
A currish crew!)
“Dogs,” says he, “you have had your day!”
We say so too!
Must bid a sad farewell to thee!
It will be long before we see
Thy like again—
A coat and character so free
From spot or stain!
Deserve an abler pen than mine—
But yet thy ghost (if ghost be thine)
Need not be fretted,
Nor by the Styx despairing whine,—
'Twas so regretted!
Nor (dog-faced) “animated bust”
The feeling heart
Thy death will mourn—it may and must—
Dog as thou wert!
No plumes—no pall—no outside woe—
Nor all that retinue so slow
Of saddest stuff—
As death were not itself a foe
Quite sad enough—
As o'er the many Great, whose friend
Not sad enough himself to attend
The funeral courses,
Would—what will weep as truly, send—
His coach and horses.
Will scorn the undesigning tear
That falls o'er thy—we can't say, bier,
Because thou'dst none—
But that which falls, (we hope so) here
O'er friendship gone.
In this cold world of selfish care,
To spurn—reprove—
Or slight the meanest things there are,
Who offered love?
The dappled daisy's modest cheek,
So purely bright—so simply meek,
As fondly quite
As when the Oak's proud crest they seek—
A glorious sight!
Upon the sparrow of the grove,
And on the King-Bird, far above,
When charging on,
He rides full-tilt, in fight to prove
The astonished Sun!
The creatures of fraternal birth,
The children of one Mother—Earth—
Whose each degree
Can feel and fill Affection's dearth
As well as we?
On my protection—would confide
Could I reject it?
No! I would cherish it with pride,
And ne'er neglect it!
Loves on, through Pride and through Disgrace;
Unaltered fondness in his face
His tail he wags,
And owns the friend he knew in lace,
A friend in rags.
Though black with crime by Passion bred—
Man coldly shrugs, and shakes his head,
With seeming sigh,
And talks of “Friendship forfeited,”
And “ruin nigh”!—
From him, the subject of my song—
And sooth it were a grievous wrong
To leave untold
What virtues in his breast did throng,
Who's stiff and cold.
Deep Alpine snows, and travellers save
Nor pulled he ever
A Roland Græme from out the wave,
With bold endeavour.
In snuffing secret murder out;
Nor equalled him whose fame for snout
So wide and large is—
The dog there's so much talk about,
Of old Montargis.
Of Billy, who, of dogs the flower,
Killed rats by thousands in the hour—
To save digression—
The best of valour was his dower—
And that's Discretion!
Left four-legged orphans, long-tailed widow,
As Billy, cruel monster, did do—
Though travellers none for
His succour, back to Being slid, who
Had else been done for;—
He was no canine Alexander—
Nor did, a Howard on four feet, wander
Philanthropizing—
You'll find his virtues, if you ponder,
Were worth the prizing.
And all accomplishments that be
Denied to dogs of low degree,
In him were found—
The Chesterfield of Dogs was he,
With heart more sound!
At call to arms he would demur,
And “fortiter in re” to cur
But seldom showed,—Oh
'Twas but excess of “suaviter”
(Poor Dog!) “in modo”!
Poor Frisk their king—in him was found
No love “of war or battle's sound”—
The milk so mild
Of quadrupedal kindness drowned
Such wishes wild!
The Christian creed of love to foes
(Which we profess in midst of blows)
He followed better,
Than many a two-legged Christian does—
Christian by letter!
Were moderate as e'er were seen—
He thought not Anarchy must mean
A Liberal's glory—
And difference found (perhaps) between
Tyrant and Tory.
He gnawed his bone, nor thought it true
If you allowed Corruption—you
Would leave him none,
Nor that Reform would give him two
Instead of one!
Like far-famed Niger's mouth and springs,
With nature's secret, hidden things—
The time, the way,
Or who the right from Heaven brings
He could not say.
And sanctions them to “slay and eat”
Should make us vain!
Promoted into Monarchs' meat—
We can't complain!
When on a King the frogs were bent—
And surely, there's safe precedent
Why logs should be
Received as kings by heaven lent,
By you and me.
So saw in Kings (profanely bold
He must have been) no better mould
Than flesh and blood,
Which Nations vest with power, to hold
For public good!
That all to be made equal ought—
Like him, who all his captives brought,
Both great and small ones,
To fit one bed, by stretching short,
And lopping tall ones .
That Nature meant each body (strong
Or weak) should to that Soul belong
To which she tacked it—
But wiser men prove Nature wrong
If thus she acted.
It would have been in her to assign
A separate one to each—in fine
'Tis right black bodies
Should serve our souls, and I opine
So meant the Goddess!
She clapt a livery on their back,
And stamped them slaves, to toil and hack
For souls in white case—
How could our Dog reject—alack!—
This plain and bright case!
Long yarn) 'twixt Slavery with a dinner,
And Liberty without—the sinner!
The fault I fear
Had not been his, if he'd got thinner
So nigh good cheer.
“You neither made your Will nor Reason,
Nor ever put yourself your knees on;
'Twas all inherited—
So talk the matter how you please, on—
You've nothing merited.”
“Unless you doubt your doubt—and quite
Mistrust your power of doubting right—
Where is your claim
To Reason's free, unclouded light—
'Tis all a name!”
That nought's incredible below,
And nought indubitable—so
Our dog believed—
He thought not that it must be, though,
As he conceived .
The golden mean of legislation,
'Twixt total change and conservation;
And though ye die for 't,
Freedom for every sect and nation—
(No doubt he 'll fry for't!)
And call to mind his gambols, tricks,
And all that did our Friendship fix—
For nought remains
But Memory—since the gloomy Styx
All else retains.
And twirl on two legs round and round—
Then, graceful sink upon the ground—
And take the bread
So gently, which his labours crowned—
And now—he's dead!
Retreat a step or two—and pray
With wistful whine, that seemed to say,
“Do come and throw it!”—
His eyes the same request display—
His tail would show it!
The stone was nearer pushed—he threw
A glance at it, and then at you—
His tail too, said
With more impatient wag “Now do!”—
But oh!—he's dead!
The eye-talk of love-smitten lass,
Or ev'n of Sterne's dejected ass,
Are past away—
“Dog's flesh as well as man's is grass”—
Death makes it hay!
The feet that told each want aright—
The exulting bark, to show delight,
The whine, to pray—
The Rhetoric of that tail so white—
Where, where are they?
And all complain our Life is short;
Take fifty years from this—to nought,
Complaining Man,
The Dog's “sojourn on Earth” is brought,
To scarce a span!
Nor died he in his shoes—his lot
Was not to fall by hangman's knot—
Yet tried was he,
Convicted of—old age, and shot—
His crime—to be!—
Their aged men and women slew—
We know not if Frisk's slayers too
Ere they could sate 'em,
Followed the precedent quite through
And—boiled and ate him
He perished with becoming pride;
Like Duke d'Enghien or Ney, he died
With tearless eye;
O'er which no bandage mean was tied—
So heroes die!
Affirm he made; he “past away
With Christian fortitude” as say
The tombstones ever,—
Though benefit of Clergy they
Allowed him never.
No “useless coffin shrined his breast”
But “like a—Poodle taking rest”
Just so he lay—
His sleeping clay.
Safe in that bourne from which nor thou
Nor any dogs return, but know
Delight unceasing—
No whine—no snarl will there avow
Dislike to teasing.
Of Genius should thy form unite
With that ideal Menagerie bright,
That Phantom throng
Of creatures living in the light
Of deathless song!
With Lesbia's tears no longer wet;—
There Pope's and Byron's dogs forget
Their earthly cares;—
There Mailie frisks—poor Burns's pet—
With Cowper's hares;
And with like fame should'st thou be crowned
With merry whisk,
Full many admiring tongues should sound
The praise of Frisk!
D.&.—The Will.
He died like Billy Pitt, with none—
Perhaps a kind good-natured crone
(Which first we'd best state)
Poor Frisk had no will of his own,
And died intestate.
His wealth endowed “some good society,”
Of pleasure having had satiety,
While drawing breath—
Enabled thus to look with quiet eye
On coming death:
To teach “wild salvages” contrition—
Perhaps to foster erudition
And useful knowledge,
In scholarship or exhibition
For dogs at college.
To spread from pole to either tropic—
Perhaps to benefit poor Chlopicki's gallant Poles—
For even dogs on such a topic
Would show they'd souls .
From selfish motives, much was needed;
But Fashion's slaves to most succeeded—
Though, Heaven under,
If any love so well as he did—
'Twill be a wonder.
(Dissenters scarcely got a bit;)
He left to Barristers dog-wit;
To Parliament,
For duellists who seldom hit,
His valour went.
His honour delicate and high,
And boundless generosity.—
He made his power
Of picking clean, and lapping dry,
The Lawyer's dower.
His trick of twirling round refuse?
His candour, freedom from abuse
And gentleness,
Who would like party speakers use—
Who waste it less?
And modesty he left to all;
No single person would he call
Heir to his charity;
He knew, wherever it might fall,
'Twould be a rarity.
Brutus says of Julius Cæsar—
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds!”
Jul. Cæs.
See the dolorous Ballad of the Love and Death of bold Ben Battle for Nelly Gray, in Hood's Whims and Oddities.
The Greek Tragedians give us line after line of “οτοττοτοτοι:”s, “αι: αι: αι: αι”s, “ιαλεμων. ιαλεμων”s, &c.—by way of moving our pity—proving thereby the truth of Byron's assertion, that “Truth denie all Eloquence to woe.”
See Pope's (Homer's) Odyssey.—
Ulysses vengeful from the Trojan shore!” &c.
Chesterfield recommends the “suaviter in modo, et fortiter in re,”— the union of suavity of manner with firmness of action.
Procrustes (I think) was the famous robber who subjected his captives to this equalising ordeal—about as judicious a way of enforcing the physical “Rights of Man,” as the other would be of adjusting their moral and political ones.
Lucky reservation !—else doubtless had his canine conclusions and antiquated dogmatisms provoked felicitous applieation of Sidrophel's satire on
“Those Athenian sceptic owlsThat will not credit their own souls—
But measuring all things by their own
Knowledge, hold nothing's to be known,” &c.
or, more effectively, of the gentleness and insinuating persuasiveness of the glorious Socrates, reasoning against those who conclude by supposing themselves σοφωτατοι γεγονεναι και κατανενοηκεναι μονοι οτι ουτε των πραγματων ουδενος ουδεν υγιες ουδε βεβαιον ουτε των λογων: of the mild and melancholy-tinged appeal: Ουκουν οικτρον αν ειη το παθος, ει . . . μη εαυτον τις αιτιωτο μηδε την εαυτου ατεχνιαν αλλα . . . τον λοιπον βιον μισων τε και λοιδορων τους λογους, διατελοι, των δε οντων της αληθειας τε και επιστημης στερηθειη. Plat. Phæd. 89, 90.
Herodotus says the Massagetæ put to death, boiled and ate those whose age and infirmities made them encumbrances.—It was certainly a strange way of “living again in one's posterity”—these savages must have been the original “living graves” to which Byron compares the dungeons of Chillon. Each man was the burial-place of all his ancestry—a walking charnel-house—son after son widening the great self-sarcophagus, like the concentric rings made by throwing a stone into a pond—one within another, like the cases of a mummy, or the tubes of a sliding telescope— the last always embracing all that preceded him. A resurrectionist (or Burkite, for in this case the two would be identical) would not only have rifled the whole family vault at once, but have carried off the vault itself. It was the oak, not springing from, but re-inclosed in, the acorn. Vanity, in such circumstances, must have been a virtue, for in worshipping one's self, one would have been “honouring father and mother;” self-know-ledge would have been synonymous with length of descent, for in knowing one's-self, one would have known a far-ascending ancestry—in examining his own breast a man would have examined his pedigree. How truly might the young have declared that “the ills of Eld their earlier years alloyed,”—how literally may the old be said to have merged again into “second childhood—mere oblivion!”—The men of such an age, whether or not they “judicious drank,” certainly “greatly daring dined” —for at a meal they devoured all their forefathers. What were the suppers of the Roman Emperors or Cleopatra to this?—we can only hope they “inwardly digested” them.
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a Warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him!”
Wolfe.—Death of Sir J. Moork.
Catullus complains that Lesbia's eyes were red with weeping for the loss of her sparrow—Pope and Byron have immortalised their Dogs— Burns writes an Elegy on the death of Mailie, the Author's pet lamb—Gray a poem on the death of a favourite cat—Sterne has given everlasting existence to a starling and a jackass or two—Boswell records Johnson's fondness for his cat “old Hodge”—Frederic the Great was so grieved at the loss of one of his dogs, that nothing but his nose could compel him to suffer the removal of its carcass from his room. Walter Scott's Maida, and many other animals—pets of the Immortals, will occur to the mind of the reader.— A history of them all would form a pleasant Biographical Dictionary—an interesting intellectual Zoological Garden.
Very probably—seeing that hobby-horses are winged Pegasuses, (or Pegasi) for flying away with cash and kicking down money. They are terribly hardmouthed.
Canning—at Guildhall—wrote—
“He lived without ostentation and he died poor.”Byron—in Don Juan—wrote—
“Pitt as a high-souled Minister of State, isRenowned for ruining his country gratis!”
Are we to look for a specimen of the benefits to be derived from such appropriation of his property, to that strange combination of saints and savages, of swarthy chiefs and pale-faced missionaries—of barbarism and methodism—licentiousness and cant—Otaheite?
If so, it would be more than their brother Englishmen did; they showed neither souls nor bowels—at least of compassion—upon the occasion; however, ‘nil desperandum.’
‘For Freedom's battle once begun,Requeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won!’
[There seems an ambiguity about this sentence. It is not sufficiently clear whether his “tolerance” is said to have been allotted to “the Church,” from their actual possession, or from their want of it—whether it is withheld from the Dissenters, because they already had so much that more would have been superfluous, or still have so little that none could ever have been imparted. In each point, as the Dog would most likely have done, we must withhold our judgment, or put the most charitable construction on the tèxt.]
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