The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

Think'st thou that I remember not
Thy dearer claims of days “lang syne”?
Can “auld acquaintance be forgot,”
And love, and worth, and faith like thine?

105

What though I smooth her velvet fur,
Whose mottled hues so finely blend?
What though I coax and fondle her?
She's but a favourite—thou my friend.

And though thy ears, once glossy brown,
Are faded now; though hoary white
With age's frost thy nose is grown,
And dull thy hearing and thy sight;

And though thy once fleet limbs resign
Their spring, then light as air-blown feather;
I love thee more for every sign
That tells how long we've lived together.

And still thine eye is quick to see,
To know me yet far off: thine ear
(Oh love-supplied deficiency!)
Is keen my voice, my step to hear.

And still thou com'st with wild misrule,
As in past time, to welcome me:
And yet thou think'st, old jealous fool!
That that dull thing can rival thee.

Dost thou e'er hear me summon her
To be companion of my walk?
Dost thou e'er hear me talk to her,
As thou and I are wont to talk?

“But, mistress! on your lap she lies,
While I am crouching at your feet:
And I've looked on with envious eyes,
And seen her from your fingers eat.”

106

Now, my good friend! can thoughts arise
So senseless in such brains as thine?
Compare thine own with Donna's size,
And just reflect that cats must dine.

Look at that huge thick paw—and see,
Thy wrist is larger round than mine:
Would'st thou a lady's nursling be?
“But, mistress! why need puss be thine?”

Because she's gentle and polite,
And small, and soft, and clean withal—
Whilst thou, for gown of purest white,
Good friend! hast no respect at all.

Thou know'st in every muddy hole
'Tis thy delight to dive and play—
Fresh from such sport, from head to sole,
You splashed me o'er but yesterday;

While puss is always clean and sweet.
“Ay, mistress! ay, small chance have I:
Your poor old servant at your feet,
Despised, may lay him down and die.

Yet I've been young, and comely too,
And oft you've kissed my sleek brown head.”
Nay, Ranger! if you take it so,
I wish the cat was hanged and dead.

There, Ranger! there! you've won the field:
The foe's expelled; art thou at peace?
Beshrew the heart that would not yield
Indulgence e'en to love's caprice!

107

Have I not told thee, faithful friend!
That good and evil, joy and pain,
We'll share until our journey's end?
That only death shall part us twain?

And never shall thy latter days
Know want or suffering, wrong, distress,
That love, in all its countless ways,
Can remedy, relieve, redress.

And thou shalt live out all thy life—
No murderous hand shall lay thee low:
Forestalling time's more tedious strife,
With merciful, preventing blow.

Their mercy shall not end thy “pain,”
As they are pleased brute age to call:
No, thou shalt live, old friend! to drain
Life's mingled potion, dregs and all.

And many a sweet that time defies,
Even with the latest drops shall blend,
And many a comfort I'll devise
To gild thy latter days, old friend!

Plenteous and soft thy bed shall be,
Heaped up in basket warm and snug,
And thou shalt stretch luxuriously,
Just in the centre of the rug;

And none shall chase thee thence, nor chide
As now thy restless wanderings—no;
Scratch when thou wilt, the door flung wide
Shall yield thee passage to and fro.

108

Just here, thy basket they shall bring,
Before the early sunbeams fly;
Where, after many a measured ring,
Coiled up at last, thou lov'st to lie.

And never shall thy poor dim eyes
For tempting morsel ask in vain—
Never, if I can help it, rise
In thine old heart one jealous pain.

Well! art thou satisfied, old friend?
Are all thy foolish fancies fled?
“Ay, mistress! till—” I comprehend;
Till next time puss is coaxed and fed.

But come, we've worn this theme to tatters,
And all my logic's thrown away;
So let's discourse on other matters—
And first—I've read a tale to-day.

Thou know'st whate'er I see, read, learn,
Relating to thy species, friend,
I tell thee, hoping it may turn
To thine advantage—so attend,

My good old Ranger! while I tell
A true and mournful history,
How in past time it once befell
A little faithful dog like thee.

'Twas in a neighbouring land: what time
The Reign of Terror triumphed there:
And every horrid shape of crime
Stalked out from murder's bloody lair:

109

And every fair and stately town
Became a slaughter-house and grave,
Where fell prescription hunted down
The good, the loyal, and the brave:

'Twas in those dreadful times there dwelt
In Lyons, the defiled with blood,
A loyal family, that felt
The earliest fury of the flood.

Wife, children, friends, it swept away
From wretched Valrive, one by one:
Himself severely doomed to stay
Till everything he loved was gone—

A man proscribed, whom not to shun,
Was danger, almost fate, to brave:
So all forsook him, all save one,
One humble, faithful, powerless slave,

His dog, old Nina. She had been,
When they were boys, his children's mate:
His gallant Claude, his mild Eugene,
Both gone before him to their fate.

And she had followed mournfully
Their parting steps; and when the door
Closed after them, it seemed as she
Had felt they would return no more.

And when the dismal tidings came
That they had perished in their bloom—
Blighted, cut off without their fame,
Both huddled in one bloody tomb—

110

And heart-struck in her first despair
The mother sank into her grave,
And Valrive, as he laid her there,
Scarce wished he had the power to save;

But gazed upon that little heap,
Safe shelter for the weary head,
And envied her untroubled sleep,
And longed to share her peaceful bed:

Then as he stood beside the grave,
With tearless eye, and lip compressed,
Crept to his feet his poor dumb slave,
And moaned as if his thoughts she guessed;

And looked up in his face, and sighed
As if her poor old heart would break;
And in her fond mute language cried,
“Oh, master! live for Nina's sake.”

They spurned her off—but ever more,
Surmounting e'en her timid nature,
Love brought her to the prison-door,
And there she crouched, fond, faithful creature!

Watching so long, so piteously,
That e'en the jailer—man of guilt,
Of rugged heart—was moved to cry,
“Poor wretch! there enter, if thou wilt.”

And who than Nina more content,
When she had gained that dreary cell,
Where lay in helpless dreariment
The master loved so long and well!

111

And when into his arms she leapt,
In her old fond, familiar way,
And close into his bosom crept,
And licked his face—a feeble ray

Of something—not yet comfort—stole
Upon his heart's stern misery;
And his lips moved, “Poor loving fool!
Then all have not abandoned me.”

The hour by grudging kindness spared
Expired too soon—the friends must part—
And Nina from the prison fared,
With lingering pace and heavy heart.

Shelter, and rest, and food she found
With one who, for the master's sake,
Though grim suspicion stalked around,
Dared his old servant home to take.

Beneath that friendly roof, each night
She stayed, but still returning day—
Ay, the first beam of dawning light—
Beheld her on her anxious way

Towards the prison, there to await
The hour, when through that dismal door
The keeper, half compassionate,
Should bid her enter as before.

And well she seemed to comprehend
The time apportioned for her stay:
The little hour that with her friend
She tarried then, was all her day.

112

But what an age of love, and grief,
And confidence, was crowded in it!
How many a long, long life is brief,
Compared with such a heart-fraught minute!

Methinks, old Ranger, thou and I
Can fancy all they thought and said—
Believ'st thou not, of days gone by
Their hearts communed, and of the dead?

Ay, on my life!—And Valrive spoke
(The childless father!) of his boys
To their old playmate, and awoke
The memory of their infant joys.

For ever thus, when in their prime
A parent's hopes in dust are laid,
His heart recurs to that sweet time
When, children, round his knees they played.

So oft in Nina's ear was breathed
The names of those beloved ones,
And hers, who could not live bereaved
Of both her children.—Many suns

Went down upon the dreary pile
Where Valrive lay—and evermore,
Punctual as light's returning smile,
Came Nina to the prison-door.

At last the captive's summons came:
They led him forth his doom to hear;
No tremor shook his thrice-nerved frame,
Whose heart was dead to hope and fear.

113

So with calm step he moved along,
And calmly faced the murderous crew:
But close and closer for the throng,
Poor Nina to her master grew.

And she has found a resting place
Between his kness—her old safe home—
And she looks round in every face,
As if to read his written doom.

There is no mercy but above—
The word goes forth—the fatal breath—
Does instinct, or more powerful love,
Tell thee, poor brute! that word is death?

Howe'er informed, a child might see
The sentence struck upon her heart,
And that her eye's keen misery
Said, “Master! we will never part.”

Twas but a step, in those dread days,
From trial to the guillotine—
A moment—and Valrive surveys,
With steadfast eye, the fell machine.

He mounts the platform—takes his stand
Before the fatal block, and kneels
In preparation—but his hand
A soft warm touch that moment feels.

His eyes glance downward, and a tear—
The last tear they shall ever shed—
Falls as he utters, “Thou still here!”
Upon his faithful servant's head.

114

Yes—she is there! that hellish shout,
That deadly stroke, she hears them plain,
And from the headless trunk starts out,
Even over her, the bloody rain.

And she beholds where they have cast
(Uncoffined, bleeding yet, and warm,
His shallow grave filled up in haste
Without a prayer) that mangled form.

But where is all the tumult now?
That horrid engine, blood-imbrued,
That corse yet quivering with the blow,
That gazing, shouting multitude?

All passed away—all vanished—gone—
Even like a vision seen in sleep!
And in its stead, lies all alone
A dog beside a fresh turned heap.

Old faithful Nina! there lies she,
Her cold head on the cold earth pressed,
As it was wont so lovingly
To lie upon her master's breast.

And there she stayed the livelong day,
Mute, motionless, her sad watch keeping:
A stranger who had passed that way,
Would have believed her dead or sleeping.

But if a step approached the grave,
Her eye looked up with jealous care
Imploringly, as if to crave
That no rude foot should trample there.

115

That night she came not as of late
To her old charitable home:
The next day's sun arose and set,
Night fell—and still she failed to come.

Then the third day her pitying host
Went kindly forth to seek his guest,
And found her at her mournful post
Stretched quietly, as if at rest.

Yet she was not asleep nor dead;
And when her master's friend she saw,
The poor old creature raised her head,
And moaned, and moved one feeble paw,

But stirred not thence—and all in vain
He called, caressed her, would have led—
Tried threats—then coaxing words again—
Brought food—she turned away her head.

So with kind violence at last
He bore her home: with gentle care
In her old shelter tied her fast,
Placed food beside, and left her there.

But ere the hour of rest, again
He visited the captive's shed,
And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain—
The food untasted—she was fled.

And, vexed, he cried, “Perverse old creature!
Well, let her go, I've done my best.”
But there was something in his nature,
A feeling would not let him rest.

116

So, with the early light, once more
Towards the burial-ground went he;
And there he found her as before,
But not as then stretched quietly;

For she had worked the long night through,
In the strong impulse of despair,
Down, down into the grave—and now,
Panting and weak, still laboured there.

But death's cold stiffening frost benumbs
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye—
And hark! her feeble moan becomes
A shriek of human agony.

As if before her task was over,
She feared to die in her despair—
But see! those last faint strokes uncover
A straggling lock of thin grey hair.

One struggle! one convulsive start!
And there the face belovèd lies—
Now be at peace, thou faithful heart!
She licks the livid lips, and dies.