ON THE GRAVE OF A FAITHFUL DOG.
Three trees which stand apart upon
A sunny slope of meadow ground,
A shadow from the heat at noon,—
And, underneath, a grassy mound.
A little silent, grassy mound:—
And is this all is left of thee,
Whose feet would o'er the meadow bound,
So full of eager life and glee?
Of “thee!” And may I say e'en this
Of what so wholly passed away?
Or can such trust and tenderness
Be crushed entirely into clay?
The voice whose welcomes were so glad,
Feet pattering like summer showers,
The dark eyes which would look so sad
If gathering tears were dimming ours;
Those wistful, dark, inquiring eyes,
So fond and watchful, deep and true,
That made the thought so often rise—
What looks those crystal windows through?
Didst thou not watch for hours our track,
And for the absent seem to pine?
And when the well-known voice came back,
What ecstasy could equal thine?
Is it all lost in nothingness,
Such gladness, love, and hope, and trust,
Such busy thought our thought to guess,
All trampled into common dust?
Save memories round our hearts that twine,
Has all for ever passed away,
Like the dear home once thine and mine,
The home now silent as thy clay?
Or is there something yet to come,
From all our science still concealed,
About the patient creatures dumb
A secret yet to be revealed?
A happy secret yet behind,
Yet for the mute creation stored,
Which suffers though it never sinned,
And loves and hopes without reward?
1854.
