My Doggies' World: Dog's Literature: The Dog hereafter

Dear Billy, of imperious bark
When stranger's step fell on thy ear;
Who oft inspired with wholesome fear
A prowling boy in shadows dark:

But oftener hailed with joyous cry
Some friendly face returning home,
Or, wild with glee, the fields to roam—
Now still and cold thou here dost lie!

Frail vines that from the garden wall
Crept blooming o'er thy lowly bed,
Elm branches drooping overhead,
And dying leaves that wavering fall,

In other forms of life enrolled
Shall live in ages yet to be;
And shall a mind from body free
Lie buried dark beneath the mold?

He loved us all, and none forgot,
He guessed whate'er was done or told,
Dreamed of adventures free and bold—
For him is there no future lot?

If love is life and thought is mind,
And all shall last beyond the years,
And memory live in other spheres,
My steadfast friend may I not find?

THE BOND

When I call my terrier by his name,
Or join him at evening play;
His eyes will flash with a human flame
And he looks what he cannot say;
For the bond between us two
Is that between me and you!

Should a seraph sing in my ear tonight,
Or a sweet voiced angel come.
Would poor speech prove my soul's delight,
Or ecstasy drive me dumb?
For the link 'twixt them and me
Is long as Eternity.

Wide leagues our sentient forms divide
The loftier from the mean;
But soul to soul all planes are tied
When sympathy lies between;
And who shall say that the brute
Is soulless, though mean and mute?

TO A DOG

On every side I see your trace;
Your water-trough's scarce dry;
Your empty collar in its place
Provokes the heavy sigh.

And you were here two days ago.
There's little changed, I see.
The sun is just as bright, but oh!
The difference to me!

The very print of your small pad
Is on the whitened stone.
Where, by what ways, or sad or glad,
Do you fare on alone?

Oh, little face, so merry-wise,
Brisk feet and eager bark!
The house is lonesome for your eyes,
My spirit somewhat dark.

Now, small, invinc'ble friend, your love
Is done, your fighting o'er,
No more your wandering feet will rove
Beyond your own house-door.

The cats that feared, their hearts are high,
The dogs that loved will gaze
Long, long ere you come passing by
With all your jovial ways.

Th' accursed archer who has sent
His arrow all too true,
Would that his evil days were spent
Ere he took aim at you!

Your honest face, your winsome ways
Haunt me, dear little ghost,
And everywhere I see your trace,
Oh, well-beloved and lost!

CANINE IMMORTALITY

And they have drowned thee then at last! poor Phillis!
The burden of old age was heavy on thee,
And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eye
Was dim, and watched no more with eager joy
The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk
With fruitless repetition, the warm sun
Might still have cheered thy slumber; thou didst love
To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past
Youth's active season, even life itself
Was comfort. Poor old friend! How earnestly
Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been
Still the companion of my childish sports:
And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,
From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark
Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled
Often the melancholy hours at school,
Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought
Of distant home, and I remembered then
Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,
Returning at the pleasant holidays,
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
Sometimes have I remarked the slow decay,
Feeling myself changed, too, and musing much,
On many a sad vicissitude of life!
Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last
Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate
Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose
Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead
For the old age of brute fidelity!
But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;
And He who gave thee being did not frame
The mystery of life to be the sport
Of merciless man! There is another world
For all that live and move—a better one!
Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
Infinite goodness to the little bounds
Of their own charity, may envy thee!

A DOG'S EPITAPH

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been,
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in Heaven the soul he held in earth;
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole, exclusive Heaven.
Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise—
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

THE PASSING OF A DOG

MY DOG

The curate thinks you have no soul!
I know that he has none. But you,
Dear friend! whose solemn self-control
In our four-square, familiar pew,

Was pattern to my youth—whose bark
Called me in summer dawns to rove—
Have you gone down into the dark
Where none is welcome, none may love?

I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their light of truth so soon;
But in some canine Paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,

And quarters every plain and hill
Seeking its master. As for me,
This prayer at least the gods fulfill—
That when I pass the floor, and see

Old Charon by the Stygian coast
Take toll of all the shades who land,
Your little, faithful, barking ghost
May leap to lick my phantom hand.

IN MEMORY OF "DON"

Our Don—only a dog!
Yes, only a dog, you say;
With a large, warm heart,
And a bright, brown eye,
With an earnest bark
And a warm caress

For you and me and
The friends he loved best.
Oh, how we shall
Miss him, you and I,
His noisy welcome, and
Rough good-bye!

Some time, somewhere,
Some day, I trust,
We shall meet again;
Oh, yes, we must!
And the joy of that meeting
I dare not say.

Ay, mock, ye skeptics,
And laugh to scorn
The faith I hold
Of all life that's born;
It cannot be wasted,
Nor can it be lost.

And oh, for the faith,
And the Indian's trust,
That Don and his mistress
Will meet some day—
Just over the river
Not far away!

RODERICK DHU

You are just a poor dumb brute, my Roderick Dhu,
And our scientific brethren scoff at you.
They "reason" and they "think,"
Then they set it down in ink,
And clinch it with their learned "point of view."

Even some divines deny you have a soul,
And reject you from Man's final heav'nly goal:
Your presence isn't wanted
You're not of the anointed.
You're not upon the mighty Judgment Roll.

Yet the truth shines from your eyes, my faithful friend,
And your faithfulness doth that of men transcend;
You would lie right down and die,
Without even wond'ring why,
To save the man you loved—and meet your end.

When my heart was almost breaking, Roderick Dhu,
Who was it gave me sympathy, but you!
You crept so close to me,
And you licked me tenderly,
And not a human friend was half so true.

And would I, reasoning wisely, pronounce you just a beast?
Your actions "automatic," not "conscious" in the least?
Set myself so high above you,
As not to know and love you,
And toss you but a bone while I shall feast?

My bonnie Collie, such wrong there shall not be,
Not for me to grasp at Heav'n and leave the Dark for thee,
You're nothing but a dog,
Not in Heaven's Catalogue—
But whatsoe'er thy fate, the same for me.

IN MEMORIAM

I miss the little wagging tail;
I miss the plaintive, pleading wail;
I miss the wistful, loving glance;
I miss the circling welcome-dance.

I miss the eyes that, watching, sued;
I miss her tongue of gratitude
That licked my hand, in loving mood,
When we divided cup or food.

I miss the pertinacious scratch
(Continued till I raised the latch
Each morning), waiting at my door;
Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more.

"What folly!" hints the cynic mind,
"Plenty of dogs are left behind
To snap and snarl, to bark and bite,
And wake us in the gloomy night.

"You should have sought a human friend,
Whose life eternal ne'er could end—
Whose gifts of intellect and grace
Bereavement never could efface."

Plenty of snarling things are left,
But I am of a friend bereft;
I seek not intellect, but heart—
'Tis not my head that feels the smart.

While loving sympathy is cherished,
While gratitude is not quite perished;
While patient, hopeful, cheerful meeting
At our return is pleasant greeting;

So long my heart will feel a void—
Grieving, my mind will be employed—
When I, returning to my door,
Shall miss what I shall find no more.

When we, at last, shall pass away,
And see no more the light of day,
Will many hearts as vacant mourn—
As truly wish for our return?

Yet love that's true will ever know
The pain of parting. Better so!
"Better to love and lose" than cold,
And colder still, let hearts grow old.

So let the cynic snarl or smile,
And his great intellect beguile;
My little dog, so true to me,
Will dear to heart and memory be.

ON AN IRISH RETRIEVER

Ten years of loving loyalty
Unthankéd should not go to earth,
And I, who had no less from thee,
Devote this tribute to thy worth.

For thou didst give to me, old friend,
Thy service while thy life did last;
Thy life and service have an end,
And here I thank thee for the past.

Trusted and faithful, tried and true,
Watchful and swift to do my will,
Grateful for care that was thy due,
To duty's call obedient still,

From ill thou knew'st thou didst refrain,
The good thou knew'st thou strove to do,
Nor dream of fame, nor greed of gain,
Man's keenest spurs, urged thee thereto.

Brute, with a heart of human love,
And speechless soul of instinct fine!
How few by reason's law who move
Deserve an epitaph like thine!

A RETRIEVER'S EPITAPH

Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressed
With agile feet, a dog is laid to rest;
Him, as he sleeps, no well-known sound shall stir,
The rabbit's patter, or the pheasant's whir;
The keeper's "Over"—far, but well defined,
That speeds the startled partridge down the wind;
The whistled warning as the winged ones rise
Large and more large upon our straining eyes,
Till with a sweep, while every nerve is tense,
The chattering covey hurtles o'er the fence;
The double crack of every lifted gun,
The dinting thud of birds whose course is done—
These sounds, delightful to his listening ear,
He heeds no longer, for he cannot hear.
None stauncher, till the drive was done, defied
Temptation, rooted to his master's side;
None swifter, when his master gave the word,
Leapt on his course to track the running bird,
And bore it back—ah, many a time and oft—
His nose as faultless as his mouth was soft.
How consciously, how proudly unconcerned,
Straight to his master's side he then returned,
Wagged a glad tail, and deemed himself repaid
As in that master's hand the bird he laid,
If, while a word of praise was duly said,
The hand should stroke his smooth and honest head.
Through spring and summer, in the sportless days,
Cheerful he lived a life of simpler ways;
Chose, since official dogs at times unbend,
The household cat for confidante and friend;
With children friendly, but untaught to fawn,
Romped through the walks and rollicked on the lawn,
Rejoiced, if one the frequent ball should throw,
To fetch it, scampering gaily to and fro,
Content through every change of sportive mood
If one dear voice, one only, called him good.

Such was my dog, who now, without my aid,
Hunts through the shadowland, himself a shade,
Or crouched intent before some ghostly gate,
Waits for my step, as here he used to wait.

BILLY