Part 23

Loving friend, the gift of one Who her own true faith has run Through her lower nature, Be my benediction said With my hand upon thy head, Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady's ringlets brown Flow thy silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast, Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is, Till the sunshine, striking this, Alchemise its dulness, When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold With a burnish'd fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand, Startled eyes of hazel bland Kindling, growing larger, Up thou leapest with a spring, Full of prank and curveting Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light; Leap! thy slender feet are bright, Canopied in fringes; Leap! those tassell'd ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine, Down their golden inches.

Yet, my pretty, sporting friend, Little is 't to such an end That I praise thy rareness; Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in these drooping ears And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said, This dog watch'd beside a bed Day and night unweary-- Watch'd within a curtain'd room, Where no sunbeam brake the gloom, Round the sick and dreary.

Roses gather'd for a vase In that chamber died apace, Beam and breeze resigning; This dog only waited on, Knowing that, when light is gone, Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew Track'd the hares, and follow'd through Sunny moor or meadow; This dog only crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear, Up the woodside hieing; This dog only watch'd in reach Of a faintly-utter'd speech, Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears Dropp'd upon his glossy ears, Or a sigh came double, Up he sprang in eager haste, Fawning, fondling, breathing fast In a tender trouble

And this dog was satisfied If a pale, thin hand would glide Down his dewlaps sloping, Which he push'd his nose within, After--platforming his chin On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice Call him now to blither choice Than such chamber-keeping, "Come out!" praying from the door, Presseth backward as before, Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly, not scornfully, Render praise and favour: With my hand upon his head Is my benediction said, Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loved me so, Better than his kind will do, Often man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men, Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine, Pretty collars make thee fine, Sugar'd milk make fat thee! Pleasures wag on in thy tail, Hands of gentle motion fail Nevermore to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head, Silken coverlet bestead, Sunshine help thy sleeping! No fly's buzzing wake thee up, No man break thy purple cup Set for drinking deep in.

Whisker'd cats arointed flee, Sturdy stoppers keep from thee Cologne distillations; Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee in wishing weal? Tears are in my eyes to feel Thou art made so straightly; Blessing needs must straighten too; Little canst thou joy or do, Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessèd to the height Of all good and all delight Pervious to thy nature; Only loved beyond that line, With a love that answers thine, Loving fellow-creature!

SIR THOMAS FOWELL BUXTON, BART., AND HIS DOG "SPEAKER."

Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton was very fond of dogs; his son tells an anecdote of the singular manner in which one of his pets came into his possession. "He was standing at the door of the House of Commons talking to a friend, when a beautiful black and tan terrier rushed between them, and immediately began barking furiously at Mr Joseph Pease, who was speaking. All the members jumped up, shouting and laughing, while the officers of the house chased the dog round and round, till at last he took refuge with Mr Buxton, who, as he could find no traces of an owner, carried him home. He proved to be quite an original. One of his whims was, that he would never go into the kitchen nor yet into a poor man's cottage; but he formed a habit of visiting by himself at the country houses in the neighbourhood of Cromer, and his refined manners and intelligence made 'Speaker' a welcome guest wherever he pleased to go."

LORD BYRON AND HIS DOG BOATSWAIN.

In November 1808 Lord Byron lost his favourite dog Boatswain; the poor animal having been seized with a fit of madness, at the commencement of which so little aware was Byron of the nature of the malady, that he more than once, with his bare hand, wiped away the slaver from the dog's lips during the paroxysms. In a letter to his friend Mr Hodson, he thus announces this event:--"Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of madness on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last, never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost everything except old Murray."

The monument raised by him to this dog--the most memorable tribute of the kind since the dog's grave, of old, at Salamis--is still a conspicuous ornament of the gardens of Newstead. The misanthropic verses engraved upon it may be found among his poems, and the following is the inscription by which they are introduced:--

"Near this spot Are deposited the remains of one Who possessed beauty without vanity, Strength without insolence, Courage without ferocity, And all the virtues of man without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the memory of BOATSWAIN, a dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1805."

The poet Pope, when about the same age as the writer of this inscription, passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human nature; adding that "histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends." In a still sadder and bitterer spirit, Lord Byron writes of his favourite:--

"To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one, and here he lies."