The snappish dog may chase the saucy cat,
Where right is might and hunger points the way,
The stronger beast will make the weak his prey;
But man leaves other brutes far, far behind,
In cruelty and preys upon mankind;
Gorg'd with the gore of beasts, seeks human food.
Eats kindred flesh, and drinks his brothers' blood.
In civil life, a fiend grown more refin'd,
He steals his friend's estate end wounds his mind
Destroys his comrad's honor, blasts his fame,
And robs his neighbour of an honest name;
And, when his foul career is fully run,
His body rotten and his soul udone,
He hopes to get his horoid sine forgiven,
By laying claim to an exclusive heaven.
Yes, cursed man! I've seen the sable dye,
In every clime, of thy hypocrisy,
But, my dear dog, endow'd with simple grace,
Carried his heart upon his honest face;
With friendship, not by sordid lucre gained,
His faith unpurchas'd and his love uufeign'd,
He, unlike man, who courts where he can pick,
Lick'd where belov'd, not lov'd where he could lick;
And prov'd himself, to life's remotest end,
My only trusty and confiding friend.
But now he's gone and all his pranks are o'er;
And Poski plays where Shargs had play'd before.
God wot how soon a third may take his place,
And grace the kennel he was wont to grace;
How soon may Zampa wag his merry tail
O'er their twin graves; for dogs, like men, are frail,
At least in body, though they're firm in mind
As in these records trac'd by love we find.
Like waves at sea, or flowers in the mead,
Man follows man, and dogs to dogs succeed.
Where'er the mind can rove, or body range,
The universe is one wide ceaseless change:
Nor where we come from, nor yet where we go,
Have the Gods giv'n to prying man to know.
Then, hither, Muses, all your concord bring,
And, Flora, round this urn your blossoms fling:
Haste to this mould, and on this tablet lay
Each virgin bloom that decks the lap of May;
Scatter the hearts ease of unnumber'd dyes,
And open summer's sweet enamell'd eyes.
And thou, Melpomene, whom Pity bids
To dry thy tears and wipe thy lovely lids,
Dip Clio's quill in Brahma's Indian ink,
Since all eftsoons of Lethe'stream must drink;
And write on this grey tomb, o'er grown with moss
Of one true friend I here bewail the loss.
Of all the forms fond Memory can trace
None are so sweet as Puppy's sonsie face.
BUSY was snug, old TRAY was vastly clever.
FANGS handsome, TRIM and LION quiet never
Long Pon was fond, but cross, GUESS hardly civil,
And poor old Loski, snappish as the devil,
But was endowed with friendship's firmest ties,
While sorrow sat upon his yellow eyes,
And e'en in death his pleasure unsurpass'd
Was to defend my wardrobe to the last.
Nature for each fond dog from Jove had stole
Some special grace to animate his soul,
To SHARGS alone were higher titles given,
Which Justice registers to day in heaven.
7. IMITATION OF THE RANZ DES VACHES.
When shall I return to the Land of the Mountains
The lakes and the Rhone that is lost in the earth, Our sweet little hamlets, our villages, fountains,
The flowerclad rocks of the place of my birth? O when shall I see my old garden of flowers,
Dear Emma the sweetest of blooms in the glade, Aut the rich chesnut grove where we pass'd the long hours
With Tabor and Pipe, while we danced in the When shall I rivisit the Land of the Mountains, [shade
Where all the fond objects of memory meet; The Cows that would follow My voice to the fountains, The Lambs that I call'd to the shady retreat, My father, my mother, my sister and brother;
My all that was dear in this valley of tears; My palfrey grow old, but there's ne'er such another
My dear dog, still faithful, tho' stricken in years. The vesper bell tolling, the loud thunder rolling;
The Bees that humm'd round the tall vineman
[tled tree, The smooth water's margin whereon we were strolling When evening painted its mirror for me. And shall I return to his scenery never?
These objects of infantine glory end love; O tell me, my dear Guardian Angel, that ever Floats nigh me, safe guide to the regions above.
Quand reverrai-je un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour,
Nos clairs ruisseaux,
Nos hameaux,
Nos côteaux,
Nos montagnes,
Et l'ornement de nos montagnes,
Là si gentille Isabeau?
Dans l'ombre d'un ormeau,
Quand danserai-je au son du Chalumeau?
Quand reverrai-je un jour,
Tous les objets de mon amour,
Mon père,
Ma mère,
Mon frère,
Ma sœur,
Mes agneaux,
Mes troupeaux,
Ma bergère?
9. INFANTINE RECOLLECTIONS.
In Fancy how dear are the scenes of my childhood
Which old recollections recall to my view;
My own little garden, its plants, and the wild wood,
The old paper Kite that my infancy flew.
The cool shady Elm Grove, the pond that was by it
My small plaything Mill where the rain torrent fell;
My Father's Pot Garden, the Drying ground nigh it.
The old wooden Pump by the Melon ground well.
That Portugal Laurel I hail as a treasure,
For often in Summer, when tired of play,
I found its thick shade a most exquisite pleasure,
And sat in its boughs my longs lessons to say,
There I first thought my sholarship some what advancing,
And, turning my Lilly right down on its back,
While my thirst for some drink the Sun's beams were enhacing,
I shouted out learnedly-Da mihi lac.
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