POETRY.
A DEAD DOG.
HE was no hound of fine heroic mould, A martyred Gelert grim and bold, A waiting Argus wistful at the knee Of pale Penelope, Such as for ever stays the marble feet Of sculptured knight and lady sweet, Or watches his dead lord with broken heart In Landseer's living art.
They and their like die not through ages long In art and history and song; Maeterlinck's prose for one has well sufficed, Verses for Arnold's Geist.
If no inspired pen may give to fame, Since be is dead, a deathless name
For laured paths where Dandie Dintnont wends And Rab with all his friends—
What for this dog of ordinary ways P Companion dear in lonely days, His moods were pensive now, now full of joy Like any human boy.
Deceiver maybe as was ever man, For deep he laid his subtle plan,
His eyes the while round, innocent, and quaint—. A mediaeval saint;
He rose and followed—A.b! when Fancy calls !— Imprisoned by no bars and walls, Pursuing swiftly through unguarded gates Light loves and heavy bates.
Till faint and weary, worsted in the strife, He turned to home and virtuous life, With steadfast comfort for his pain and need In tenets of his creed.
Faith in his mistress whatsoe'er betide, Love and forgiveness at her aide; Simple religion of the simple mind, And perfect of its kind.
Say, little man or little woman given A little soul set fair for Heaven; Have you, to make your confidence secure, A Faith and Love as sure ?
"Love passes not away, Faith conquers pain." Then man's dark deed may be his gain* In some bright dogstar where the blessed ones Bury immortal bones.
ELEANOR ALEXANDER.
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