The Dogs Book of Verse | Page 5

AND I
When living seems but little worth?And all things go awry,?I close the door, we journey forth--?My dog and I!
For books and pen we leave behind,?But little careth he,?His one great joy in life is just?To be with me.
He notes by just one upward glance?My mental attitude,?As on we go past laughing stream?And singing wood.
The soft winds have a magic touch?That brings to care release,?The trees are vocal with delight,?The rivers sing of peace.
How good it is to be alive!?Nature, the healer strong,?Has set each pulse with life athrill?And joy and song.
Discouragement! 'Twas but a name,?And all things that annoy,?Out in the lovely world of June?Life seemeth only joy!
And ere we reach the busy town,?Like birds my troubles fly,?We are two comrades glad of heart--?My dog and I!
ALICE J. CLEATOR.
MY GENTLEMAN
I own a dog who is a gentleman;?By birth most surely, since the creature can?Boast of a pedigree the like of which?Holds not a Howard nor a Metternich.
By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod?He never wagged an unkind tale abroad,?He never snubbed a nameless cur because?Without a friend or credit card he was.
By pride. He looks you squarely in the face?Unshrinking and without a single trace?Of either diffidence or arrogant?Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt.
By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear?With absolute impunity his hair,?And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the while?He smiles upon her--yes, I've seen him smile.
By loyalty. No truer friend than he?Has come to prove his friendship's worth to me.?He does not fear the master--knows no fear--?But loves the man who is his master here.
By countenance. If there be nobler eyes,?More full of honor and of honesties,?In finer head, on broader shoulders found,?Then have I never met the man or hound.
Here is the motto on my lifeboat's log:?"God grant I may be worthy of my dog!"
ANONYMOUS.
THE DEAD BOY'S PORTRAIT?AND HIS DOG
Day after day I have come and sat?Beseechingly upon the mat,?Wistfully wondering where you are at.
Why have they placed you on the wall,?So deathly still, so strangely tall??You do not turn from me, nor call.
Why do I never hear my name??Why are you fastened in a frame??You are the same, and not the same.
Away from me why do you stare?So far out in the distance where?I am not? I am here! Not there!
What has your little doggie done??You used to whistle me to run?Beside you, or ahead, for fun!
You used to pat me, and a glow?Of pleasure through my life would go!?How is it that I shiver so?
My tail was once a waving flag?Of welcome. Now I cannot wag?It for the weight I have to drag.
I know not what has come to me.?'Tis only in my sleep I see?Things smiling as they used to be.
I do not dare to bark; I plead?But dumbly, and you never heed;?Nor my protection seem to need.
I watch the door, I watch the gate;?I am watching early, watching late,?Your doggie still!--I watch and wait.
GERALD MASSEY.
ADVICE TO A DOG PAINTER
Happiest of the spaniel race,?Painter, with thy colors grace,?Draw his forehead large and high,?Draw his blue and humid eye;?Draw his neck, so smooth and round,?Little neck with ribands bound;?And the musely swelling breast?Where the Loves and Graces rest;?And the spreading, even back,?Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;?And the tail that gently twines,?Like the tendrils of the vines;?And the silky twisted hair,?Shadowing thick the velvet ear;?Velvet ears which, hanging low,?O'er the veiny temples flow.
JONATHAN SWIFT.
MERCY'S REWARD
Hast seen?The record written of Salah-ud-Deen,?The Sultan--how he met, upon a day,?In his own city on the public way,?A woman whom they led to die? The veil?Was stripped from off her weeping face, and pale?Her shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye,?And her lips drawn with terror at the cry?Of the harsh people, and the rugged stones?Borne in their hands to break her flesh and bones;?For the law stood that sinners such as she?Perish by stoning, and this doom must be;?So went the adult'ress to her death.?High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breath?Blew from the desert sands and parched the town.?The crows gasped, and the kine went up and down?With lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowd?Pressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loud?About the tank; and one dog by a well,?Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell,?Glaring upon the water out of reach,?And praying succour in a silent speech,?So piteous were its eyes.
Which, when she saw,?This woman from her foot her shoe did draw,?Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping up?The long silk of her girdle, made a cup?Of the heel's hollow, and thus let it sink?Until it touched the cool black water's brink;?So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draught?To the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffed Her kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand,?With such glad looks that all might understand?He held his life from her; then,