THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE
With gentle tread, with uncovered head,
Pass by the Louvre gate,
Where buried lie the "men of July,"
And flowers are hung by the passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.
That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught,
Had rushed with his master on,
And both fought well;
But the master fell,
And behold the surviving one!
By his lifeless clay,
Shaggy and gray,
His fellow-warrior stood;
Nor moved beyond,
But mingled fond
Big tears with his master's blood.
Vigil he keeps
By those green heaps
That tell where heroes lie.
No passer-by
Can attract his eye,
For he knows it is not He!
At the dawn, when dew
Wets the garlands new
That are hung in this place of mourning,
He will start to meet
The coming feet
Of him whom he dreamt returning.
On the grave's wood-cross
When the chaplets toss,
By the blast of midnight shaken,
How he howleth! hark!
From that dwelling dark
The slain he would fain awaken.
When the snow comes fast
On the chilly blast,
Blanching the bleak church-yard,
With limbs outspread
On the dismal bed
Of his liege, he still keeps guard.
Oft in the night,
With main and might,
He strives to raise the stone;
Short respite takes:
"If master wakes,
He'll call me," then sleeps on.
Of bayonet blades,
Of barricades,
And guns he dreams the most;
Starts from his dream,
And then would seem
To eye a pleading ghost.
He'll linger there
In sad despair
And die on his master's grave.
His home?—'tis known
To the dead alone,—
He's the dog of the nameless brave!
Give a tear to the dead,
And give some bread
To the dog of the Louvre gate!
Where buried lie the men of July,
And flowers are hung by the passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.
Ralph Cecil.