FROM AN INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on,—it honors none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.
Lord Byron, 1808.