THE BLOODHOUND.
Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
Old friend—we must wander the world once more!
For no one now liveth to welcome us back;
So, come!—let us speed on our fated track.
What matter the region,—what matter the weather,
So you and I travel, till death, together?
And in death?—why, e'en there I may still be found
By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.
We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
(How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;)
No joy did divide us; no peril could part
The man from his friend of the noble heart;
Aye, his friend; for where, where shall there ever be found
A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?
What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day
When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay?
When downward they galloped to where we stood,
Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood?
Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
And—he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.
Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound
Must forever be lost in the worthless ground:
Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say),
Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away.
Well, Herod—go tell them whatever may be,
I'll hope I may ever be found by thee.
If in sleep,—in sleep; if with skies around,
Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!
Barry Cornwall.