* * * * *
The soul of the humble brute has fled:
The grand old dog lies safely dead.
O, man-like brain, and God-like heart!
You were made to carry a noble part.
What spirit of vile Satanic breed
Had sowed in your veins the poison-seed
That turned to a curse your honest breath,—
That shaped your lips to a fount of death?
Sleep well old friend; your teeth of flame