All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,
Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!
Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,
There lies the dog; he struggles in his grief
To tear away the heavy covering
That hides his little master from his sight!
With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!
The faithful creature sees one open grave;
Why not the other too? Why keep it closed—
That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?