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.
THE CHASE
Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career.
Yon crowding flock, that at a distance gaze,
Have haply foil'd the turf. See that old hound!
How busily he works, but dares not trust
His doubtful sense; draws yet a wider ring.
Hark! Now again the chorus fills. As bells,
Sally'd awhile, at once their paean renew,
And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls,
See how they toss, with animated rage
Recovering all they lost! That eager haste
Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! Yet once more
They're checked, hold back with speed—on either hand
They flourish round—e'en yet persist—'tis right.
Away they spring. The rustling stubbles bend
Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase
Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.
From brake to brake she flies, and visits all
Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure,
With love and plenty blest. See! There she goes,
She reels along, and by her gait betrays
Her inward weakness. See how black she looks!
The sweat, that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves
A languid scent. And now in open view
See! See! She flies! Each eager hound exerts
His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve;
How quick she turns! Their gaping jaws eludes,
And yet a moment lives—till, round enclosed
By all the greedy pack, with infant screams
She yields her breath, and there, reluctant, dies.
Lord Somerville.