Then the third day her pitying host
Went kindly forth to seek his guest,
And found her at her mournful post,
Stretched quietly as if at rest.
Yet she was not asleep nor dead,
And when her master's friend she saw,
The poor old creature raised her head,
And moaned, and moved one feeble paw.
But stirred not thence—and all in vain
He called, caressed her, would have led—
Tried threats—then coaxing words again—
Brought food—she turned away her head.
So with kind violence at last
He bore her home with gentle care;
In her old shelter tied her fast,
Placed food beside and left her there.
But ere the hour of rest, again
He visited the captive's shed,
And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain—
The food untasted—she was fled.
And, vexed, he cried, "Perverse old creature!
Well, let her go. I've done my best."
But there was something in his nature,
A feeling that would not let him rest.
So with the early light once more
Toward the burial ground went he;
And there he found her as before,
But not, as then, stretched quietly.
For she had worked the long night through,
In the strong impulse of despair,
Down, down into the grave—and now,
Panting and weak, still laboured there.
But death's cold, stiffening frost benumbs
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye—
And hark! her feeble moan becomes
A shriek of human agony.
As if before her task was over
She feared to die in her despair.
But see! those last faint strokes uncover
A straggling lock of thin grey hair.