JAMES T. FIELDS'S LIBRARY.
JAMES T. FIELDS'S LAST POEM.
The following poem was written by Mr. James T. Fields, of Boston, for Harper's Young People, only a few days before his death, which took place on the 25th of April. It is the last poem that he wrote, and will therefore have an interest for our readers apart from its merit. Mr. Fields was for many years a partner in the publishing house of Ticknor & Fields, afterward, on the death of Mr. Ticknor, changed to that of Fields, Osgood, & Co. On retiring from business, several years ago, Mr. Fields devoted himself to literature, and published several popular books. He was a kind-hearted man, and helped many young men and women, who never went to him in vain for encouragement and assistance. Like the English poet Wordsworth, he believed that men should never mix
"their pleasure or their pride
With suffering to the meanest thing that feels,"
and his last poem shows how strongly he could plead for a poor brute creature in distress.
ROVER'S PETITION.
"Kind traveller, do not pass me by,
And thus a poor old dog forsake;
But stop a moment on your way,
And hear my woe, for pity's sake!
"My name is Rover; yonder house
Was once my home for many a year;
My master loved me; every hand
Caressed young Rover, far and near.
"The children rode upon my back,
And I could hear my praises sung;
With joy I licked their pretty feet,
As round my shaggy sides they clung.
"I watched them while they played or slept;
I gave them all I had to give;
My strength was theirs from morn till night;
For only them I cared to live.
"Now I am old, and blind, and lame,
They've turned me out to die alone,
Without a shelter for my head,
Without a scrap of bread or bone.
"This morning I can hardly crawl,
While shivering in the snow and hail;
My teeth are dropping one by one;
I scarce have strength to wag my tail.
"I'm palsied grown with mortal pains,
My withered limbs are useless now;
My voice is almost gone, you see,
And I can hardly make my bow.
"Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed
Where I may find some friendly straw
On which to lay my aching limbs,
And rest my helpless broken paw.
"Stranger, excuse this story long,
And pardon, pray, my last appeal:
You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps,
And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."
Yes, poor old Rover, come with me;
Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply—
And Heaven forgive the cruel souls
Who drove you forth to starve and die!