When eventually removed to London and her father’s house in Wimpole Street, it was in an invalid carriage, and at the slow rate of twenty miles a day. In a commodious and darkened room, to which only her own family and a few devoted friends were admitted, she nursed her remnant of life; reading meanwhile the best books in almost every language, and giving herself heart and soul to that poetry of which she seemed born to be the priestess. The following beautiful and graphic verses were written to commemorate the faithful companionship of a young spaniel (“Flush, my dog”), presented to her by a friend, in those years of imprisonment and inaction.
“Yet, my little sportive friend,
Little is’t to such an end
That I should praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers,
Haply in these drooping ears,
And in this glossy fairness.
“But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary;—