Classic Poem

I MOURN " Patroclus, " whilst I praise
— Young " Peter " sleek before the fire,
A proper dog, whose decent ways
— Renew the virtues of his sire;
" Patroclus " rests in grassy tomb,
And " Peter " grows into his room.

For though, when Time or Fates consign
— The terrier to his latest earth,
Vowing no wastrel of the line
— Shall dim the memory of his worth,
I meditate the silkier breeds,
Yet still an Amurath succeeds:

Succeeds to bind the heart again
— To watchful eye and strenuous paw,
To tail that gratulates amain
— Or deprecates offended Law;
To bind, and break, when failing eye
And palsied paw must say good-bye.

Ah, had the dog's appointed day
— But tallied with his master's span,
Nor one swift decade turned to gray
— The busy muzzle's black and tan,
To reprobate in idle men
Their threescore empty years and ten!

Sure, somewhere o'er the Stygian strait
— " Panurge " and " Bito, " " Tramp " and " Mike, "
In couchant conclave watch the gate,
— Till comes the last successive tyke,
Acknowledged with the countersign:
" Your master was a friend of mine. "

In dreams I see them spring to greet,
— With rapture more than tail can tell,
Their master of the silent feet
— Who whistles o'er the asphodel,
And through the dim Elysian bounds
Leads all his cry of little hounds.