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"Yet life," you say,
"is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low:
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a
ON his morning rounds the Master
He hath Comrades in his walk;
Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
See, a Hare before him started!
-Off they fly in earnest chace;
Every Dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race!
And the Hare whom they pursue
Hath an instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
Deep the River was, and crusted
But the nimble Hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
Breaks-and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!
Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW
See them cleaving to the sport!
MUSIC has no heart to follow,
Little MUSIC, she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart,
Hers is now another part:
A loving Creature she, and brave!
And fondly strives her struggling Friend to save.
From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say!
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears,
Him alone she sees and hears,—
Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
Until her Fellow sunk, and reappeared no more.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG.
LIE here sequestered:-be this little mound
Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee.