Читать книгу The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844 - Various - Страница 5

Calm be thy slumbers, faithful Tray,

Calm in thy bed

Low-gathered underneath the clay,

Where they have laid thy bones away,

And left thee—dead!

No common dog, dear Tray, wert thou

In life’s short age;

For instinct shone upon thy brow,

And something in thy deep bow-wow

Proclaimed the sage.

When ugly curs at evening made

Their hideous wail,

Mutely thy musing eye surveyed

Bright themes for thought around displayed,

Perched on thy tail.

Oft have I seen thy vision turned

Up to the skies,

Where thy intelligence discerned

In all the little stars that burned,

Strange mysteries.

And then, thy keen glance fixed on one

That glimmered far;

‘If souls of men live when they’re gone,’

Thou thought’st, ‘why not of dogs when flown,

In yonder star?

‘Though diverse in our natures, yet

It don’t ensue

That other judgment we should meet,

Because we muster four good feet

Instead of two.

‘And if in some light, wanton freak

Of Nature’s mind,

She planted hair upon our back,

And, in capricious mood, did tack

A tail behind:

‘It matters not. That coat of hair

Is very thin;

But the habiliment we wear

To warm the heart from wintry air,

We have within.

‘Ah, no! what selfish man would have

For him alone,

To us a title Nature gave:

We too shall live beyond the grave,

When we are gone.’

Now, when at twilight’s solemn hour,

O’er field and lea,

I see the dog-star gently pour

Its beamy light—a golden shower—

I think of thee!

And well, I wot, thy spacious mind,

With journey brief,

Hath mounted like a breath of wind;

And thou art in that orb enshrined,

A thing of life.

Then peace be with thine ashes, Tray,

In their long rest:

Faithful wert thou in thy short day;

And now, that thou art passed away,

I know thou’rt blest.