Watched within a curtained room

Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,

Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone

Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew

Tracked the hares and followed through

Sunny moor or meadow;

This dog only, crept and crept

Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,

Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears
Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied

If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping,-
Which he pushed his nose within,
After,-platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him. now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out !" praying from the door,—
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,

Render praise and favour :
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said

Therefore and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do

Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,
Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,

Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup
Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;

Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations !

Mock I thee, in wishing weal ?—--
Tears are in my eyes to feel

Thou art made so straitly

Blessing needs must straighten too,—
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature;

Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!

MY DOVES.

My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest

Or motion from the sea;

For, ever there the sea-winds go

With sunlit paces to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it,

The tropic stars looked down, And there my little doves did sit With feathers softly brown,

And glittering eyes that showed their right To general Nature's deep delight.

And God them taught, at every close

Of murmuring waves beyond

And green leaves round, to interpose
Their choral voices fond,
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! Of living loves
Theirs hath the calmest fashion,
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless intonation,

The lovely monotone of springs
And winds and such insensate things.

My little doves were ta'en away

From that glad nest of theirs,

Across an ocean rolling grey,

And tempest-clouded airs,My little doves, who lately knew The sky and wave by warmth and blue.

And now, within the city prison,

In mist and chilness pent,

With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content,

For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without the glow of passion,
The triumph of the mart,

The gold and silver as they clash on
Man's cold metallic heart,

The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,
These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean,
And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,

(Their eyes with such a plaintive shine Are fastened upwardly to mine)—

Soft falls their chant as on the nest

Beneath the sunny zone;

For love that stirred it in their breast

Has not aweary grown,

And 'neath the city's shade can keep
The well of music clear and deep.

And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories ;
All echoings from out the hills,
All droppings from the skies,

All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remembered in their chant, I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves ! to move
Along the city-ways with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

'T was hard, to sing by Babel's stream-
More hard, in Babel's street:
But if the soulless creatures deem
Their music not unmeet

For sunless walls-let us begin,

Who wear immortal wings within!

To me, fair memories belong

Of scenes that used to bless, For no regret, but present song And lasting thankfulness ;

And very soon to break away,

Like types, in purer things than they.