We’ve traversed the desert, we’ve traversed the sea,
    And we’ve trod on the heights where the eagles be;
    Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
    (How thou pull’dst down the deer in those skies of blue;)
    No joy did divide us; no peril could part
    The man from his friend of the noble heart;
    Aye, his friend; for where, where shall there ever be found
    A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

    What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day
    When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay? 
    When downward they galloped to where we stood,
    Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood? 
    Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed? 
    God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need! 
    And—­he came!  Ah, ’twas then, my dear Herod, I found
    That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

    Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound
    Must forever be lost in the worthless ground: 
    Yet “Courage,” “Fidelity,” “Love” (they say),
    Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away. 
    Well, Herod—­go tell them whatever may be,
    I’ll hope I may ever be found by thee. 
    If in sleep,—­in sleep; if with skies around,
    Mayst thou follow e’en thither, my dear bloodhound!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

HELVELLYN.

This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards.  The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn.  Time, 1805.

    I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
      Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
    All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
      And starting around me the echoes replied. 
    On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
    And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
    One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
      When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

    Dark green was that spot ’mid the brown mountain heather,
      Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
    Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather
      Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. 
    Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
    For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
    The much-loved remains of her master defended,
      And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

    How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 
      When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? 
    How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
      Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? 
    And, oh! was it meet, that—­no requiem read o’er him—­
    No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
    And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him—­
      Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?