Deep the River was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble Hare hath trusted She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread, and the Greyhound, DART, is over head! Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW See them cleaving to the sport! 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, Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er Until her Fellow sank, and re-appeared no more. XIII. TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 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. I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last : For thou hadst lived, till every thing that cheers In thee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away; And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; Best gift of God in thee was most intense; XIV. In the School of is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the Foundation of the School, with the Time at which they entered upon and quitted their Office. Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote the following Lines. IF Nature, for a favourite Child Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame, Cipher and syllable! thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy. And, if a sleeping tear should wake, Which for himself he had not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup He felt with spirit so profound. Thou Soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy Soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold |