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Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on height.
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear :
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps, till June, December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below;
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven’s croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud-
And mists that spread the flying shroud,
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O’er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may;
Not far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground:
The appallid discoverer, with a sigh,
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen-that place of fear!
At length, upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks—and all is clear :
He instantly recall’d the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember'd, too, the very day
On which the traveller pass’d that way.

But here a wonder for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell !
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This dog had been through three months' space.
A dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain, that since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died.
The dog had watch'd about the spot,
Or by his master's side.
How nourish'd there through that long time,
He knows who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling great,
Above all human estimate...

W. Wordsworth.

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A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,

Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue

Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,

Which flew not till to-day;
Against my orders, whom you heard

Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill, that you might eat,

And ease a doggish pain;
For him, though chased with furious leat,

You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,

Or one whom blood allures ; But innocent was all his sport,

Whom you have torn for yours.

My dog, what remedy remains,

Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?

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On his morning rounds the master
Goes to learn how all things fare ;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And for silence, or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;
Four dogs, each of a different breed,
Distinguish’d, two for scent, and two for speed.
See a hare before him started !
--Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race !
And the hare whom they pursue
Knows from 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
Thinly by a one night's frost;
But the nimble hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely cross’d;
She hath cross'd, and without heed
All are following at full speed-
When lo ! the ice so thinly spread,
Breaks, and the greyhound Dart is overhead !
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 with complainings; nor gives o'er
Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more.

W. Wordsworth.

LOVING friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run

Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,

Gentle fellow-creature.
Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown

Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast,
Shining out from all the rest

Of thy body purely.
Underneath my stroking hand,
Sparkle eyes of hazel bland,

Kindling, growing larger ;,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting,

Leaping like a charger.
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,

Canopied in fringes;
Leap ! those tassell'd ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,

Down their golden inches.
Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end

That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs my be thy peers,
Haply in these drooping ears,

And this glossy fairness.
But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watch'd beside my bed

Day and night unweary;
Watch’d within a curtain’d room,
Where no sunbeam brake the glooin,

Round the sick and dreary. Other dogs in thymy dew Track'd the hares and follow'd through

Sunny moor or meadow;

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