But though the master loved the growl of Fang
There were who vowed the ugly cur to hang,
Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,
As strongly vowed his servant to defend.
In one dark night, and such as Fang before
Was ever known its tempests to outroar,
To his protector's wonder now expressed,
No angry notes--his anger was at rest.
The wond'ring master sought the silent yard,
Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred,
Nor more returned to that forsaken bed--
But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.
Fang and his master side by side were laid
In grim repose--their debt to nature paid.
The master's hand upon the cur's cold chest
Was now reclined, and had before been pressed,
As if he sought how deep and wide the wound
That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;
And when he found it was the sleep of death
A sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath.
Close to his trusty servant he was found,
As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.
GEORGE CRABBE.
POOR DOG TRAY
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was as happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart)
"Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
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