or rather at peep of day this morning, soon after the death of Poor Lass. My melancholy must have vent, aud though there is sad wastry, as Rose Anne would say, as applies to paper, yet, under existing circumstances, I may be allowed to play the fool, if it were only for my beloved sister's sake. She knows when the fit comes on, how hard I find it to resist. Was ever an epitaph on spaniel composed in my present position? Lat. 11°, 12' Here goes.
Aye! give the body to the deep,
That universal grave;
There let it sleep the dreamless sleep,—
Its mound—an ocean wave.
In losing thee, I've lost a friend,
Whose instinct worth, well tried,
Could service with affection blend,
Though reason was denied.
If thou hadst reach'd the looked for land,
I hoped to see thee bound
With frolic gambols on the strand,
And hail the adopted ground.
I pictured oft thy mute surprise,
When (instinct still the same)
New climes had shown thy wond'ring eyes
Some unaccustomed game.
I thought to see thee at my side,
Watch the uplifted gun—
Or view thee in thy race of pride,—
But now thy race is run.
