No sable pall, no waving plume, No thousand torchlights to illume, No parting glance, no heavy tear, Is seen to fall upon the bier. There is not one of kindred clay To watch the coffin on its way: No mortal form, no human breast Cares where the pauper's bones may rest.
But one deep mourner follows there, Whose grief outlives the funeral prayer; He does not sigh—he does not weep, But will not leave the fresh-piled heap. 'Tis he who was the poor man's mate, And made him more content with fate; The mongrel dog that shared his crust, Is all that stands beside his dust.
He bends his listening head, as though. He thought to hear a voice below; He pines to miss that voice so kind, And wonders why he's left behind. The sun goes down, the night is come; He needs no food—he seeks no home; But, stretch'd upon the dreamless bed, With doleful howl calls back the dead.
The passing gaze may coldly dwell On all that polish'd marbles tell; For temples built on churchyard earth, Are claim'd by riches more than worth. But who would mark with undimm'd eyes The mourning dog that starves and dies? Who would not ask, who would not crave, Such love and faith to guard his grave!
