Poems (Sewell)/Epistle from Lyon the House-Dog to a Friend

by Mary Young Sewell

EPISTLE FROM LYON, THE HOUSE-DOG, TO A FRIEND.

What tho' of Quadrupedian race,
 Unknown to measure and to rhyme,
For once the tuneful line I trace,
 And shape my paw to strains sublime:
And know, at least, a dog like me,
 Unknown to flatt'ry and to art,
No subtle sycophant shall be—
 He growls the dictates of his heart!

In vain the flow'ry plain I tread,
 In vain the tyrant gate I clear,
Or try the slender Greyhound's speed,
 When lo! the tim'rous prey is near.
In clumsy dignity erect,
 In vain thro' tangled paths I roam,
Whilst vagrants view me with respect,
 And ling'ring twilight guides me home.

In vain I hoped, with fervent zeal,
 My nobler namesake to attend;
And oh! what joy wou'd Lyon feel,
 To feel the sanction of a friend!
To guide thee thro' the thorny brake,
 To watch thee o'er the marshy moor:
For thee I'd ford th' unfathom'd lake,
 And rushing streams, untried before.

O'er labour'd fence I'd lightly vault,
 Tho' ne'er design'd such feats to share;
And glorious then, is Nature's fault,
 When friendship shall that fault repair!—
When cool September casts its light,
 And Dog days scorch the earth no more,
When trees with yellow tinge delight,
 And plains unshelter'd I explore.

Then will I learn the Pointer's art—
 I'll guide thee to the fav'rite spot;
Thy gun such terrors shall impart,
 No Partridge lives who fears it not!
And when, with lengthen'd sport opprest,
 Thy weary steps shall homeward bend,
I'll prove a manageable guest,
 And court thy fav'rite and thy friend!

A Lyon once, of dauntless breed,
 At Una's feet his station took;
From caitiff Knights, the nymph he freed,
 And ne'er that honour'd post forsook:—
Know!—from that Lyon, frank and bold,
 In lineage strait, I surely came,
And wonders cou'd this Paw unfold,
 To mark me for a Dog of Fame!

That blood which warm'd my grandsire's heart,
 Inspires me with the noblest pride;
Unbrib'd, my friendship I impart,
 And love the Truth, for which he died!
But, since in vain I howl my care,
 And Devon's wilds thy face must see;
Will e'er Remembrance reach thee there,
 To think on absent friends—and me?

Perchance,—some spaniel, neat and trim,
 With curling ears and spotted coat,—
Unthinking!—Thou canst smile on him,
 Who learns his fawning task by rote.
Some Greyhound, with beseeching look;
 Perchance, some Terrier shall pursue—
Shall rouze thee from thy fav'rite book,
 And ev'n his follies please thee too!

Whilst, nobly as I'm born and bred,
 I waste inglorious hapless years,
By menial hands I'm daily fed,
 And chatt'ring females stun my cars:
Nor e'er thy Edmund shall I view—
 No flutt'ring beaux I wish to see;
But sure, if Fame can once be true,
 That man's a soul to honour me!

But No!—to these sequester'd walls,
 My tow'ring genius is confin'd,
And yet, when stately Lyon falls,
 This tribute shall remain behind.

And thou—ungrateful as thou art!
 When doom'd thy exit here to make,
If Fate permits, I'll play my part,
 And guide thee through the Stygian Lake.