And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!

  The burthen of old age was heavy on thee.

  And yet thou should'st have lived! what tho' thine eye

  Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy

  The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk

  With fruitless repetition, the warm Sun

  Would still have cheer'd thy slumber, thou didst love

  To lick the hand that fed thee, and tho' past

  Youth's active season, even Life itself

  Was comfort. Poor old friend! most earnestly

  Would I have pleaded for thee: thou hadst been

  Still the companion of my childish sports,

  And, as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody clifts,

  From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark

  Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguil'd

  Often the melancholy hours at school,

  Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought

  Of distant home, and I remember'd then

  Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,

  Returning at the pleasant holydays,

  I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively

  Sometimes have I remark'd thy slow decay,

  Feeling myself changed too, and musing much

  On many a sad vicissitude of Life!

  Ah poor companion! when thou followedst last

  Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate

  That clos'd for ever on him, thou didst lose

  Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead

  For the old age of brute fidelity!

  But fare thee well! mine is no narrow creed,

  And HE who gave thee being did not frame

  The mystery of life to be the sport

  Of merciless man! there is another world

  For all that live and move—a better one!

  Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine

  INFINITE GOODNESS to the little bounds

  Of their own charity, may envy thee!