Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds, 

 His royal Master. And he rose and lick'd 

 His wither'd hand, and earnestly look'd up 

 With eyes whose human meaning did not need 

 The aid of speech ; and moan'd, as if at once 

 To court and chide the long-withheld caress. 



'6 



The watchful dog 

 Follow'd his footsteps close. But he retired 

 Into the thickest grove ; there yielding way 

 To his o'erburthen'd nature, from all eyes 

 Apart, he cast himself upon the ground, 

 And threw his arms around the dog, and cried, 

 While tears stream'd down, Thou, Theron, thou 



hast known 

 Thy poor lost Master, . . . Theron, none but 



thou ! 



Resting his head upon his Master's knees, 

 Upon the bank beside him Theron lay. 

 What matters change of state and circumstance, 

 Or lapse of years, with all their dread events, 

 To him ? What matters it that Roderick wears 

 The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields ? . . . 

 It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch 

 Had flatter'd him oft ; it is the voice, 

 At whose glad summons to the field so oft 

 From slumber he had started, shaking off 

 Dreams of the chace, to share the actual joy ; 



140 



