THE DOG. 181 



Lines by Mr. Pratt. 



Or, if new proofs thy tyranny demands, 



Would'st tliou see love o'er all these stripes prevail, 

 Lo ! the poor dog still licks thy barb'rous hands, 



When strength and nature, all but fondness fail. 



Of all the boasted conquests thou hast made, 

 By flood or field, the gentlest and the best 



Is in the dog, the generous dog display'd, 

 For ah ! what virtues glow within his breast I 



Thro' life the same, in sunshine and in storms, 

 At once his lord's protector and his guide, 



Shapes to his wishes, to his wants conforms, 



His slave, his friend, his pastime, and his pride. 



Excell'd, perchance, in dignity and grace, 

 Or on the peaceful, or th' embattled plain, 



Yet, oh ! what attributes supply their place, 

 Which nor provoke the spur nor ask the rein? 



Lo ! while the master sleeps he takes his rounds, 

 His master's happiness his sole delight ; 



A wakeful sentinel, whose watch-bark sounds 

 To awe the rude disturbers of the night. 



Monarch himself, meanwhile, of some fair flock, 

 A meek, mild people, who his rule obey, 



And while the shepherd slumbers on the rock, 

 Or in the vale, nor sheep, nor lamb, shall stray. 



Yes, mighty lord of all that move below, 



Without thy dog, how vain the temper'd steel, 



Thy fate-wing'd bullet, and thy plastic bow, 

 And all thy arts to conquer and to kill. 



Without his aid, say, how would'st thou oppose 

 The noontide ruffian, and the midnight thief? 



Enthrall'd on every side by dang'rous foes. 

 Who, but thy faithful dog could bring relief? 



