Four
years!--and
didst
thou
stay
above
The
ground,
which
hides
thee
now,
but
four?
And
all
that
life,
and
all
that
love,
Were
crowded,
Geist!
into
no
more?
Only
four
years
those
winning
ways,
Which
make
me
for
thy
presence
yearn,
Call'd
us
to
pet
thee
or
to
praise,
Dear
little
friend!
at
every
turn?
That
loving
heart,
that
patient
soul,
Had
they
indeed
no
longer
span,
To
run
their
course,
and
reach
their
goal,
And
read
their
homily
to
man?
That
liquid,
melancholy
eye,
From
whose
pathetic,
soul-fed
springs
Seem'd
surging
the
Virgilian
cry,
The
sense
of
tears
in
mortal
things--
That
steadfast,
mournful
strain,
consoled
By
spirits
gloriously
gay,
And
temper
of
heroic
mould--
What,
was
four
years
their
whole
short
day?
Yes,
only
four!--and
not
the
course
Of
all
the
centuries
yet
to
come,
And
not
the
infinite
resource
Of
Nature,
with
her
countless
sum
Of
figures,
with
her
fulness
vast
Of
new
creation
evermore,
Can
ever
quite
repeat
the
past,
Or
just
thy
little
self
restore.
Stern
law
of
every
mortal
lot!
Which
man,
proud
man,
finds
hard
to
bear,
And
builds
himself
I
know
not
what
Of
second
life
I
know
not
where.
But
thou,
when
struck
thine
hour
to
go,
On
us,
who
stood
despondent
by,
A
meek
last
glance
of
love
didst
throw,
And
humbly
lay
thee
down
to
die.
Yet
would
we
keep
thee
in
our
heart--
Would
fix
our
favourite
on
the
scene,
Nor
let
thee
utterly
depart
And
be
as
if
thou
ne'er
hadst
been.
And
so
there
rise
these
lines
of
verse
On
lips
that
rarely
form
them
now
;
While
to
each
other
we
rehearse:
Such
ways,
such
arts,
such
looks
hadst
thou!
We
stroke
thy
broad
brown
paws
again,
We
bid
thee
to
thy
vacant
chair,
We
greet
thee
by
the
window-pane,
We
hear
thy
scuffle
on
the
stair.
We
see
the
flaps
of
thy
large
ears
Quick
raised
to
ask
which
way
we
go;
Crossing
the
frozen
lake,
appears
Thy
small
black
figure
on
the
snow!
Nor
to
us
only
art
thou
dear
Who
mourn
thee
in
thine
English
home;
Thou
hast
thine
absent
master's
tear,
Dropt
by
the
far
Australian
foam.
Thy
memory
lasts
both
here
and
there,
And
thou
shalt
live
as
long
as
we.
And
after
that--thou
dost
not
care!
In
us
was
all
the
world
to
thee.
Yet,
fondly
zealous
for
thy
fame,
Even
to
a
date
beyond
our
own
We
strive
to
carry
down
thy
name,
By
mounded
turf,
and
graven
stone.
We
lay
thee,
close
within
our
reach,
Here,
where
the
grass
is
smooth
and
warm,
Between
the
holly
and
the
beech,
Where
oft
we
watch'd
thy
couchant
form,
Asleep,
yet
lending
half
an
ear
To
travellers
on
the
Portsmouth
road;--
There
build
we
thee,
O
guardian
dear,
Mark'd
with
a
stone,
thy
last
abode!
Then
some,
who
through
this
garden
pass,
When
we
too,
like
thyself,
are
clay,
Shall
see
thy
grave
upon
the
grass,
And
stop
before
the
stone,
and
say:
_People
who
lived
here
long
ago
Did
by
this
stone,
it
seems,
intend
To
name
for
future
times
to
know
The
dachs-hound,
Geist,
their
little
friend._
