Classic Poem

Five weeks had hardly glided by,
So fast they glide,
When the lov'd hound—so dearly bought,
Died—aye, he died!
His master, furious, tore his hair,
And groan'd with pain;
Call'd on his hound, his John—he call'd
And groan'd again.

At last the gentle lapse of time
Quietly stealing,
Brought to his over-passion'd heart
Some human feeling.
The cruel worm of conscience gnaw'd
His breast within;
And John's dim shadow seated there,
Recall'd the sin!

“My John! my John!” he often cried,
“Thou innocent!
Thou, by the madness of thy lord,
From life uprent:
O bend thy head from highest heaven,
If there thou live,
And pitying him who pitied not—
My crime forgive.”

At length he rear'd a little church,
To wash his guilt;
And near, a belfry tower of wood,
Repentant built.

And there of purest silver hung
A sacred bell,
Which daily—never ceasing—rang
John's funeral knell.

But from the very earliest day,
It struck that knell,
The hearer's teeth all gnash'd with fear;
So terrible—
So terrible its sound—so loud;
No silver sound—
But the church trembled at the noise,
And all around—
“John, John—is for the greyhound gone!”