Classic Poem

Come , Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
Old friend, — we must wander the world once more!
For no one now liveth to welcome us back;
So, come! — let us speed on our fated track.
What matter the region, — what matter the weather,
So you and I travel, till death, together?
And in death? — why, e'en there I may still be found
By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
(How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue!)
No joy did divide us; no peril could part
The man from his friend of the noble heart;
Ay, his friend ; for where shall there ever be found
A friend like his resolute fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day,
When I fronted the wolves, like a stag at bay?
When downwards they galloped to where we stood,
Whilst I staggered from dread in the dark pine wood?
Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
And — he came! Ah! 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.
Men tell us, dear friend, that a noble hound
Must for ever be lost in the worthless ground;
Yet courage, fidelity, love (they say)
Bear man, as on wings, to his skies away;
Well, Herod — go tell whatever may be
I'll hope I may ever be found by thee:
If in sleep, then in sleep; if with skies around,
May'st thou follow e'en thither — my dear bloodhound.