Classic Poem

No sable pall, no waving plume,
No thousand torch-lights to illume;
No parting glance, no struggling tear,
Is seen to fall upon the bier.

There is not one of kindred clay,
To watch the coffin on its way;
No mortal form, no human breast,
Cares where the poor man's bones may rest.

But one deep mourner follows there,
Whose grief outlives the funeral prayer:
He does not sigh, he does not weep,
But will not leave the sodless heap.

No! he who was the poor man's mate,
And made him more content with fate—
The old gray dog that shared his crust,
Is all that stands beside his dust.

He bends his listening head, as though
He thought to hear a voice below;
He pines to miss that voice so kind,
And wonders why he's left behind.

The sun goes down, the night is come
He needs no food, he seeks no home,
But, stretched upon the dreamless bed,
With doleful howl calls back the dead.

The passing gaze may coldly dwell
On all that polished marbles tell,
For temples built on churchyard earth
Are clainied by riches than worth.

But who would mark with undimmed eyes,
The mourning dog that starves and dies?
Who would not ask, who would not crave,
Such love and faith to guard his grave?