When some proud son of man returns to
earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the
pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have
been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest
friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s
own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for
him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all
his worth—
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with
disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a
cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush
for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you
wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend’s remains these
stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here
he lies. [i]
Newstead Abbey, October 30, 1808.
[Footnote 1: This monument is
placed in the garden of Newstead. A prose inscription
precedes the verses:—
“Near this spot
Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.”
Byron thus announced the death of
his favourite to his friend Hodgson:—“Boatswain
is dead!—he expired in a state of madness
on the 18th after suffering much, yet retaining all
the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting
to do the least injury to any one near him. I
have now lost everything except old Murray.”
In the will which the poet executed in 1811, he desired
to be buried in the vault with his dog, and Joe Murray
was to have the honour of making one of the party.
When the poet was on his travels, a gentleman, to whom
Murray showed the tomb, said, “Well, old boy,
you will take your place here some twenty years hence.”
“I don’t know that, sir,” replied
Joe; “if I was sure his lordship would come
here I should like it well enough, but I should not
like to lie alone with the dog.”—’Life’,
pp. 73, 131.]
[Footnote i:
I knew but one unchang’d—and
here he lies.—
[Imit. and Transl., p. 191.] ]
