Careful to learn what elder years impart. Louisa—­Clare—­by which name shall I call thee?  A prettier pair of names sure ne’er was found, Resembling thy own sweetness in sweet sound.  Ever calm peace and innocence befal thee!

* * * * *

TRANSLATIONS

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne

I

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep
Thy posture here, and sleep’st a marble sleep,
May the repose unbroken be,
Which the fine Artist’s hand hath lent to thee,
While thou enjoy’st along with it
That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!

II

THE RIVAL BELLS

A tuneful challenge rings from either side
Of Thames’ fair banks.  Thy twice six Bells, Saint Bride
Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy. 
Such harmony from the contention flows,
That the divided ear no preference knows;
Betwixt them both disparting Music’s State,
While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

III

EPITAPH ON A DOG

(1820)

Poor Irus’ faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master’s steps,
His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
Had he occasion for that staff, with which
He now goes picking out his path in fear
Over the highways and crossings, but would plant
Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
A firm foot forward still, till he had reach’d
His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow’d: 
To whom with loud and passionate laments
From morn to eve his dark estate he wail’d. 
Nor wail’d to all in vain:  some here and there,
The well disposed and good, their pennies gave. 
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
Prick’d up at his least motion, to receive
At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
And common portion in his feast of scraps;
Or when night warn’d us homeward, tired and spent
With our long day, and tedious beggary. 
These were my manners, this my way of life,
Till age and slow disease me overtook,
And sever’d from my sightless master’s side. 
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear’d,
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
In long and lasting union to attest,
The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

IV

THE BALLAD SINGERS