He's thirsty, too; see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!
He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir !) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,

To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it made my old eyes water—
That is there is something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter.

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir),

Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face!

Put up

Salute your officer!

that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

March! Halt!

Now hold your

Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now, tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps-that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!
Quick, sir! I'm ill-my brain is going!
Some brandy-thank you there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think ?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love—but I took to drink;

The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features-
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures;
I was one of your handsome men!

If

you had seen her so fair and young,

Whose head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged, and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since-a parson's wife;
'Twas better for her that we should part-

Better the soberest, prosiest life,

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

Have I seen her? Once. I was weak and spent On the dusty road-a carriage stopped;

But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry.

It makes me wild to think of the change.
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? You find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before

Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt remembering things that were—

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming—
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drinkThe sooner the better, for Roger and me.

Passing the hues and objects of the world,
The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,
To glean eidolons.

Put in thy chants, said he,

No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in— Put first before the rest, as light for all and entrance-song of all,

That of eidólons.

Ever the dim beginning,

Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,

Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again,)

Eidolons! Eidólons!

Ever the mutable,

Ever materials changing, crumbling, re-cohering,
Ever the ateliers, the factories divine,

Issuing eidólons.

Lo, I or you,

Or woman, man, or state, known or unknown,
We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,
But really build eidolons.

The ostent evanescent,

The substance of an artist's mood or savan's studies long,
Or warrior's, martyr's, hero's toils,

To fashion his eidólon.

Of every human life,

(The units gather'd, posted, not a thought, emotion, deed, left out,)

The whole or large or small summ'd, added up,

In its eidólon.

The old, old urge,

Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo, newer, higher pinnacles,
From science and the modern still impell'd,

The old, old urge eidólons.

The present now and here,

America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,

Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,.
To-day's eidólons.

These with the past,

Of vanished lands, of all the reigns of kings across the sea,
Old conquerors, old campaigns, old sailors voyages,

Joining eidolons.

Densities, growth, façades,

Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees,

Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave,

Eidolons everlasting.

Exalté, rapt, ecstatic,

The visible but their womb of birth,

Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape,
The mighty earth-eidólon.