Original Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume IX, Issue 447, 17 January 1867, Page 3

Original Poetry.

THE BEEP HEED’S LAMENT o’ee his poisoned dog. IJfIJ'OT long unhappy shall I sigh in vain i'or mitigation of thy burning pain; Soon shall I cease thy sorrows so ueplur-j, Boon see my much-loved faithful friend no more. Those mild eyes closing in eternal sleep No more with seal shall watch thy master’s snsep. When tempted by fresh pastures green they roam, If forced from distant station to return, [fernf Who now shall guide them through the tangled When trembling on the river’s brink they stood, At thy command they faced the foaming flood; Though willing to resist, soon changed their mind, And safely crossed, nor left a lamb behind. Oft on the mountains wild, through storm and fogs 1 hy fleecy charge thou’st rescued from fierce dogs When urged by’hunger at the midnight hour. Furious they came, to mangle and devour. Thy matchless instinct, thro’ the deep’mug shade, Traced the marauder o’er the dusky glade. By deep morass, and by the marshy valc.J Thy scent unerring followed up the trail, Searched the snow summits of Ka Weka hoar. And the bold windings of Mohaka’s shore, [spread, (Where through the gorge with massive boulders He leaps impetuous o’er his rocky bed) There met the boldest of the robber crew, There proved thy courage, and the villain slew. Blest was our vale, and harmless were our ways. Ere strife began t’ embitter all our days, WTien happiness diffused her joys around. In happiness we dwelt, and peace profound. Then simple feasts could harmless mirth afford, No care oppressed, and plenty crowned each board. Then genial honest neighbors all would try In well-meant friendly offices to vie. If sorrows came each would assistance lend, And proved himself a brother and a friend. Changed is the scene, since first unhappy fate. Amongst us sent vile discord and fierce hate. Now o’er our beauteous vale contention lours, And peace is exiled fromher sylvanbow’rs. [fraught, Curst be the wretch, whose soul with mischief And fiendish malice, hath this ruin wrought— Who, meanly to revenge some fancied ill. To wrong the master, would his poor dog kill. The mind that could to such a thought give birth Could ne’er appreciate a good dog’s worth. May he of strychnine dose some day partake (Which he has mixed for some dog) by mistake ; No friend attend the caitiff’s dying squall. Detested living, and dishonored fall; Th’ obscure assassin’s name is soon forgot; But long thy friends shall mourn thy cruel lot. 1. H., Petane.