DEAR little friend, who, day by day, Before the door of home Art ready waiting till thy master come, With monitory paw and noise, Swelling to half delirious joys, Whether my path I take By leafy coverts known to thee before, Where the gay coney loves to play, Or the loud pheasant whirls from out the brake Unharmed by us, save for some frolic chase, Or innocent panting race; Or who, if by the sunny river's side Haply my steps I turn, With loud petition constantly dost yearn To fetch the whirling stake from the warm tide; Who, if I chide thee, grovellest in the dust, And dost forgive me, though I am unjust, Blessing the hand that smote: who with fond love Gazest, and fear for me, such as doth move Those finer souls which know, yet may not see, And are wrapped round and lost in ecstasy; -- And thou, dear little friend and soft, Breathing a gentle air of hearth and home; Whose low purr to the lonely ear doth oft With deep refreshment come; Though thy quick nature is not frank and gay As that one's, yet with graceful play Thou dost beguile the evenings, and dost sit With mien demurely fit; With half-closed eyes, as in a dream Responsive to the singing steam, Most delicately clean and white, Thou baskest in the flickering light; Quick-tempered art thou, and yet, if a child Molest thee, pitiful and mild; And always thy delight is, simply neat, To seat thee faithful at thy master's feet; -- And thou, good friend and strong, Who art the docile labourer of the world; Who groanest when the battle mists are curled On the red plain; who toilest all day long To make our gain or sport; who art the care That cleanses idle lives, which, but for thee And thy pure, noble nature, perhaps might sink To lower levels, born of lust and drink, And half-forgotten sloughs of infamy, Which desperate souls could dare; -- And ye, fair timid things, who lightly play By summer woodlands at the close of day; -- What are ye all, dear creatures, tame or wild? What other nature yours than of a child, Whose dumbness finds a voice mighty to call, In wordless pity, to the souls of all Whose lives I turn to profit, and whose mute And constant friendship links the man and brute? Shall I consent to raise A torturing hand against your few and evil days? Shall I indeed delight To take you, helpless kinsmen, fast and bound, And while ye lick my hand Lay bare your veins and nerves in one red wound, Divide the sentient brain; And while the raw flesh quivers with the pain, A calm observer stand, And drop in some keen acid, and watch it bite The writhing life: wrench the still beating heart, And with calm voice meanwhile discourse, and bland, To boys who jeer or sicken as they gaze, Of the great Goddess Science and her gracious ways? Great Heaven! this shall not be, this present hell, And none denounce it; well I know, too well, That Nature works by ruin and by wrong, Taking no care for any but the strong, Taking no care. But we are more than she; We touch to higher levels, a higher love Doth through our being move: Though we know all our benefits bought by blood, And that by suffering only reach we good; Yet not with mocking laughter, nor in play, Shall we give death or carve a life away. And if it be indeed For some vast gain of knowledge, we might give These humble lives that live, And for the race should bid the victim bleed, Only for some great gain, Some counterpoise of pain; And that with solemn soul and grave, Like his who from the fire 'scapes, or the flood, Who would save all, ay, with his heart's best blood, But of his children chooses which to save! Surely a man should scorn To owe his weal to others' death and pain? Sure 'twere no real gain To batten on lives so weak and so forlorn? Nor were it right indeed To do for others what for self were wrong. 'Tis but the same dead creed, Preaching the naked triumph of the strong; And for this Goddess Science, hard and stern, We shall not let her priests torment and burn: We fought the priests before, and not in vain; And as we fought before, so will we fight again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DRIVING INTO LARAMIE by JAMES GALVIN AT THE ZOO IN SPAIN by CLARENCE MAJOR CAMOMILE TEA by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |