The Bloodhound

Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor! Old friend—we must wander the world once more! For no one now liveth to welcome us back; So, come!—let us speed on our fated track. What matter the region,—what matter the weather, So you and I travel, till death, together? And in death?—why, e'en there I may still be found By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea, And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be; Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo; (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;) No joy did divide us; no peril could part The man from his friend of the noble heart; Aye, his friend; for where, where shall there ever be found A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay? When downward they galloped to where we stood, Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood? Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed? God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need! And—he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound Must forever be lost in the worthless ground: Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say), Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away. Well, Herod—go tell them whatever may be, I'll hope I may ever be found by thee. If in sleep,—in sleep; if with skies around, Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!