I thought him all fair; yet I'll answer for this,
That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his.

Now Dobbin, the pony, belonged to us all,
Was at every one's service, and every one's call;
But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine,
Was held undisputed as whole and sole mine.

Together we rambled, together we grew.

Many plagues had the household, but we were the two Who were branded the deepest; all doings reviled Were sure to be wrought by "that dog and that child."

Unkenneled and chainless, yet truly he served;
No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved:
A dog has a heart, secure that, and you'll find
That love even in brutes is the safest to bind.

If my own kin or kind had demolished my ball,

The transgression were marked with a scuffle and

squall;

But with perfect consent he might mouth it about,
Till the very last atom of sawdust was out.

When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat,
How I longed for the comfits, so lusciously sweet:
But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear
To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share?

I fondled, I fed him, I coaxed or I cuffed,

I drove or I led him, I soothed or I huffed:

He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love,

But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove.

25*

If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage
The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage:
I might ply him with kicks, or belabor with blows,
But Pincher was never once known to oppose.

Did a mother appear the loud quarrel to learn,
If 'twere only with him it gave little concern:
No ill-usage could rouse him, no insult could chafe;
While Pinch was the playmate her darling was safe.

If the geese on the common gave signal of fear,
And screams most unmusical startled the ear,
The cause was soon guessed; for my foremost delight
Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight.

Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef, Shrewd suspicions were formed of receiver and thief, For I paused not at crime, and I blushed not at fibs That assisted to nurture his well-covered ribs.

The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared

To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared;

The gamekeeper threatened me Pinch should be shot; But the threat was by both of us always forgot.

The linen, half bleached, must be rinsed o'er again;
And our footsteps in mud were “remarkably” plain.
The tulips were crushed, to the gardener's dismay,
And when last we were seen we were bending that

way.

When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done,
Some atrocious spoilation I chose to call "fun: "

Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try
Knew well that the active Sejanus was I.

But we weathered all gales, and the years sped away, Till his "bonnie black" hide was fast turning to gray When accents were heard most alarmingly sad, Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.

It was true: his fixed doom was no longer a joke;
He that moment must die: my young heart was nigh

broke.

I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest,
And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppressed.

A shot, a faint howl, — and old Pincher was dead. How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed! Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling, and clear;

Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear.

Our winter-night circle was now incomplete;

We missed the fond brute that had snoozed at our

feet:

All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot,
We lauded his merits, and sighed o'er his lot.

Poodle, spaniel, and grayhound, were brought for my

care,

Of beauty and breed reckoned preciously rare;
But the playmate of infancy, friend of my youth,
Was linked with a lasting affection and truth.

He was never supplanted; nay, mention him now, And a something of shadow will steal from my brow,

"Poor fellow!" will burst in such tone of regret, That whispers my heart is his lurking-place yet.

No wonder; for memory brings back with him
The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim;
He is mingled with all that I idolized most,
The brightest, the purest, the loved, and the lost.

The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best,
The joys of my forest home spring to my breast,
And those days re-appear with a halo divine,

When old Pincher, a mother, and childhood were mine,

SONG OF THE BLIND ONE.

THEY talk of rainbows in the sky, and blossoms on the

earth,

They sing the beauty of the stars in songs of love and

mirth;

They say the mountain sod is fair

drops bright,

they tell of dew

They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon that

cheers the night.

I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see

The lustre drop on green-hill top, or fruit upon the tree: I've prayed to have my lids unsealed, but 'twas not to

behold

The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of

gold.

No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and

sun,

For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my gentle

one.

I hear the music others deem most eloquent and

sweet,

The merry lark above my head the cricket at my

feet;

The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden while they ring,

The robin in the winter-time - the cuckoo in the

spring;

But never do I think those tones so beautiful as thine, When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that

heart is mine.

There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice, As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy happy

voice;

And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or sun Can ever be so bright as thou mv true, my gentle one.

THE OLD WATER-MILL.

AND is this the old mill-stream that ten years ago
Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow;
Whose musical waters would ripple and shine
With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine?