The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence, Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince in white marble, and _at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at the siege of Malines_.
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!
This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.