And brandy, though it might be sure, was slow. But more she dared not; for she felt a dread Of being tried, and only wish’d him dead. Such was her restless strife of hope and fear— He might cough on for many a weary year; Nay, his poor mind was changing, and, when ill, } Some foe to her may wicked thoughts instil! } Oh! ’tis a trial sore to watch a Miser’s will! } Thus, though the pair appear’d in peace to live, They felt that vice has not that peace to give. 170 There watch’d a cur before the Miser’s gate— A very cur, whom all men seem’d to hate; Gaunt, savage, shaggy, with an eye that shone Like a live coal, and he possess’d but one; His bark was wild and eager, and became } That meagre body and that eye of flame; } His master prized him much, and _Fang_ his name. } His master fed him largely; but not that, Nor aught of kindness, made the snarler fat. Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay; 180 He bark’d, and snarl’d, and growl’d it all away. His ribs were seen extended like a rack, And coarse red hair hung roughly o’er his back. Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore, Now his sore body made his temper sore. Such was the friend of him, who could not find, Nor make him one, ‘mong creatures of his kind. Brave deeds of Fang his master often told, The son of Fury, famed in days of old, From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they 190 In earlier times—each dog will have his day. The notes of Fang were to his master known, And dear—they bore some likeness to his own; For both convey’d to the experienced ear, “I snarl and bite, because I hate and fear.” None pass’d ungreeted by the master’s door; Fang rail’d at all, but chiefly at the poor; And, when the nights were stormy, cold, and dark, The act of Fang was a perpetual bark; But though the master loved the growl of Fang, 200 There were who vow’d the ugly cur to hang; Whose angry master, watchful for his friend, As strongly vow’d his servant to defend. In one dark night, and such as Fang before Was ever known its tempests to outroar, To his protector’s wonder now express’d No angry notes—his anger was at rest. The wond’ring master sought the silent yard, Left Phœbe sleeping, and his door unbarr’d; Nor more returned to that forsaken bed— 210 But lo! the morning came, and he was dead. Fang and his master side by side were laid In grim repose—their debt of nature paid! The master’s hand upon the cur’s cold chest Was now reclined, and had before been press’d, As if he search’d how deep and wide the wound That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound; And, when he found it was the sleep of death, A sympathising sorrow stopp’d his breath. Close to his trusty servant he was found, 220 As cold his body, and his sleep as sound. We know no more; but who on horrors dwell