The Shepherd ceas’d to speak, for He Leant on his maple staff, subdu’d; While pity touch’d the company, And all, poor TRIM with sorrow view’d: Nine days, upon a willow bed Old TRIM was doom’d to lay his head, Oppress’d and sever’d from his master’s door, Enough to make him MAD—were he not so before! XVII. But not forsaken yet, was he, For ev’ry morn, at peep of day, To keep his old friend company, The lonely Shepherd bent his way: A little boat, across the stream, Which glitter’d in the sunny beam, Bore him, where foes no longer could annoy, Where TRIM stood yelping loud, and ALMOST MAD with joy! XVIII. Six days had pass’d and still was he Upon the island left to roam, When on the stream a wither’d tree Was gliding rapid midst the foam! The little Boat now onward prest, Danc’d o’er the river’s bounding breast, ’Till dash’d impetuous, ’gainst the old tree’s side, The Shepherd plung’d and groan’d, then sunk amid the tide. XIX. Old TRIM, now doom’d his friend to see Beating the foam with wasted breath, Resolv’d to bear him company, E’en in the icy arms of death; Soon with exulting cries he bore His feeble master to the shore, And, standing o’er him, howl’d in cadence sad, For, fear and fondness, now, had nearly made him MAD. XX. Together, still their flocks they tend, More happy than the proudly great; The Shepherd has no other friend— No Lordly home, no bed of state! But on a pallet, clean and low, They hear, unmov’d, the wild winds blow, And though they ne’er another spring may see, The Shepherd, and his Dog, are chearful company. THE _FUGITIVE_.