What say'st thou, _Dobbin?_ what though hounds await With open jaws the moment of thy fate, No better fate attends _his_ public race; His life is misery, and his end disgrace. Then freely bear thy burden to the mill; Obey but one short law,... thy driver's will. Affection, to thy memory ever true, Shall boast of mighty loads that _Dobbin_ drew; And back to childhood shall the mind with pride Recount thy gentleness in many a ride To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou Held'st high thy braided mane and comely brow; And oft the Tale shall rise to homely fame Upon thy gen'rous spirit and thy name. Though faithful to a proverb, we regard The midnight chieftain of the farmer's yard, Beneath whose guardianship all hearts rejoice, Woke by the echo of his hollow voice; Yet as the Hound may fault'ring quit the pack, Snuff the foul scent, and hasten yelping back; And e'en the docile Pointer know disgrace, Thwarting the gen'ral instinct of his race; E'en so the MASTIFF, or the meaner Cur, At times will from the path of duty err, (A pattern of fidelity by day; By night a _murderer_, lurking for his prey); And round the pastures or the fold will creep, And, coward-like, attack the peaceful _sheep_: Alone the wanton mischief he pursues, Alone in reeking blood his jaws imbrues; Chasing amain his fright'ned victims round, Till death in wild confusion strews the ground; Then wearied out, to kennel sneaks away, And licks his guilty paws till break of day. The deed discover'd, and the news once spread, Vengeance hangs o'er the unknown culprit's head: And careful _Shepherds_ extra hours bestow In patient _watchings_ for the common foe; A foe most dreaded now, when rest and peace Should wait the season of the flock's increase. In part these nightly terrors to dispel, GILES, ere he sleeps, his little Flock must tell. From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies, Glad if the full-orb'd Moon salute his eyes, And through the unbroken stillness of the night Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. With saunt'ring step he climbs the distant stile, Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; There views the white-rob'd clouds in clusters driv'n, And all the glorious pageantry of heav'n. Low, on the utmost bound'ry of the sight, The rising vapours catch the silver light; Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, Which first will throw its shadow on the eye, Passing the source of light; and thence away, Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. For yet above these wafted clouds are seen (In a remoter sky, still more serene,) Others, detach'd in ranges through the air, Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west, The beauteous 'semblance of a _Flock_ at rest. These, to the raptur'd mind, aloud proclaim Their MIGHTY SHEPHERD'S everlasting Name.