And in a space behind the passing bier, Looking and longing for his lord in vain, A little playmate whom the KING held dear, Caesar, the terrier, tugs his silver chain! * * * * * Hail, Caesar, lonely little Caesar, hail! Little for you the gathered Kings avail. Little you reck, as meekly past you go, Of that solemnity of formal woe. In the strange silence, lo, you prick your ear For one loved voice, and that you shall not hear. So when the monarchs with their bright array Of gold and steel and stars have passed away, When, to their wonted use restored again, All things go duly in their ordered train, You shall appeal at each excluding door, Search through the rooms and every haunt explore; From lawn to lawn, from path to path pursue The well-loved form that still escapes your view. At every tree some happy memories rise To stir your tail and animate your eyes, And at each turn, with gathering strength endued, Hope, still frustrated, must be still renewed. How should you rest from your appointed task Till chance restore the happiness you ask, Take from your heart the burden, ease your pain, And grant you to your master's side again, Proud and content if but you could beguile His voice to flatter and his face to smile? Caesar, the kindly days may bring relief; Swiftly they pass and dull the edge of grief. You too, resigned at last, may school your mind To miss the comrade whom you cannot find, Never forgetting, but as one who feels The world has secrets which no skill reveals. Henceforth, whate'er the ruthless fates may give, You shall be loved and cherished while you live. Reft of your master, little dog forlorn, To one dear mistress you shall now be sworn, And in her queenly service you shall dwell, At rest with one who loved your master well. And she, that gentle lady, shall control The faithful kingdom of a true dog's soul, And for the past's dear sake shall still defend Caesar, the dead KING'S humble little friend. SOO-TI A PEKINESE Soo-Ti, I thank the careful fate That made you wise and obstinate, Alert, but with a proper pride, And gay, but wondrous dignified. I praise your black and tilted nose; I praise your heart's deep love that shows In songs made up of whimpering cries And in the radiance of your eyes (And if they bulge--forgive the allusion-- Are eyes the worse for such protrusion? The smaller eyes are, sure, the blinder, And size makes every kind eye kinder). Next with affection's look I note The glossy levels of your coat, Where a rich black doth most prevail, Shading to beaver in your tail, And lightly fading as it reaches The tufted things you wear as breeches.