Part 38 (1/2)

They talk of man's superior sense, And charge the few with treason Who think a dog's intelligence Is very like our reason.

But though Philosophy has tried A score of definitions, 'Twixt man and dog it can't decide The relative positions.

And I believe upon the whole (Though you my creed deny, sir), That Rove's ent.i.tled to a soul As much as you or I, sir!

Indeed, I fail to see the force Of your derisive laughter Because I will not say my horse Has not some horse-hereafter.

A fig for dogmas--let them pa.s.s!

There's much in life to grieve us; And what most grieves is _this_, alas!

That all our best friends leave us.

And when I sip my nightly grog, And watch old Rover blinking, This royal ruin of a dog Calls forth some serious thinking.

For, though he's lightly touched by Fate, I cannot help remarking The step of age is in his gait, Its hoa.r.s.eness in his barking.

He still goes on his rounds at night To keep off forest prowlers; But, ah! he has no teeth to bite The cunning-hearted howlers.

Not like the Rover that, erewhile, Gave droves of dingoes battle, And dashed through flood and fierce defile-- The friend, but dread, of cattle.

Not like to him that, in past years, Won fight by fight, and scattered Whole tribes of dogs with rags of ears And tail-ends torn and tattered.

But while time tells upon our pet, And makes him greyer daily, He is a n.o.ble fellow yet, And wears his old age gaily.

Still, dogs must die; and in the end, When he is past caressing, We'll mourn him like some human friend Whose presence was a blessing.

Till then, be bread and peace his lot-- A life of calm and clover!

The pup may sleep outside with Spot-- We'll keep the nook for Rover.

The Melbourne International Exhibition

[_Written for Music._]

I

Brothers from far-away lands, Sons of the fathers of fame, Here are our hearts and our hands-- This is our song of acclaim.

Lords from magnificent zones, Sh.o.r.es of superlative sway, Awful with l.u.s.tre of thrones, This is our greeting to-day.

Europe and Asia are here-- s.h.i.+ning they enter our ports!

She that is half of the sphere Beams like a sun in our courts.

Children of elders whose day Shone to the planet's white ends, Meet, in the n.o.ble old way, Sons of your forefather's friends.

II

Dressed is the beautiful city--the spires of it Burn in the firmament stately and still; Forest has vanished--the wood and the lyres of it, Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill.

This is the region, and here is the bay by it, Collins, the deathless, beheld in a dream: Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it Paused in the hush of a season supreme.