My Sandy, - poor Sandy,- dear favourite of all,
The family friend for these ten years and more,
That basked in the garden, and dozed in the hall,
And listened for songs on the mat at the door,-
Old dog! you are dead,- we must all of us die,-
You are gone,- and gone whither? Can any one say?
I trust you may live again,- somewhat as I,-
And haply 'go on to perfection' some way!

Shall noble fidelity, courage, and love,
Obedience and conscience - all rot in the ground?
No room be found for them beneath or above,
Nor anywhere in all the Universe round?
Can Fatherhood cease? or the Judge be unjust?
Or changefulness mark any counsel of God?
Shall a butterfly's beauty be lost in the dust?
Or the skill of a spider be crushed as a clod?

I cannot believe it: Creation still lives;
The Maker of all things made nothing in vain:
The Spirit His gracious Ubiquity gives,
Though seeming to die, ever lives on again:
We 'rise with our bodies;' and reason may hope
That truth, highest truth, may sink humbly to this,
That 'Lo! the poor Indian' was wiser than Pope
When he longed for his dog to be with him in bliss!