(Imagem publicada no Twitter @Wordsworthians [ou, The Romanticism Blog], do monumento a Boatswain, cão de Lord Byron. O Reboliço lê as palavras de John Hobhouse, amigo de Byron, a encimar os versos do poeta inglês: "Perto deste lugar jazem os Restos daquele que possuiu Beleza sem Vaidade, Força sem Insolência, Coragem sem Ferocidade, e todas as virtudes Humanas sem os Humanos Vícios. Este louvor, lisonja inexpressiva se fosse dedicado a humanas Cinzas, é só um tributo de justiça à Memória de BOATSWAIN, um CÃO que nasceu em Newfoundland em Maio de 1803 e morreu em Newstead a 18 de Novembro de 1808."
O pobre bicho morreu de raiva; o dono cuidou dele até ao finamento, sem qualquer receio de contágio. A lápide legenda o túmulo que, ao que consta, é maior do que a sepultura do próprio Byron.)
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,Unknown to Glory, but upheld by Birth,The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,And storied urns record who rests below.When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,Not what he was, but what he should have been.But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend,Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,Degraded mass of animated dust!Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!By nature vile, ennobled but by name,Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.Ye, who behold perchance this simple urn,Pass on – it honours none you wish to mourn.To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;I never knew but one -- and here he lies.
