Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 10
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory!
O death! where is thy sting?
Composed 1712 First published 1736
To Henry Cromwell, 19 October 1709 [with Argus]
Now I talk of my dog, that I may not treat of a worse
subject which my spleen tempts me to, I will give you
some account of him; a thing not wholly unprecedented,
since Montaigne (to whom I am but a dog in comparison)
has done the very same thing of his cat.... You are to
know then, that as ’tis likeness that begets affection, so
my favourite dog is a little one, a lean one, and none of
the finest shaped. He is not much a spaniel in his fawning,
but has (what might be worth many a man’s while to
imitate from him) a dumb surly sort of kindness, that
rather shows itself when he thinks me ill-used by others
than when we walk quietly and peaceably by ourselves.
If it be the chief point of friendship to comply with a
friend’s motions and inclinations, he possesses this in an
eminent degree; he lies down when I sit, and walks
where I walk, which is more than many good friends can
pretend to, witness our walk a year ago in St James’s
Park—histories are more full of the fidelity of dogs than
of friends, but...I will only say for the honour of dogs
that the two most ancient and estimable books (viz: the
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