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Matthew Arnold - Kaiser DeadMatthew Arnold - Kaiser Dead
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What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news Post-haste to Cobham  calls the Muse, From where in Farringford  she brews The ode sublime, Or with Pen-bryn`s bold bard  pursues A rival rhyme. Kai`s bracelet tail, Kai`s busy feet, Were known to all the village-street. "What, poor Kai dead?" say all I meet; "A loss indeed!" O for the croon pathetic, sweet, Of Robin`s reed ! Six years ago I brought him down, A baby dog, from London town; Round his small throat of black and brown A ribbon blue, And vouch`d by glorious renown A dachshound true. His mother, most majestic dame, Of blood-unmix`d, from Potsdam  came; And Kaiser`s race we deem`d the same-- No lineage higher. And so he bore the imperial name. But ah, his sire! Soon, soon the days conviction bring. The collie hair, the collie swing, The tail`s indomitable ring, The eye`s unrest-- The case was clear; a mongrel thing Kai stood confest. But all those virtues, which commend The humbler sort who serve and tend, Were thine in store, thou faithful friend. What sense, what cheer! To us, declining tow`rds our end, A mate how dear! For Max, thy brother-dog, began To flag, and feel his narrowing span. And cold, besides, his blue blood ran, Since, `gainst the classes, He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man  Incite the masses. Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad; But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad, Teeming with plans, alert, and glad In work or play, Like sunshine went and came, and bade Live out the day! Still, still I see the figure smart-- Trophy in mouth, agog  to start, Then, home return`d, once more depart; Or prest together Against thy mistress, loving heart, In winter weather. I see the tail, like bracelet twirl`d, In moments of disgrace uncurl`d, Then at a pardoning word re-furl`d, A conquering sign; Crying, "Come on, and range the world, And never pine." Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone; Thou hast thine errands, off and on; In joy thy last morn flew; anon, A fit! All`s over; And thou art gone where Geist  hath gone, And Toss, and Rover. Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head, Regards his brother`s form outspread; Full well Max knows the friend is dead Whose cordial talk, And jokes in doggish language said, Beguiled his walk. And Glory, stretch`d at Burwood gate, Thy passing by doth vainly wait; And jealous Jock, thy only hate, The chiel  from Skye,  Lets from his shaggy Highland pate Thy memory die. Well, fetch his graven collar fine, And rub the steel, and make it shine, And leave it round thy neck to twine, Kai, in thy grave. There of thy master keep that sign, And this plain stave.
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