Page:Shepherd Lubin and his dog Tray.pdf/3



But whither shall the orphan fly To meet protection's fostering power? Oppression waits the future day, When misery marks the natal hour.

An orphan lad poor Lubin was, No friend, no relative had he! His happiest hour was dash’d with wo, His mildest treatment——tyranny.

It chanc’d that o’er the boundless heath One winter’s day his flocks had spread; By hunger urg’d to seek the blade, That lurk’d beneath its snowy bed.

And, hous’d at eve, his fleecy charge, He, sorrowing, miss'd a favourite lamb, That shunn’d the long persisting search, Nor answer’d to its bleeting dam.

With heavy heart he shap’d his way, And told so true, so sad a tale, That almost pierc’d the marble breast Of ruthless Rufus of the vale.

Poor Lubin own’d his flocks had stray’d, Own’d he had suffer’d them to go; Yes !—he had learn’d to pity them, For often he had hunger’d too: