Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld

Retirement Accords With The Tone Of My Mind; I Will Not Descend To A World I Despise.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

Near This Spot Are Deposited The Remains Of One Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength Without Insolence, Courage Without Ferocity, And All The Virtues Of Man, Without His Vices. This Praise, Which Would Be Unmeaning Flattery If Inscribed Over Human Ashes, Is But A Just Tribute To The Memory Of Botswain, A Dog.

The Heart Ran O'er With Silent Worship Of The Great Of Old!-- The Dead, But Sceptred Sovereigns, Who Still Rule Our Spirits From Their Urns.