When some proud son of man returns to earth, <br />Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, <br />The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, <br />And storied urns record who rest below: <br />When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, <br />Not what he was, but what he should have been: <br />But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, <br />The first to welcome, foremost to defend, <br />Whose honest heart, is still his master's own, <br />Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, <br />Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, <br />Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, <br />While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, <br />And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. <br />Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, <br />Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, <br />Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, <br />Degraded mass of animated dust! <br />Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, <br />Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! <br />By nature vile, ennobled but by name, <br />Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. <br />Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, <br />Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn: <br />To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; <br />I never knew but one,--and here he lies.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-valley-of-the-waters-we-wept-o-er-the-day/
