A Memorial to BoatswainJoy
by
Lord Byron
Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.

Kadar se v prah povrne kak zemljan,

Ne po zaslugah, le po rodu znan,

Takrat na moč potrudi se kipar,
da slava mrtvega blesti se z žar,

da sploh ne bereš v glosi slikoviti 
kaj bil je, temveč kaj bi moral biti.

A bedni pes, ta tvoj prijatelj vdani,

Ki prvi te pričaka, prvi brani,

Ki v tvojem srcu svoje ima srce,

Ki srečen je, če zate v ogenj sme

-
 ta gre v pozabo, ker mu ne prizna

Bog duše, ki na svetu jo ima;

medtem ko človek, ta mrčes mrčesa,

lahko s kesanjem upa na nebesa.

O, človek, bedna enodnevna muha,

ti hlapčevsko niče, ti cvet napuha!

Kdor te spozna, te s studom zapusti,

ti grudica izprijene prsti.Untitled-1

Prijateljstvo ti je le goljufija,

ljubezen – strast, smehljaj – hipokrizija.

Če na dve nogi vstala bi žival,
bi se lahko v dno duše sramoval!

-
 Kdor pred to žaro si postal – odidi!

ni vredna, da ti jo oko sploh vidi;

prijatelju v spomin ta grob stoji;

le enega imel sem – tu leži.

——–

When some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rest below:

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:12115675_10206405972161885_1264815306602361436_n

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:

While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn:

To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one, — and here he lies.12665864_10206951788966964_2093470286_n