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XXXV.

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

XXXVI.

“ And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

XXXVII. “Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast; The

wondering fair one turn'd to chide'Twas Edwin's self that prest.

XXXVIII,
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor'd to love and thee.

XXXIX.
“ Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,

My life--my all that's mine?

XL.

“ No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

AN

ELEGY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG.*

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er

he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends ;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

* This, and the following poem, appeared in The Vicar of Wakefield, which was published in the year 1765.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew'd the rogues they lied ; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

STANZAS

ON

WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is to die.

THE

TRAVELLER,

OR,

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY ;

A POEM.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV.

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