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XXXVIII.
“Turn, Angelinal 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.”

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Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And, if you find it wondrous short—

It can not hold you long.

* From The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766; with an emended line from the edition of 1773. —This third elegy too frequently deviates from its model. M. Nodier remarks that its epigrammatic conclusion is imitated from the French. — The author had made a sharp attack on plaintive elegy in his earliest work, An Inquiry, etc., 1759; and it is remarkable that the sarcastic design of these elegies should have failed

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.

to attract the attention of commentators. It is quite evident from the manner in which the above specimen is introduced. The vicar, happily seated by his own fireside, where all are busied in forming projects, or laughing at whatever folly comes uppermost, assents to the proposal of a song from his youngest boy; and thus records the previous interlocution: “Which song do you choose, The dying Swan, or the Elegy on the death of a mad dog " 'The elegy, child, by all means,' said I, ‘I never heard that yet; and Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little.’”

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Around, from all the neighboring streets,
The wondering neighbors 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 show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite;

The dog it was that died.

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