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.

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 show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite-

The dog it was that died.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music (by Signor Vento) was composed in a period of time equally short.

Overture.-A solemn Dirge.
Air-Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
"Tis ours to weep the want below.

Chorus.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!
E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

Song.-By a Man.

Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers,

Some increasing good bestows,

And every shock that malice offers.

Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fato-
Death, with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design.

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.
With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As hapless friends who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

While winds and waves their wishes cross,

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,

Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

Song.-By a Man.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,

How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. "Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drained the cup

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace be thine above?

Song By a Woman.

Lovely, lasting Peace, below,
Comforter of ev'ry woe,

D

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely, lasting, Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;
Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell

Want pass'd for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,

Her constant pity fed the poor,

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound. There Faith shall come a pilgrim gray, To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay; And calm Religion shall repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agres

To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Air-Chorus.

Let us-let all the world agree,

To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

Overture.-Pastorale.

MAN SPEAKER.

FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,

Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While, sweetly blending, still are seen,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,