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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, Unhonoured 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.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

XXXV.

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal availed on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.

"Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel;

I only know we loved in vain—

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

XXXVI.

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;

But nations swell the funeral cry,

And Triumph weeps above the brave.

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