<< And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

« And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

<< For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

« And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,» she cried;
« Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.

<< But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

«

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her

way.

My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.

«To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign'd a flame.

<< Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

<< In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

« And when, beside me in the dale,
He caroll'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

<< The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

« The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine.

« For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain:

« Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.

« 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.

« 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. >>

« 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 press'd.

<< Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.

<< 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? life—my

« 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.'

I

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.

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