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 recover’d of the bite; The dog it was that died. FOOTNOTES: [37] “‘My brother Dick,’ cried Bill, my youngest, ‘is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll sing them for you, Papa. Which song do you choose, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the Mad Dog?’ ‘The Elegy, child, by all means,’ said I: ‘I never heard that yet.’”--VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, Chap. XVII. [Illustration: THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS] SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.[38] PART I. _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 reach the skies, &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! Even now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was borne, Request to be forgiven. Alas! they never had thy hate; Unmov’d, 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 urg’d thy end: Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood, And purchas’d strength from its increasing load. Pain met thee like a friend that 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 in dying, In the hope of being blest. Every added pang she suffers, Some increasing good bestows; Every shock that malice offers, Only rocks her to repose. WOMAN _Speaker_.