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.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Which song

[From The Vicar of Wakefield, chapter xvii., where it is sung by Bill:-"Cried Billy my youngest, Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. 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, Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little.""]

A SONG CALLED THE SOLITUDE.

E lofty mountains, whose eternal snows,

Like Atlas, seem to prop the distant skies;
While shelter'd by your high and ample brows,
All nature's beauties feast my ravish'd eyes:
And far beneath me, o'er the distant plain
The thunders break, and rattling tempests reign.

Here, when Aurora with her cheerful beam

And rosy blushes marks approaching day,

Oft do I walk along the purling stream,

And see the bleating flocks around me stray : The woods, the rocks, each charm that strikes my sight, Fills my whole breast with innocent delight.

Here gaily dancing on the flow'ry ground

The cheerful shepherds join their flute and voice; While through the groves the woodland songs resound, And fill the untroubled mind with peaceful joys. Music and love inspire the vocal plain,

Alone the turtle tunes her plaintive strain.

Here the green turf invites my wearied head
On nature's lap, to undisturb'd repose;
Here gently laid to rest-each care is fled;

Peace and content my happy eye-lids close.
Ye golden, flattering dreams of state adieu!
As bright my slumbers are, more soft than you.

20

Here free from all the tempests of the great,
Craft and ambition can deceive no more!
Beneath these shades I find a blest retreat,
From envy's rage secure, and fortune's pow'r ;
Here call the actions of past ages o'er,
Or truth's immortal source alone explore.

Here far from all the busy world's alarms,

I prove in peace the muse's sacred leisure:
No cares within, no distant sound of arms,
Break my repose, or interrupt my pleasure,
Fortune and Fame! deceitful forms! adieu!
The world's a trifle, far beneath my view.

THOMAS AMORY.

He told me he [From The Life of John Buncle, Esq., vol. i., where it is supposed to be sung by John Buncle himself:-"This song delighted the old gentleman [Mr. Noel] to a great degree. was charmed with it, not only for the fine music I made of it, but the morality of it."]

JOHN BUNCLE'S SONG.

ELL me, I charge you, O ye sylvan swains,
Who range the mazy grove, or flow'ry plains,
Beside what fountain, in what breezy bower,
Reclines my charmer in the noon-tide hour?

Soft, I adjure you, by the skipping fawns,
By the fleet roes, that bound along the lawns;
Soft tread, ye virgin daughters of the grove,
Nor with your dances wake my sleeping love.

Come, Rosalind, O come, and infant flow'rs

Shall bloom and smile, and form their charms by yours;
By you the lily shall her white compose,

Your blush shall add new blushes to the rose.

Hark! from yon bow'rs what airs soft warbled play!
My soul takes wing to meet th' enchanting lay.
Silence, ye nightingales! attend the voice!
While thus it warbles, all your songs are noise.

See! from the bower a form majestic moves,
And, smoothly gliding, shines along the groves;
Say, comes a goddess from the golden spheres?
A goddess comes, or Rosalind appears.

THOMAS AMORY.

[From John Buncle :-"I soon despatched my mess, and over my wine began to sing [these] lines."

TO THE LILY.

OFT silken flower! that in the dewy vale

Unfold'st thy modest beauties to the morn,
And breath'st thy fragrance on her wandering gale,
O'er earth's green hills and shadowy valley borne;

When day has closed his dazzling eye,
And dying gales sink soft away;
When eve steals down the western sky,

And mountains, woods, and vales decay;

Thy tender cups, that graceful swell,

Droop sad beneath her chilly dew;

Thy odours seek their silken cell,

And twilight veils their languid hue.

But soon, fair flower! the morn shall rise,
And rear again thy pensive head;

Again unveil thy snowy dyes,

Again thy velvet foliage spread.

Sweet child of Spring! like thee, in sorrow's shade,
Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn;
And O like thine, may light my glooms pervade,
And Sorrow fly, before Joy's living morn!

ANNE RADCLIFFE.

[From The Romance of the Forest, chapter v., where it is sung by Adeline :-"For some time she sat lost in a reverie, while the flowers that grew on the banks beside her seemed to smile in new life, and drew from her a comparison with her own condition. She mused and sighed, and then, in a voice whose charming melody was modulated by the tenderness of her heart, she sung [these words."]