But death's cold, stiffening frost benumbs
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye--
And hark! her feeble moan becomes
A shriek of human agony.
As if before her task was over
She feared to die in her despair.
But see! those last faint strokes uncover
A straggling lock of thin grey hair.
One struggle, one convulsive start,
And there the face beloved lies--
Now be at peace, thou faithful heart!
She licks the livid lips, and dies.
CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH
OF A MAD DOG
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wond'rous 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.
The 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 neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
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