Fair stars! are not your beings pure?
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure?
Else why so swell the thoughts at your
Aspect above?
Ye must be heavens that make us sure
Of heavenly love!
And in your harmony sublime
I read the doom of distant time;
That man's regenerate soul from crime
Shall yet be drawn,
And reason on his mortal clime
Immortal dawn.
What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!--
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
_All hallowed ground_.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
* * * * *
THE WOLF AND THE DOG.
A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,
Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray
No human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf, in famished plight,
Would fain have made a ration
Upon his fat relation:
But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seemed able
To save from wolfish table
His carcass snug and tight.
So then in civil conversation
The wolf expressed his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray politely,
"Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me:
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.
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