The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man! 
  Thy temples,—­creeds themselves grow wan! 
  But there’s a dome of nobler span,
    A temple given
  Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban,—­
    Its space is heaven!

  Its roof, star-pictured Nature’s ceiling,
  Where, trancing the rapt spirit’s feeling,
  And God himself to man revealing,
    The harmonious spheres
  Make music, though unheard their pealing
    By mortal ears.

  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. 
  With such a pack, of course it follows,
  One fights for every bit he swallows. 
    Come then with me, and share
  On equal terms our princely fare.” 
      “But what with you
      Has one to do?”
  Inquires the wolf.  “Light work indeed,”
  Replies the dog:  “you only need
  To bark a little now and then,
  To chase off duns and beggar-men,
  To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
  Your master please, and so forth;
    For which you have to eat
    All sorts of well-cooked meat—­
  Cold pullets, pigeons, savory messes—­
  Besides unnumbered fond caresses.” 
    The wolf, by force of appetite,
    Accepts the terms outright,
    Tears glistened in his eyes;
    But faring on, he spies
  A galled spot on the mastiff’s neck.