Yet bows his spirit at thy least command,

And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back
He bears thy youngest darling, and endures
Long, with a wagging tail, the teazing sport
Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him,
That they are thine.

'Tis but an olden theme To sing the faithful dog. The storied page Full oft hath told his tried fidelity,

In legend quaint. Yet if in this our world
True friendship is a scarce and chary plant
It might be well, to stoop and sow its seed
Even in the humble bosom of a brute.
-Slight nutriment it needs :—the kindly tone,
The sheltering roof, the fragments from thy board,
The frank caress, or treasured word of praise
For deeds of loyalty.

So mayest thou win

A willing servant, and an earnest friend,

Faithful to death.

SILENT DEVOTION.

"The Lord is in his holy temple ;-let all the Earth keep silence before him."

THE Lord is on his holy throne,

He sits in kingly state;

Let those who for his favor seek,

In humble silence wait.

Your sorrows to his eye are known,
Your secret motives clear,
It needeth not the pomp of words,
To pour them on his ear.

Doth Death thy bosom's cell invade?

Yield up thy flower of grass:

Swells the world's wrathful billow high?

Bow down, and let it pass.

Press not thy purpose on thy God,

Urge not thine erring will,

Nor dictate to the Eternal mind,
Nor doubt thy Maker's skill.

True prayer is not the noisy sound That clamorous lips repeat,

But the deep silence of a soul

That clasps Jehovah's feet.

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.

On the laying of the Corner-stone of her Monument at Fredericksburg, Virginia.

LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,

Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed,

And pearled with dews.

She bade bright Summer bring

Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,

And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet

Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak

Sternly of man's neglect.

But now we come

To do thee homage-mother of our chief!

Fit homage such as honoreth him who pays.

Methinks we see thee-as in olden time

Simple in garb-majestic and serene,

Unmoved by pomp or circumstance-in truth

Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal

Repressing vice and making folly grave.

Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth-to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave,
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away,
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life

Which she had worshipped.

For the might that clothed

The "Pater Patriæ," for the glorious deeds

That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine
To all the earth, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought,
We know not-Heaven can tell.

Rise, sculptured pile!

And show a race unborn who rests below;
And say to mothers what a holy charge
Is theirs with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.
Warn them to wake at early dawn—and sow
Good seed before the world hath sown her tares;
Nor in their toil decline-that angel bands
May put the sickle in, and reap for God,

And gather to his garner.

Ye, who stand,

With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise,
Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief—
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,