POETRY.

THE CARRIER-DOG OF BRUSSELS.

OUT in the street I saw him lie,— His sorrowful lack-lustre eye Could read his master's look no more,

His days of faithful work were o'er.

Numbed was his quick, respon- sive will, And yet his harness bound him still.

His master hurled an angry word And twice his trembling limbs he stirred, Then sank upon the ground again :

I saw his look of patient pain : "None could resist that look," I said,— Hie master kicked him on the head Then muttering curses deep and strong

He undid' girth and strap and throng,

In his charrette he flung them all, And leaving his death-loosened thrall

Went clattering down the echo- ing street With jingling wheels and clang- ing feet.

I went across and brought him in.

Quivering and wretched, starved and thin, The pulse of life was almost fled, Yet from my hand he feebly fed, And with a kindness half- divine His glazing eye looked up to mine.

Two days he lingered, one in pain,

One in dull senselessness ; and vain Were my attempts to stay the course Of that fast ebbing vital force; But ere he drew his final breath

He heard a sound he knew in death : A clattering wheel came down the street— He tried to stagger to his feet; The impulse of obedience still Could rouse the stupor of his

will;

Forgetting blows and kicks be tried

Once more to follow—fell, and died !

I laid him to his last long rest; No more ill-treated and op- pressed He lies beneath the quiet sod, And shares the slumber sent by God To all who through their earthly span

Devote their loving lives to Man!

MARY BRADFORD WRITING.