Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
      As the swift seasons roll! 
     Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
  Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
  Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
      Till thou at length art free,
  Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

O.W.  HOLMES.

Thought.

  O messenger, art thou the king, or I? 
      Thou dalliest outside the palace gate
      Till on thine idle armor lie the late
  And heavy dews.  The morn’s bright scornful eye
  Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery,
      Thou smilest at the window where I wait,
      Who bade thee ride for life.  In empty state
  My days go on, while false hours prophesy
  Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair,
  I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air;
      When lo, thou stand’st before me glad and fleet,
      And lay’st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. 
  Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy
  I am too poor.  Thou art the king, not I.

H.H.  JACKSON.

Stanzas.

  Thought is deeper than all speech,
    Feeling deeper than all thought;
  Souls to souls can never teach
    What unto themselves was taught.

  We are spirits clad in veils: 
    Man by man was never seen;
  All our deep communing fails
    To remove the shadowy screen.

  Heart to heart was never known;
    Mind with mind did never meet;
  We are columns left alone
    Of a temple once complete.

  Like the stars that gem the sky,
    Far apart, though seeming near,
  In our light we scattered lie;
    All is thus but starlight here.

  What is social company
    But a babbling summer stream? 
  What our wise philosophy
    But the glancing of a dream?

  Only when the sun of love
    Melts the scattered stars of thought;
  Only when we live above
    What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

  Only when our souls are fed
    By the Fount which gave them birth,
  And by inspiration led,
    Which they never drew from earth,

  We, like parted drops of rain
    Swelling till they meet and run,
  Shall be all absorbed again,
    Melting, flowing into one.

C.P.  CRANCH.

Coronation.

  At the king’s gate the subtle noon
    Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
  Into the drowsy snare too soon
    The guards fell one by one.

  Through the king’s gate, unquestioned then,
    A beggar went, and laughed, “This brings
  Me chance, at last, to see if men
    Fare better, being kings.”

  The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
    Propping his face with listless hand;
  Watching the hour-glass sifting down
    Too slow its shining sand.

  “Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?”
    The beggar turned, and, pitying,
  Replied, like one in dream, “Of thee,
    Nothing.  I want the king.”