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Build thee more stately mansions, oh, 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!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea,
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roared,

This was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair

Amid that pilgrim band
Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith's pure shrine.
Ay, call it holy ground,

The spot where first they trod;
They have left unstained what there they found-
Freedom to worship God.

Felicia D. Hemans.


One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed though right were worsted, wrong would

triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.

Robert Browning.


Such beautiful beautiful hands,

They're neither white nor small;
And you, I know, would scarcely think

That they were fair at all.
I've looked on hands whose form and hue

A sculptor's dream might be, Yet are these aged wrinkled hands

Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

Though heart were weary and sad These patient hands kept toiling on

That the children might be glad.
I almost weep when looking back

To childhood's distant day!
I think how these hands rested not

When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!

They're growing feeble now, And time and pain have left their mark

On hand, and heart and brow.
Alas! alas! the nearing time-

And the sad, sad day to me,
When neath the daisies, out of sight,

These hands must folded be.

But, oh! beyond the shadowy lands,

Where all is bright and fair,
I know full well these dear old hands

Will palms of victory bear;

When crystal streams, through endless years,

Flow over golden sands,
And where the old are young again,
I'll clasp my mother's hands.

Mrs. Ellen M. H. Gates.


The favorite poem of Admiral Dewey, and by him suggested as his contribution. Also sent in by many contestants.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said:
'What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

'And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light.
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed-
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

Leigh Hunt


A traveler on a dusty road

Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,

And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,

To breathe his early vows,
And age was pleased, in heats of noon

To bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,

The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place,

A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way

Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well

Where weary men might turn.
He walled it in, and hung with care

A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,

But judged that all might drink.
He paused again, and lo! the well,

By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues

And saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought;

'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain,

But strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind,

And lo! its light became

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