SPEAK low, tread softly through these halls:

Here Genius lies enshrined;

Here sleep in silent majesty

The monarchs of the mind.

Inscription in the St. Louis Public Library

I am owner of the sphere,

Of the seven stars and the solar year,

Of Cæsar's hand, and Plato's brain,

Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakespeare's strain.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

Great truths are portions of the soul of man;

Great souls are portions of eternity;

Each drop of blood that e'er through true heart ran

With lofty message, ran for thee and me.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

THE HERITAGE

No matter what my birth may be,
No matter where my lot is cast,
I am the heir in equity

Of all the precious Past.

The art, the science, and the fore
Of all the ages long since dust,
The wisdom of the world in store,
Are mine, all mine in trust.

The beauty of the living earth,
The power of the golden sun,
The Present, whatsoe'er my birth,
I share with everyone.

As much as any man am I

The owner of the working day;
Mine are the minutes as they fly
To save or throw away.

And mine the Future to bequeath
Unto the generations new;
I help to shape it with my breath,
Mine as I think or do.

Present and Past my heritage,

The Future laid in my control No matter what my name or age, I am a Master-soul!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

POET AND KING

OUT of a desolate night

Into the pride of the court Flooded with color and light,

A wandering singer was brought.

And there at the foot of the throne -
A weary and pitiful thing

That begged for a crust or a bone -
He sang at the nod of the King.

The King and his courtiers are gone;
Clean gone out of mind is their fame;
And fields where their glory was won
Are only a date and a name.

The singer, alone of the throng,

Lives on through the death of the years

For men still remember his song

And sing it with love and with tears.

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS

THE kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,
The mounds arise where heroes died;
But show me on thy flow'ry breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousand that, uncheered by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;

For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake,
Resigned the bitter cup to take;

And silently in fearless faith

Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;
No not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strewed
The ashes of that multitude;

It may be that each day we tread
Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
And the young flowers our children sow
Take root in holy dust below.

FELICIA D. HEMANS

MY FRIENDS

Do you want to know what I am doing? I devote myself to my friends, with whom I enjoy the most delightful intercourse. With them I shut myself in a corner, where I escape the windy crowd and either speak to them in sweet whispers or listen to their gentle voices, conversing with them as with myself. Can anything be more comfortable than this? They never hide their own secrets, yet they keep sacred whatever is entrusted to them. They never divulge abroad what we confide freely to their intimacy. When summoned they are at your side;

when not summoned they do not intrude. When bidden they speak; when not bidden, they are silent. They talk of what you wish, as much as you wish, as long as you wish. They utter no flattery, feign nothing, keep back nothing. They frankly show you your faults, but slander no one. All that they say is either cheering or salutary. In prosperity they keep you modest, in affliction they console, they never change with fortune. They follow in all dangers, abiding with you even to the grave. . . With these sweet friends I am buried in seclusion. What wealth or what scepters would I barter for this tranquillity? Now, that you may not miss the meaning of my metaphor, pray understand all that I have said about these friends to be meant of books, companionship with which has made of me a truly happy man.

DICKENS IN CAMP

ERASMUS

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring campfire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,