"What think ye?"

J. CRADDOCK JONES.

Think ye of Mind as but a transient force,
A temporal power within the human breast,
Destroyed when sin has run its wanton course
And wayward man at last is laid at rest?

Think ye of Spirit as a phantom hand
That beckons but to multiply our ills,
And straightway tenders all its spectre band
To lead the hosts of earth where'er it wills?

Think ye of Soul as but a single star,
Set in the orbit of corporeal sense,
To guide us to some firmament afar,
And sin, disease, and death its recompense?

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