Hail , workmen of the mystic labor, hail!
To-night let all things that have language speak,
Here in the image chamber of the Craft,
Where pure instruction beams on every hand;
Above — the spangled Arch, whose diamond rays
Twinkle sweet welcome on our road to Heaven;
Around — emblems of truth eternal, grand,
Quaint old imaginings of by-gone days;
Before — oh, blest eternally of God,
Yon B OOK , whose secret is undying hope;
Beneath — the earth, our mother, whence we sprung,
And in whose bosom we shall sleep at last;
All these inspire and move the Poet's heart
To claim a welcome, Brothers, in your Band.

And let them speak; those Pillars that look down
In brazen symbolisms on the scene;
That golden G, that names the sacred Name;
The Sheat that marks His beauty and His love;
The Gavel ringing in submissive ears;
The Level, Plumb, and Square, on faithful breasts;
The Gauge, wise monitor of fleeting time, —
Of time, whose sands no mortal may recall;
The Trowel, with its soothing tale of peace;
Each has its voice, and let it speak to-night.

Craftsmen, we build but for a day,
Unless His precepts we obey!
How oft we see within our land
A structure reared upon the sand!
Its walls magnificently rise, —
Its turrets pierce the very skies, —
Crowds through its portals eager press, —
Beauty and rank its altars grace, —
And then the tempest falls, 'tis gone
From tower top to cornerstone!

Craftsmen, this lesson heed, and keep, —
Lay your foundations wide and deep!