Classic Poem

Think ye that Masons, when they tyle the door,
Excluding all unfriendly ears and eyes,—
Think ye they find no spirits hovering o'er,
That bring bright blessings to their mysteries?
With Bible at the feast,
And God's Name in the East,
And prayer and vow, true hearts to bow;
Can holy ones absent themselves from these?

Think ye, when first are led our wandering feet
About the mystic altar, slow and bare,
And priestly voice rehearses, as is meet,
Of brotherhood all precious, fond and rare,—
Think ye, in that dark hour
There comes no inward power
To bid us trust in God the Just,
And wait full orisons on wings of prayer?

Think ye the long succession that have wornt
Our badges, understanding well their lore,—
Think ye when, to their resting places gone,
They dropped the tools their fathers dropped before,
The Level, Plumb and Square,
So bright with moral rare,
And Gavel full of mystic rule,
That all their wisdom to the tomb they bare?

Think ye the dead, above whose face we flung
Undying leaves that symbolize our faith,—
Think ye in honored graves that mighty throng
Is silent utterly in sleep of death?
When standing round their grave,
Our weeping Craftsmen gave
In sign and word, such full accord,
With all they felt and hoped, who lie beneath?

Most wrongly judge ye, ye who judge us thus;
We may not scorn the social word and smile,
For these are blessings God hath granted us,
Life's weary heat and burden to beguile;
But in our lightest thought
A thousand types are wrought,
Drawn from the Word and will of God,
That link the heavenly to the earthly soil.