Classic Poem

THE MASTER MASON .

O, Death, thy hand is weighty on the breast
Of him who lies within thy grasp;
No power can raise the captive from his rest,
When thy strong hand doth clasp!

The tears of broken spirits fall in vain;
Their sighs are wasted o'er the grave;
Thou laugh'st to scorn the funereal strain,
For " there is none to save. "

From age to age mankind hath owned thy sway,
Submissive bowed beneath thy hand;
The hoary head — the infant of a day —
The loveliest of the land.

And thou hast struck the true and faithful now,
Our model of Masonic faith;
It was a cruel and a dastard blow
Thou stern, unpitying Death!

Yet, boastful Monster, he shall have release;
Thy weighty hand, relentless power,
Shall be withdrawn, and all thy mockings cease,
And all thy triumphs o'er.

The Lion of the Tribe of Judah comes —
See in the heavenly East the sign!
To rend the sepulchers, disclose the tombs,
And shut thee, Monster, in!