Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Poetry.
'Mid the haunted cloisters of History ' s script , In the House of the Past tbey dwell ; Like the souls of the friars , they hide in each crypt , And emerge from each darksome cell—At the blast of a summoning trumpet , Their wonderful stories to tell ! In the volumed marvels of Grecian mind ,
And the records of Roman lore , There are riddles of wisdom for human kind To ponder a life-time o'er ; And to all of their mystical meanings Each heart is an open door ! Every human heart is a Postern gate . To the House of the wondrous Past , Where the heroes and sages of History wait
The sound of a trumpet blast , That shall break the enchanted slumbers For ages around them cast . How the voices of Song , out of Dorian aisles , With their Iliad and Odyssey swell ! How they roll from the shadows of Tuscan piles Where the Florentine chanted of Hell !
And how grandly , through Gothic channels , Of Paradise Lost they tell ! And the whispers of hearts , and responses of souls , Flow around , like the west-wind kind , When the song of the Singer of Avon rolls Through the gates of our listening mind , And the plaint of the pilgrim Harold Sounds fitful and strange behind !
O ! that mountain of God , in the realms of my love , Hath a marvellous glory and worth ; And the Temple that rose , its High Places above , Covers more than Jerusalem's girth ; For its aisles are the Highways of Ages , And its courts are the zones of earth ; O ' er its mythical meanings , and parabled sense , I have poudere'd , in childlike mind
Until , back through the ages , with yearnings intense My unsatisfied heart hath inclined—Jjoning still for the word of the Master—The word that no mortal may find ! In the dreams and the visions of fervent desire , I have mingled with Lerite and Priest ; With the widow ' s son , Hiram , and Hiram of Tyre ,
Sitting down at meridian feast , And beholding King Solomon ' s glory , Arising like morn , in the East ! With mine ancient brethren , iu Masonry's Craft—When my soul tbe lambskin wore—I have stood by the mystical corner-shaft , And knelt on the tesselate floor ; With the glorious roof of the temple , ¦ Like heaven ' s roof arching me o'er !
Under all the rude noises of battling thrones , And of realms that jar and strive , Plows the voice of our Master , whose tender tones Overbrooded the Hebrew hive . When he spake three thousand proverbs . And his songs were a thousand and five ; When he sang of Mount Lebanon ' s cedar-tree And of hyssopthat springs from the wall ;
, Of the fowls of the air , of the flesh in the sea , And of tilings in the dust that crawl ; Till the words of bis love and his wisdom Enlightened and beautified all . To tbe ruler of Sidon—the Lord of the Seas—Flies the word of Jerusalem ' s king , Saying , " Bid thou thy servants that Lebanon ' s trees
To Judean borders they bring ; And between ns shall Peace be alway And blessings around us cling . -From his wars and his sorrows King David hath rest , And he sleeps under Salem's sod ; But with trembling -and awe , at his high behest I abide in the paths he trod ; And I build on the Mount of Moriah , A house to the Lord my God !"
Then , from far-away forests of Lebanon s come Great floats unto Joppa ' s strand ; And from Tyre and Sidon arises a hum , As of bees overswarming the land ; And it swells through the valley of Jordan ¦ In chorals of Industry grand ! Under manifold halos of column and arch , Through the soundless courts and aisles ,
At the Word of their Master the Craftsmen march To their labours , in lengthening files ; While the Temple arises before them , From portal to golden tiles ' . Prom the echoless earth , through the motionless air , How that beautiful fabric npgrows ! Prom the heart of the King like a voiceless prayer ,
How it mounts , in its fragrant repose ! Bearing upward King Solomon ' s worship , As incense ascends from the rose ! In their brass and their silver , their marble and gold , All noiseless the Crafts have wrought , Till , in grandeur of silence , their works unfold , As with life everlasting fraught ; And the Temple ascends from Moriah—A Holy Masonic Thought !
By the glow of the greater and Lesser Light , And the power of the Master Word—By the Plummet of Truth , and the Level of Right , And the Square that hath never erred—Through the work of a Master Mason , King Solomon's prayer was heard At the fragrant morn , and the golden moon , And the eventide ' s hour of balm ,
All the arts of his craftsmen were lifted in tune , Like the mingling of harmonies calm ; And the Temple arose on Moriah , A Mighty Masonic Psalm . Oh ! that temple of God , from the House of the Past , Shineth down o'er the centuried years . - And my heart , through the vail of its mysteries vast ,
The voice of King Solomon hears , Asking me , with the Sign of a Master , Why my soul no temple rears ? With the three Great Lights ever shining above , And the tools of my craft at hand , Why build up no fabric of prayerful love , With the arch of a lifetime spann'd ; And the wings of embracing cherubs , Overbrooding its yearnings grand ?
Oh ; the House of the Lord that our lives might raise How it gleams from our fair Youth-time—How its manifold arches and architraves blaze Through the wilderness dust of our Prime : Yet our years , when they moulder to ashes , Behold but its wrecks sublime ! For the House that we build in a lifetime ' s length , From the midst of our worldldin
y , Hath no Jachin and Boaz , establish'd in strength , And no Holy of Holies within ; And we bear up no Ark of Zin ! There's a Mountain of God in each human heart For that glorious Temple ' s base ; And the lives of each loyal Mason's art May its grand foundations trace ;
And within it , the wings of cherubs May the Holy ot Holies embrace ! Through the beautiful aisles of the charmed Past , How its wonderful harmonies swell When their Meanings arise at the Templar's blast . From the mould of each darksome cell ; And tbe Soul of the True no longer With dust of the False shall dwell !
When the Thought of our Morning shall royally plan , And the deeds of our Day shall build ; And the Arch of Perfection eternally span . With the measure Our Master hath will'd ; And the depths of our Holy of Holies With incense of prayer be filled !
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
Poetry.
'Mid the haunted cloisters of History ' s script , In the House of the Past tbey dwell ; Like the souls of the friars , they hide in each crypt , And emerge from each darksome cell—At the blast of a summoning trumpet , Their wonderful stories to tell ! In the volumed marvels of Grecian mind ,
And the records of Roman lore , There are riddles of wisdom for human kind To ponder a life-time o'er ; And to all of their mystical meanings Each heart is an open door ! Every human heart is a Postern gate . To the House of the wondrous Past , Where the heroes and sages of History wait
The sound of a trumpet blast , That shall break the enchanted slumbers For ages around them cast . How the voices of Song , out of Dorian aisles , With their Iliad and Odyssey swell ! How they roll from the shadows of Tuscan piles Where the Florentine chanted of Hell !
And how grandly , through Gothic channels , Of Paradise Lost they tell ! And the whispers of hearts , and responses of souls , Flow around , like the west-wind kind , When the song of the Singer of Avon rolls Through the gates of our listening mind , And the plaint of the pilgrim Harold Sounds fitful and strange behind !
O ! that mountain of God , in the realms of my love , Hath a marvellous glory and worth ; And the Temple that rose , its High Places above , Covers more than Jerusalem's girth ; For its aisles are the Highways of Ages , And its courts are the zones of earth ; O ' er its mythical meanings , and parabled sense , I have poudere'd , in childlike mind
Until , back through the ages , with yearnings intense My unsatisfied heart hath inclined—Jjoning still for the word of the Master—The word that no mortal may find ! In the dreams and the visions of fervent desire , I have mingled with Lerite and Priest ; With the widow ' s son , Hiram , and Hiram of Tyre ,
Sitting down at meridian feast , And beholding King Solomon ' s glory , Arising like morn , in the East ! With mine ancient brethren , iu Masonry's Craft—When my soul tbe lambskin wore—I have stood by the mystical corner-shaft , And knelt on the tesselate floor ; With the glorious roof of the temple , ¦ Like heaven ' s roof arching me o'er !
Under all the rude noises of battling thrones , And of realms that jar and strive , Plows the voice of our Master , whose tender tones Overbrooded the Hebrew hive . When he spake three thousand proverbs . And his songs were a thousand and five ; When he sang of Mount Lebanon ' s cedar-tree And of hyssopthat springs from the wall ;
, Of the fowls of the air , of the flesh in the sea , And of tilings in the dust that crawl ; Till the words of bis love and his wisdom Enlightened and beautified all . To tbe ruler of Sidon—the Lord of the Seas—Flies the word of Jerusalem ' s king , Saying , " Bid thou thy servants that Lebanon ' s trees
To Judean borders they bring ; And between ns shall Peace be alway And blessings around us cling . -From his wars and his sorrows King David hath rest , And he sleeps under Salem's sod ; But with trembling -and awe , at his high behest I abide in the paths he trod ; And I build on the Mount of Moriah , A house to the Lord my God !"
Then , from far-away forests of Lebanon s come Great floats unto Joppa ' s strand ; And from Tyre and Sidon arises a hum , As of bees overswarming the land ; And it swells through the valley of Jordan ¦ In chorals of Industry grand ! Under manifold halos of column and arch , Through the soundless courts and aisles ,
At the Word of their Master the Craftsmen march To their labours , in lengthening files ; While the Temple arises before them , From portal to golden tiles ' . Prom the echoless earth , through the motionless air , How that beautiful fabric npgrows ! Prom the heart of the King like a voiceless prayer ,
How it mounts , in its fragrant repose ! Bearing upward King Solomon ' s worship , As incense ascends from the rose ! In their brass and their silver , their marble and gold , All noiseless the Crafts have wrought , Till , in grandeur of silence , their works unfold , As with life everlasting fraught ; And the Temple ascends from Moriah—A Holy Masonic Thought !
By the glow of the greater and Lesser Light , And the power of the Master Word—By the Plummet of Truth , and the Level of Right , And the Square that hath never erred—Through the work of a Master Mason , King Solomon's prayer was heard At the fragrant morn , and the golden moon , And the eventide ' s hour of balm ,
All the arts of his craftsmen were lifted in tune , Like the mingling of harmonies calm ; And the Temple arose on Moriah , A Mighty Masonic Psalm . Oh ! that temple of God , from the House of the Past , Shineth down o'er the centuried years . - And my heart , through the vail of its mysteries vast ,
The voice of King Solomon hears , Asking me , with the Sign of a Master , Why my soul no temple rears ? With the three Great Lights ever shining above , And the tools of my craft at hand , Why build up no fabric of prayerful love , With the arch of a lifetime spann'd ; And the wings of embracing cherubs , Overbrooding its yearnings grand ?
Oh ; the House of the Lord that our lives might raise How it gleams from our fair Youth-time—How its manifold arches and architraves blaze Through the wilderness dust of our Prime : Yet our years , when they moulder to ashes , Behold but its wrecks sublime ! For the House that we build in a lifetime ' s length , From the midst of our worldldin
y , Hath no Jachin and Boaz , establish'd in strength , And no Holy of Holies within ; And we bear up no Ark of Zin ! There's a Mountain of God in each human heart For that glorious Temple ' s base ; And the lives of each loyal Mason's art May its grand foundations trace ;
And within it , the wings of cherubs May the Holy ot Holies embrace ! Through the beautiful aisles of the charmed Past , How its wonderful harmonies swell When their Meanings arise at the Templar's blast . From the mould of each darksome cell ; And tbe Soul of the True no longer With dust of the False shall dwell !
When the Thought of our Morning shall royally plan , And the deeds of our Day shall build ; And the Arch of Perfection eternally span . With the measure Our Master hath will'd ; And the depths of our Holy of Holies With incense of prayer be filled !