THE PURSUIT OF FRANKLIN. When Dr. Kane, the Arctic navigator, left New York in search of Sir John Franklin, he set the Masonic Square and Compass in large characters upon his foresail. He visited a Lodge in Newfoundland at his brief call there. The flag taken and left, by his orders, nearest the North Pole, was the Masonic flag. It was an incentive to the zealous search made by our intrepid countrymen, that Franklin was reported to be a Freemason. The following lines were written in 1853, upon his setting out upon his philanthropic errand. It is needless to say, however, that the writer's prediction failed in its fulfillment. Midst polar snows and solitude, Eight weary years the voyager lies, While expectation vanishes; Ah! many a hopeless tear is shed. For Franklin, numbered with the dead! Midst joys of home, and well earned fame, Young, healthful, honored, there is one Who pines to win a nobler name, And feels his glory but begun; The voice from off the frozen flood Away, on glorious errand, now, Thou hero of a sense of right! Success be on thy gallant brow, Thou greater than the sons of might! Is there some chain of sympathy Flung thus across the frozen seas? Is there some strange, mysterious tie, For though these twain have never met, Nor pressed the hand, nor joined the heart, In unison their spirits beat, Brothers in the Masonic art; One, in the hour of joy and peace,One, in the hour of deep distress. And by the SYMBOLS, best of those Time-honored on our ancient wall, Thou shalt succeed,- his drooping eye Shall catch thy banner, broad and bright,That symbol he shall yet descry, And know a Brother in the sight! Ah, noble pair! which happier then, Of those two daring, dauntless men? INSCRIPTIONS FOR A LODGE ROOM. EAST. Erect before Thee, A hand upon Thy WORD, We thus adore Thee, And swear to serve Thee, Lord! WEST. So mote it be-each murmuring word And echoes, from its inmost sea, SOUTH. Ye faithful, weave the chain ! Join hand in hand again! The world is filled with violence and blood! Hark to the battle cry! Hark to the answering sigh! Come weave the chain admired of man and God! GO ON THY BRIGHT CAREER. Go on thy bright career, brave, faithful heart, Denounce all teachings by our rites forbidden, And LIGHT, MORE LIGHT, on yearning hearts bestow. Crush all things that obstruct the cause of truth; To build a HOUSE like that within the skies! Whose works defy the utmost power of death! PRAYER-ORAL OR SECRET. There is a prayer unsaid No lips its accents move; 'Tis uttered by the pleading eye And registered above. Each MYSTIC SIGN is prayer, By hand of Mason given; The deeds that mercy prompts, Are prayers in sweet disguise; Then at the altar kneel In silence make thy prayer; And HE whose very name is Love The darkest road is light— We shun the dangerous snare, THE DEATH OF THE GRAND MASTER. CRAWFORD, Grand Master of Maryland, died under the affecting circumstances here described: 66 His voice was low, his utterance choked, He seemed like one in sorrow bound, God's blessings on the Masons round. 'Tis sad to see the strong man weep- When age unseals emotion's tide? Reverently stood the Brothers round, While their Grand Master breathed farewell, And strove to catch the faintest sound Of accents known and loved so well. He told them of the zealous care Of their forefathers of the Art; He conned the precepts, line by line- That shape the Mason mysteries! He warned them of a world unkind, He told them of a world to come, To scenes of never ending bliss. Then of himself he humbly spoke So modestly! so tenderly! While from the saddened group there broke 'Now give me rest; my years demand My days are drawing to an end, "Now give me rest; but when you meet, My name upon your lips repeat, "Now unto God, the Mason's FRIEND, The GOD our emblems brightly tell, Your dearest interests I commend Brothers, dear Brothers, oh, farewell!" Down from the Orient, slowly down, Weeping, through that sad group he passed, Turned once and gazed, and then was gone. That look his tenderest and his last. ` His last-for, ere the week had sped, That group, with sorrow unrepressed, Gathered around their honored dead Bore their Grand Master to his rest! THE PYRAMID OF CHEOPS. Not useless: cold must be the heart Not useless: were it but to prove Not useless: were it but to stir The sense of awe within the breast; Is it a mortal's sepulcher? Not useless: no; while life abide, The measure of the soul, to me, Its utmost stretch of thought shall be My memories of the Pyramid! |