MELODIES OF ADOPTIVE MASONRY.

MARTHA.

Yea, I believe, although death's cloud
Enwrap my soul in gloom;
Thou art the Christ, the Son of God,
The Saviour that should come;-
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; what though the grave
Hath won my love from me?

I felt that Thou hadst power to save,
And still do trust in Thee;-
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; through ages past
Thy coming voice was heard;
The promised King hath come at last,
My Saviour and my God;-
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; Lord, let this hour
Some gracious token give!
O, grant a sweet, reviving power,
That others may believe;·

Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Wildly her hands are joined in form of love,
As at the Saviour's feet the mourner lies;

Beseechingly she raises them above,

While showers of tear drops blind her languid eyes;

Then looks, and pleads, and supplicates His aid

In words that win her brother from the dead.

Raise thy hands above, sweet mourner,
Higher, higher, toward the throne!

Ah, He sees thee, hears thy story,

Hears and feels that plaintive moan.

He has wept for human sorrow,

Let thy sorrows with Him plead;
Raise thy hands in faith, and doubt not,
He hath power o'er the dead.

ESTHER.

See, O, King, the suppliant one,
Pale and trembling at the throne!
See the golden crown she bears,
And the silken robe she wears;
Whiter, brighter than their sheen,
Is the woman's soul within!

Mercy's golden wand extend,
While her gentle head shall bend
Meekly o'er Thy scepter now,
Pardon, favor, bounty show;
Naught in all Thy broad domain,
Like the woman's soul within!

Must we perish, O my nation,

With the light of ages crowned?

Surely there is yet salvation

With our great Deliverer found;

Cry aloud, then, Sion's Daughter,

Rend with sorrowing groans the sky;

Blunt with prayer the sword of slaughter,-
Haste, my people, ere we die!

Thou, who shone our Nation's glory,
Mark this time of deep distress!

Hear, with pitying ear, our story,
See our anguish, Lord, and bless!

But if thus our sins to chasten

Thou refuse Thy children's cry,

All submissive, I will hasten

With my people, Lord, to die.

Nobly she stands, a Queen; the glittering band,
Mark of a royal state, beneath her hand;
She points the silken robe with peerless grace,
Pure as her soul and pallid as her face;
Then reaches to the Scepter, whence is drawn
The kingly pardon she has bravely won.

THE FATHER TO THE DYING DAUGHTER.

JUNE 15, 1876.

No apology is needed for the introduction of lines that have entered so deeply into the acceptance of sisters of the Eastern Star. The gentle spirit to whom they were addressed passed from earth July 29, 1877, at the age of twenty. She was known among us as Ella Wilson Morris.

Dear Ella, as you watch the flowers of June,

And wear away the summer days in pain,

Do you not often think of seasons gone,

And wish that childhood's days were back again?

I know you do, they were such sunny days;
Your happy girlhood never knew a care;
Sisters and brothers shared your merry plays,
Your parents took of all your pains the share.

How sweet the moments fled! we used to sing
Such joyful melodies! when evening fell
To father's knee your little hand would cling,
And prayers went up to HIM we loved so well.

We sang sweet "Mary at the Saviour's tomb,"

We sang "Thus far the Lord hath led us on,"-
And in dear mother's own domestic room

We kissed good night, and then to bed were gone.

Ah, Ella, there is nothing left like this!

In womanhood there dwell such woe and pain;
Had we but known it was our time of bliss,-
Oh that my children were but young again!

Gray-haired and sad, I meditate to-day,

My tears fast dropping through the lonely hour;
Is there not somewhere, somewhere, far away,

A home where bitter memories come no more?

We do believe there is, we will believe,—

You learned such faith, my daughter, at my knee;

The Holy One, who never can deceive,

Assures us of a blest eternity.

Read it again,-"All tears are wiped away,"

The saints with crowns and harps all radiant stand,

The LAMB sits on the throne, and endless day
And jubilant song pervade the happy Land.

Then bow with patience, Dearest, 'neath your load;
A mighty Saviour waits to be your Guide;
JESUS the painful pilgrimage hath trod,

Eternal life and light with Him that died.

TARRYING IN THE SHADE.

Official Ode in the Oriental Order of The Palm and Shell. Inscribed to Sir Knight the Rev. Henry R. Coleman, Supreme Chancellor.

From the foamy billows won,

To the sands of Joppa thrown,

From the darkness of the salt, salt wave,—

In the cooling shadows brought,

With Masonic lessons fraught,

As we journey to the far-off grave.

O, the burning of the sun

When his middle course is run,

As the pilgrimage of life we haste!

But a sympathetic calm.

In the cooling of the palm,

Is the glory of the weary waste.

As we tarry in the shade,

'Neath the drooping foliage laid,

How the grateful heart to God doth rise,—

Unto God, supremely good,

Who will crown the weary road

With the resting of the quiet skies.

Then, ye Pilgrims of the Shell,

Con the mystic lessons well,

With the Signet and the tie so blest,—

For the burning of the noon

Will be changed to glory soon,

And the Pilgrim find a long, long rest.

CHORUS.

For we journey o'er the dust,

In a fond and loving trust,

To the City where our dead are laid;

And we con the lessons well,

Mystic lessons of the Shell,

As we tarry, as we tarry in the shade.