Hark! Ethel's voice, she comes, and not alone!
Twelve Month's After.
Still rolleth onward time's mystical tide,
Ebbing and flowing by night and day;
Gladness and misery scattering wide,
Gladness and misery turning away.
Fair Spring has been with her emerald leaves,
Red Summer with roses of crimson ray,
Brown Autumn has passed with its golden sheaves,
Again St. John the Evangelist's day.
Since the morning came, Masonic bands
Have gathered, old friendship's ties to renew;
True hands have been clasped in a brother's hands,
Calm rest and refreshment fall like dew.
Far over the roll of the billowy seas,
Strangers have met on the lodge-room floor,
And like Israel encamped beneath Elim's trees,
Have thirsted for love's cool draught no more.
From the ice-wrought chain of the Arctic zone,
To the silver-lit sands of rich Peru;
From the shores which guard Victoria's throne,
To the woods of the west, unshorn and new.
In the crowded street, full of noise and cheer,
In hamlets and villages, still and calm;
Where the northern bear glides cold and clear,
Or the southern cross tints the sacred palm.
Over the face of this wonderful earth,
Templars haye met in Encampment dear,
Prisoners of hope have changed sighing for rest,
Pilgrims have tarried where angels were near.
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