"
Thy heart will shrink,
And thou wilt hear the voice the Lord has heard,
The voice of brother's blood speaking from earth,
And each pulse of thy sad soul will be stirred,
As he to whom the girl thou love'st gave birth
Brings back with fearful truth
The playmate of thy youth
From the grave's brink.
For on no shore
Shall fair earth yield unto thy stalwart arms;
No, thou may'st dig, and prune, and plant in vain,
And noxious worms and things of poisonous harms
Shall not be banished at the will of Cane;
Thou'lt set seed-bearing root,
Thou'lt plant life-giving fruit
No more, no more.
Depart! Depart!
Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear,
Did'st thou not always find whatever grain
Thou cast, the same grew upward full and fair,
Thou _would'st not_ look upon the pure lamb slain,
To faith true sacrifice
Thou would'st not turn thine eyes;
Go, till thine heart.
Our Poor Brethren.
"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea."
--Masonic Sentiment
They met in the festive hall,
Lamps in their brightness shone,
And merry music and mirth,
Aided the feast of St. John.
Men pledged the health of their Queen
And of all the Royal band,
The flags of a thousand years,
The swords of their motherland.
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