King Solomon's Temple - Part 2

Part II.

But the house of the past hath its tongues of stone,
Yea, its voices of marble and brass —
From the sands of the desolate desert up-thrown,
And the mold of the wilderness grass!
Though the myth of their awful meanings
Too often we idly pass!
Where the Nile flows down by its pyramid tombs;
Where the ruins of Tadmor lie;
Where the Petraean cities, from cavernous glooms,
Like sepulchers, startle the eye —
O! the voices of granite and marble
To our souls make audible cry!

Every crumbling plinth, every prostrate shaft,
Hath a murmur of moldering years;
From each column and cornice the low winds watt
A dirge to our listening ears;
And each frieze, from its sculptured tablet,
Seems weeping with stony tears;
Where the gardens of Belus o'er Babylon hung,
And where Nineveh's walls were raised;
Where the hundred portals of Thebes swung,
And old Tyre over ocean gazed;
And where high upon Mount Moriah,
King Solomon's Temple blazed!

Oh! that mountain of God, in the realms of my love,
Hath a marvelous 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 pondered, in childlike mind,
Until, back through the ages, with yearnings intense,
My unsatisfied heart hath inclined —
Longing 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 Levite 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 in Masonry's craft —
When my soul the rambskin 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,
Flows 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 hyssop that springs from the wall;
Of the fowls of the air, of the fish of the sea,
And of things in the dust that crawl;
Till the words of his love and his wisdom
Enlighten'd and beautified all.

To the 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 us shall peace be alway,
And blessings around us cling.
From his wars and his sorrows King David hath rest,
And he steeps under Sion'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 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 labors, in lengthening files;
While the Temple arises before them,
From portal to golden tiles!

From the echoless earth, through the motionless air,
How that beautiful fabric upgrows!
From 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.

By the glow of the greater and lesser Light,
And the power of the Master's Word —
By the Plummet of Truth, and the level of Right,
And the Square that hath never err'd —
Through the work of a Master Mason,
King Solomon's prayer was heard.
At the fragrant morn, 'neath the golden moon,
And the eventide's hour of balm,
All the hearts 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 veil of its mysteries vast,
The voice of King Solomon hears.
Asking me, with the sign of a Master,
Why my spirit no Temple rears.
With the Three Great Lights ever shining above,
And the tools of the Craft at hand,
Why I 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 molder to ashes,
Behold us but wrecks sublime!
For the house that we build in a lifetime's length,
From the midst of our worldly din,
Hath no Jachin and Boaz, established in strength,
And no Holy of Holies within;
And we bear up no Ark of the Covenant,
From out of our Desert of Zin!

There's a mountain of God in each human heart
For that glorious Temple's base;
And the lines of each loyal Mason's art
May its grand foundations trace;
And within it, the wings of cherubs
May the Holy of 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 mold of each darksome cell;
And the soul of the true no longer
With the dust of the false shall dwell!

When the thoughts 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!
When the pillars of strength in our porch shall abide,
With the lilies of beauty above;
And the veil of the Presence, encompassing wide,
Overshadow the ark of our love;
And the peace of the blessed Shekinah
Enfold, like the wings of a dove!

Oh! the cedars of Lebanon grow at our door,
And the quarry is sunk at our gate;
And the ships out of Ophir, with golden ore
For our summoning mandate wait;
And the word of a Master Mason
May the house of our soul create!
While the day hath light, let the light be used,
For no man shall the night control!
" Or ever the silken cord be loosed,
Or broken the golden bowl, "
May we build King Solomon's Temple
In the true Masonic soul!

Again his ready sword he draws;
Unmoved he stands in freedom's cause;
Nor shrinks to hear the marshaled band,
Should hostile foes invade the land.
Our General's dead! a nation weeps!
In dust Columbia's Guardian sleeps.
Thy ways, O King of Kings, are just,
Or when we live or turn to dust!
Then cease from man, look up on high,
Our only hope's above the sky.
We all must die and turn to dust;
Though man is mortal, God is just.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.