Classic Poem

War's hand has sorely tried our Brotherhood;
They sleep on every hard-fought battle plain,
They who around our Altars loving stood,
Shall never stand at Mason's side again.
The sinewy grip's relaxed, the tongue is mute,
Death's heavy fetters clog the willing foot.

The Chain is shortening, where they once were found;
Close in, close up! the Gavel calls in vain;
The song has lost, ah, many a well known sound—
Brothers, the louder sing the mystic strain!
Though we and all our works shall pass away,
Freemasonry must never know decay!

Thank God, and yet again thank God, a few
Of the old love-warmed Brotherhood abide!
A few whose charitable hands will do
Whate'er their hearts may prompt of generous deed.
For such as I have found on life's hard road,
I humbly, and yet gratefully, thank God!