Poems by George Pope Morris - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Written for the freemasons of St. John's Lodge No. 1, New York.
Members of an order Ancient as the earth; All within our border Realize its worth.
Genial is the greeting That awaits us there, On the level meeting, Parting on the square.
Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
Masons never falter, We each other know, As around the altar Hand in hand we go; Loud hosannas singing To our Source above, And heart-offerings bringing To the G.o.d of Love.
Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
There's a mystic beauty In our working plan, Teaching man his duty To his fellow man: As a band of brothers, Ever just and true, Do we unto others As we'd have them do.
Like the workmen olden, Who our craft designed, We the precept golden Ever bear in mind.
The Missing s.h.i.+p.
She left the port in gallant style, With sails and streamers full and free!
I watched her course for many a mile Far out upon the distant sea!
At dusk she lessened to a speck, And then I could not trace her more!
Sad hearts were beating on her deck, Sad hearts were beating on the sh.o.r.e.
Two of the outward bound I knew, One beautiful, the other brave-- The master worthy, and the crew Born to contend with wind and wave: For travel some, and some for gain, And some for health had gone abroad; Our prayers were with them on the main, G.o.d-speed the s.h.i.+p and all on board!
That vessel never reached the land!
No tidings of her ever came!
Those who beheld her leave the strand, For years in anguish heard her name!
And even now in vain they try To breathe it with a tranquil lip, Or hide the moisture of the eye While speaking of that missing s.h.i.+p.
Jeannie Marsh.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, At whose call the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes, Where she was born among the cherries; Of peaches, plums, and nectarines, Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley, In whose name the muses rally; Of all the nine none so divine As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace, A G.o.ddess she in form and feature; The sweet expression of the place, A dimple in the smile of nature.
Lucy.
Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy, My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies With these sweet numbers throng, Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets, Trip merrily along.
Sometimes, my sportive Lucy, Your words will whirl around, Like foam-beads on the water, Or rose-leaves on the ground, Or waltzers in the ball-room, To music's airy sound.
There is, my gentle Lucy, In all you say or do, A bright poetic impulse, Original and true, Which Art can not acquire, And Nature gave to you.
The olden fable, Lucy, My muse to you would bring: The bird that can but will not, Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral To modern memories cling.
Awake the harp, dear Lucy!
Like the electric wire It will convey to millions The heart-absorbing fire!
And those who lean to listen Will linger to admire.
Epitaph.
All that's beautiful in woman, All we in her nature love, All that's good in all that's human, Pa.s.sed this gate to courts above.
In Memory of John W. Francis, Jr.
He was the pulse-beat of true hearts, The love-light of fond eyes: When such a man from earth departs, 'Tis the survivor dies.
