Rob Morris' The Poetry Of Freemasonry has been divided into the following parts:



No one will begrudge to the friends of Adoptive Masonry the few pages given its melodies here. So strong a hold has the Order of the Eastern Star secured in this country through its General Grand Chapter, its sixteen Grand Chapters and its four hundred and thirty constituent Chapters, that the present volume would be notably incomplete without it, especially as Dr. Morris himself was the originator of the entire system, and the father of its literature.

Many of these pieces were written for music, and this explains the irregular forms of the stanzas. The best compositions to which they are attached are those of Brother M. H. Morgan, of Chicago, Illinois, who has given to some twenty of them the advantage of his talented and experienced genius as a musical writer.


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This poem has been moved to here from the Symbolical Masonry section.



How cold would be the tomb,
How desolate its gloom,
Were there no faithful tears to fall above!
Oh, who could bear to die,
Did not we know some sigh
Will move fond spirits in memorial love?

The gentle Jesus wept
Above his friend, who slept
Where sister-hands had laid him; and His tear
Has hallowed every grief,
And yielded sweet relief,
And spread hope's brightest radiance round the bier.

The story told to-night
Of Adah, brave and bright,
And Ruth and Esther, gone to deathless home,
Proves how for love we burn,
And how our spirits yearn
To have some flower-wreaths laid upon our tomb.

There's little here below
But misery and woe;
But in yon realm there waits us an abode
"Of many mansions" framed,
The Lodge Eternal named,
Its Master Builder, and its Master God!

This sweet, sad story, fraught
With grand and noble thought,
Points us unerring to that Lodge afar;
It guides the wandering eye,
As when, in days gone by,
Wise men were guided by the Eastern Star.

So let us read the tale,
And con its lessons well,
That we lose not the victory they won;
But laboring in faith,
Inherit after death,
Eternal honor and the heavenly Crown.




Yea, I believe, although death's cloud
Enwrap my soul in gloom;
Thou art the Christ, the Son of God,
The Saviour that should come;
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; what though the grave
Hath won my love from me?
I felt that Thou hadst power to save,
And still do trust in Thee;
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; through ages past
Thy coming voice was heard;
The promised King hath come at last,
My Saviour and my God;
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Yea, I believe; Lord, let this hour
Some gracious token give!
O, grant a sweet, reviving power,
That others may believe;
Yea, Lord, I do believe!

Wildly her hands are joined in form of love,
As at the Saviour's feet the mourner lies;
Beseechingly she raises them above,
While showers of tear drops blind her languid eyes;
Then looks, and pleads, and supplicates His aid
In words that win her brother from the dead.
Raise thy hands above, sweet mourner,
Higher, higher, toward the throne! Ah,
He sees thee, hears thy story,
Hears and feels that plaintive moan.
He has wept for human sorrow,
Let thy sorrows with Him plead;
Raise thy hands in faith, and doubt not,
He hath power o'er the dead.


See, O, King, the suppliant one,
Pale and trembling at the throne!
See the golden crown she bears,
And the silken robe she wears;
Whiter, brighter than their sheen,
Is the woman's soul within!

Mercy's golden wand extend,
While her gentle head shall bend
Meekly o'er Thy scepter now,
Pardon, favor, bounty show;
Naught in all Thy broad domain,
Like the woman's soul within!

Must we perish, O my nation,
With the light of ages crowned?
Surely there is vet salvation
With our great Deliverer found;
Cry aloud, then, Sion's Daughter,
Rend with sorrowing groans the sky;
Blunt with prayer the sword of slaughter,
Haste, my people, ere we die!

Thou, who shone our Nation's glory,
Mark this time of deep distress!
Hear, with pitying ear, our story,
See our anguish, Lord, and bless!
But if thus our sins to chasten
Thou refuse Thy children's cry,
All submissive, I will hasten
With my people, Lord, to die.

Nobly she stands, a Queen; the glittering band,
Mark of a royal state, beneath her hand;
She points the silken robe with peerless grace,
Pure as her soul and pallid as her face;
Then reaches to the Scepter, whence is drawn
The kingly pardon she has bravely won.


June 15, 1876.

No apology is needed for the introduction of lines that have entered so deeply into the acceptance of sisters of the Eastern Star. The gentle spirit to whom they were addressed passed from earth July 29, 1877, at the age of twenty. She was known among us as Ella Wilson Morris.

Dear Ella, as you watch the flowers of June,
And wear away the summer days in pain,
Do you not often think of seasons gone,
And wish that childhood's days were back again?

I know you do, they were such sunny days;
Your happy girlhood never knew a care;
Sisters and brothers shared your merry plays,
Your parents took of all your pains the share.

How sweet the moments fled! we used to sing
Such joyful melodies! when evening fell
To father's knee your little hand would cling,
And prayers went up to Him we loved so well.

We sang sweet "Mary at the Saviour's tomb,"
We sang "Thus far the Lord hath led us on,"
And in dear mother's own domestic room
We kissed good night, and then to bed were gone.

Ah, Ella, there is nothing left like this!
In womanhood there dwell such woe and pain;
Had we but known it was our time of bliss,
Oh that my children were but young again!

Gray-haired and sad, I meditate to-day,
My tears fast dropping through the lonely hour;
Is there not somewhere, somewhere, far away,
A home where bitter memories come no more?

We do believe there is, we ,call believe,
You learned such faith, my daughter, at my knee;
The Holy-One, who never can deceive,
Assures us of a blest eternity.

Read it again, "All tears are wiped away,"
The saints with crowns and harps all radiant stand,
The Lamb sits on the throne, and endless day
And jubilant song pervade the happy Land.
Then bow with patience, Dearest, 'neath your load;
A mighty Saviour waits to be your Guide;
Jesus the painful pilgrimage hath trod,
Eternal life and light with Him that died.


Official Ode in the Oriental Order of The Palm and Shell. Inscribed to Sir Knight the Rev. Henry R. Coleman, Supreme Chancellor.

From the foamy billows won,
To the sands of Joppa thrown,
From the darkness of the salt, salt wave,
In the cooling shadows brought,
With Masonic lessons fraught,
As we journey to the far-off grave.

O, the burning of the sun
When his middle course is run,
As the pilgrimage of life we haste!
But a sympathetic calm
In the cooling of the palm,
Is the glory of the weary waste.

As we tarry in the shade,
'Neath the drooping foliage laid,
How the grateful heart to God cloth rise,
Unto God, supremely good,
Who will crown the weary road
With the resting of the quiet skies.

Then, ye Pilgrims of the Shell,
Con the mystic lessons well,
With the Signet and the tie so blest,
For the burning of the noon
Will be changed to glory soon,
And the Pilgrim find a long, long rest.
For we journey o'er the dust,
In a fond and loving trust,
To the City where our dead are laid;
And we con the lessons well,
Mystic lessons of the Shell,
As we tarry, as we tarry in the shade.


Where lies the maid the Mason's Daughter;
Where is her tomb?
Down by the softly flowing water
There is her long, long home.
Sounds of the flowing water breathing
Peace o'er her bed;
Vines in a tender sorrow wreathing
Bowers for the early dead.
Sister, oh, farewell forever!
None are left like thee;
Weep, Brothers! o'er the dark, dark river
Fades love and light far away!

Oft, when the mystic toils were ended,
True hearts among,
What joys the evening hours attended,
Blest with her matchless song!
Thence, when the midnight hour resounded,
Rapt with her lay,
Each from the circle that surrounded
Parted in gloom away!

When, through the haunts of sorrow straying
At duty's call,
We, every sign of grief obeying,
Bore friendly aid to all;
How with us on the holy mission
Fervent was she!
How, like a bright and blissful vision,
'Twas her delight to be.

Death called the Mason's Daughter early,
Far, far too soon;
Blight nipped the tender flower unfairly,
Faded her light at noon.
Doubtless in mercy it was given,
Mercy divine,
That in the love and light of Heaven
She might forever shine.
Sing, every little bird around her,
Sing o'er her tomb!
Forms from the better world have found her
Here, where we made her home.
Grief to this sacred scene forbidden,
Vanish afar!
Only a little time she's hidden,
Christ will the maid restore.


On the hills of Mizpeh bloomed the mountain maid
Blue the skies above her where she strayed;
As the light gazelle she scaled the rocky slope,
Adah, child of love and hope.
Gone from the mountain, lost to her home,
Called in life's beauty to the tomb;
Wake the wild lamenting in the lonely glen,
She will never come again.

Glad was her uprising, when, with maiden mirth
And the merry timbre!, she came forth;
But, alas! the death march! day of utter gloom!
'Twas the signal of her doom.

O, the grand deliverance of the mountain maid!"
Keep the vow, my father," thus she said;
"Shall a Mason's daughter fear for truth to die?
There's a home beyond the sky!"

From the hills of Mizpeh let the story rise,
" Death before dishonor," to the skies;
While the seasons blossom on the mountain free,
Adah, we will weep for thee!

She will not die as thief or murderer dies,
Whose fate but expiates his horrid crime;
She will not veil her pure and loving eyes,
As fearing death, for hers is death sublime;
Lo, with determined heart and eye she stands,
Her face upturned toward Celestial lands!
See midst the multitude the Victim stands!
Dauntless, serene, though terror palsies them!
And she must die by her own father's hands!
And she must die, a sacrifice of shame!
Of shame? ah, no! she flings the veil abroad,
Once, twice, yea thrice; looks hopefully to God;
Fixes the noonday sun with earnest eyes,
Then crowned with innocence, the Maiden dies.

Lament for Jephthah, ye who know his fate,
Weep and lament; "Broken the beautiful rod,
And the strong staff; Mizpeh is desolate!"
But for sweet Adah weep not; let the word
Be: "Joy to the Captive, freed from earthly dust,
Joy for one witness more to woman's trust,
And lasting honor, Mizpeh, be the strain
To Her Who Died in Light without a stain!"


Fairest of Souls above
Are those who suffered here;
They gave the sacrifice of Love,
To prove their hearts sincere.
Among the pearls of earth
Most cherished, Constancy;
Maid of a high, celestial birth,
Child of eternity!

Ten thousand anxious thoughts
Do oft our prayers oppress;
But He who reigns in heavenly courts
Will surely hear and bless.

And altogether blest
Are those who know the LORD;
The grave will kindly yield its guest
To His resistless word.

Lovely upon the shore
Of Jordan's streams she stands,
Who gave her life for CHRIST, and bore
His witness in her hands.


From Moab's hill the stranger comes,
By sorrow tried, widowed by death;
She comes to Judah's goodly homes,
Led by the trusting hand of faith.
Ye friends of God, a welcome lend
The fair and virtuous Ruth to-day;
A generous heart and hand extend.
And wipe the widow's tears away.

She leaves her childhood's home, and all
That brothers, friends and parents gave;
The flowery fields, the lordly hall,
The green sod o'er her husband's grave.

She leaves the gods her people own,
Soulless and weak, they're hers no more;
Jehovah, He is God alone,
And Him her spirit will adore.

At Bethlehem's gates the stranger stands,
All friendless, poor, and wanting rest;
She waits the cheer of loving hands,
And kindred hearts that God hath blest.

Entreat me not, dear friend, to go,
Or leave thy cherished side;
The Lord hath called me here, I know,
And here I will abide.
There is a place beyond the sea,
Where sisters meet again;
Ah! let me journey there with thee,
And with thee still remain.

The haunts of girlhood, once so dear,
My soul doth prize no more;
I yearn my Love, far off to hear,
And find the better shore.

I leave the mansions of the dead,
Farewell the grassy mound;
The flowery plains we soon will tread,
Where all the lost are found.

I'll go with thee, do not deny;
I'll make with thee my home,
Where'er thou diest I will die,
And there shall be my tomb.

Pity the widow, desolate and poor;
Those little parcels are her only store;
Meekly upon her breast she crosses them,
Prophetic of the Cross of Bethlehem;
Then looks, imploringly, into the sky,
Where sits enthroned the pitying Deity.

Widow, mourning for the dead,
Midst the golden harvest mourning,
Beats the sun thy aching head,
Burns the stubble 'neath thy tread?
No kind look thy gaze returning?
These poor parcels all thy store?
Surely God will give thee more.

Stand, then, mournfully and sigh;
Raise thy hands in meek submission;
Thy Redeemer, Ruth, is nigh,
Marks thee with a gracious eye,
Knows thy lonely, sad condition;
All thou'st given Him, and more,
Shall be rendered from His store.


Pure and holy resignation,
Honor high and faith undimmed,
Gentleness in every station,
Christian lamp alight and trimmed;
Charity from fount unfailing,
Sweet forgiveness of all wrong
These the Eastern Star is telling
These the burden of its song.



Oh, Ladies, when you bend above
The cradled offspring of your love,
And bless the child whom you would see
A man of truth and constancy,
Believe there is in Mason's lore,
A fund of wisdom, beauty, power,
Enriching every soul of man
Who comprehends the mystic plan.

Then train your boy in Mason's truth;
Lay deep the cornerstone in youth;
Teach him to walk by virtue's line,
To square his acts by Square Divine;
The cement of true love to spread,
And paths of Scripture truth to tread;
Then will the youth to manhood grow
To honor us and honor you.


Bid them come in the loving, the beloved
They whose fidelity we've fondly proved;
Throw wide the doors, ye sentinels alert
Admit them, they're the Tylers of the heart!
Conduct them through our imagery, and tell
The lessons that those emblems teach so well,

Open yon Book it is divinely good,
For in it are best types of womanhood;
Heroic Adah golden Ruth are there
Truest in sorrow, noblest in despair
And Esther, Queen and Martha crowned in faith
And brave Electa, glorious in death;
It is our First Great Light, whose rays inspire
The soul of woman with celestial fire.

Show them the Orient, whose Sacred Name
Bespeaks God's presence unto us and them;
The ripened Sheaf, the fruitful South above,
Yields its best nourishment for those we love;
Display the Square, of all beneath the sky
Woman can best resolve its mystery;


The Level, on our passage to the tomb,
No voice like hers dispels the thickening gloom;
The Plumb her walk is virtue's ways sublime,
And the best model of the passing time;
The Trowel she delights to calm and please,
Smooth our asperities and teach us peace;
Show them these ancient mystic monitors,
They testify the jewels that she wears.

Now point the Imagery that graces high
The Brazen Pillars in their majesty;
The ripe Pomegranate's shell, the Lily's leaf,
The Net whose meshes such fond counsels weave;
Her delicate taste will best combine the thought,
Of Plenty, Peace and Unity inwrought;
Thus the whole Lodge, from furthest West to East,
Will yield its treasures to our gentle guest.

Now lead them forth unto the abode
Where Masons labor in the works of God;
Go to the desolate home, the darkened door,
The scanty table of God's sorrowing poor;
Behold the sick, groaning on beds of pain;
List to the orphans, lonely they complain;
See the pinched face of poverty; go in
Where haunt the fiends intemperance and sin;
Observe the midnight candle, by whose light
The widow toils for bread through half the night;
See, rioting in sinful ways, the youth,
Lost to all discipline and lost to truth;
See the unburied dead, who wait to gain
The last sad rites that man bestows on man;
See the whole earth in crime and sorrow hid,
And drop the pitying tear as Jesus did.

Now let them learn what Masons teach and do,
The spirit and the limit of our vow;
To soothe the sorrowing, dry up the tear,
Visit the sick, attend the sable bier,
Rear up the desolate in virtue's way,
Check the intemperate who go astray;
Make God's name honored through his Volume bright,
And guide men out of darkness into light.

So all our purposes they'll understand,
And give us loving voice, and heart, and hand.



As we glide down the soft-flowing wave,
And the stars in the sky all aglow,
Let us prize every joy that we have.
And be glad in the sweet now-and-now.
O ye hearts that despair can forget,
O ye souls that can drown every woe,
There's a bright-shining hope for us yet,
And a bliss in the sweet now-and-now.
When the dear ones around us are gone,
And the cypress above them we strow,
'Twill be time for the dirges forlorn,
Let us sing in the sweet now-and-now.
In the sweet now-and-now
Oh, to drive every care far away;
In the sweet now-and-now
Let's rejoice, let's rejoice while we may.


It is in our heart, dear Sisters,
While the Mason chain is bright,
To give our warmest welcome
To the best beloved, to-night;
To the wife, so fondly cherished,
To the daughter, sister, true,
To the faithful, tender-hearted,
Shall I say the word? to you.

We acknowledge countless blessings
From the Bounteous Hand above;
Our bond was first cemented
By Divine assent and love;
We are grateful, truly grateful,
For all gifts He doth bestow,
But our warmest thanks are given,
Shall I say the word? for you.

The woes of life are many,
Thronging dark on every side,
In tears, and sighs, and broken hearts,
And sorrows far and wide;
The Mason's hand is generous,
But most freely we bestow
When the appeal is made us,
Shall I say the word? for you.

Our Brotherhood is countless,
From the East unto the West;
In every land, and clime, and tongue,
They rank among the best;
And every man a hundred miles
On frosty sod will go,
To give you help, or win a smile,
Shall I say the word? from you.

Then hail! Adoptive Masonry,
That brings us here together;
May manly arms 'round lovely forms
Protect from stormy weather;
And when, adown the hill of life,
Our tottering feet shall go,
May our weary steps be comforted,
Shall I say the word? by you.


Land far away, home of the blest,
Mansion Celestial, O, give her sweet rest!
With her beloved, crowned with His crown,
Bathed in His glory, whose Cross she has borne;
No failing tongue, no fading eye,
No worldly scorn, or heart-rending sigh,
Land far away, etc.

Found with the saved, she who was lost,
Raised in His likeness to dwell with His host;
Clothed all in white, spotless as snow,
Henceforth with Jesus the MASTER to go.
Ah, who would stay on this cold shore,
When she has gone to joys evermore?
Land far away, etc.



Light from the East, 'tis gilded with hope;
Star of Our Faith, thy glory is up!
Darkness apace, and watchfulness flee;
Earth, lend thy joys to nature and me.

See, Brothers, see you dark shadows flee;
Join in His praise, whose glories we be!
Now, let these Emblems ages have given,
Speak to the world, blest Saviour, of Thee.

Lo, we have seen, uplifted on high,
Star in the East, thy rays from the sky!
Lo, we have heard, what joy to our ear
Come, ye redeemed, and welcome Him here!

Light to the blind, they've wandered too long
Feet to the lame, the weak are made strong
Hope to the joyless, freely 'tis given
Life to the dead, and music to Heaven!

Praise to the Lord, keep silence no more!
Ransomed, rejoice from mountain to shore!
Streams in the desert, sing as ye stray!
Sorrow and sadness, vanish away!


The funniest thing I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason!

Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is Tyler of Lodge Cerulean Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due,
And she wanted to be a Mason too.
This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde!

She followed round, this ridiculous wife,
And nagged him and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,
He consented at last to admit her.

And first, to disguise her from bonnet to shoes,
This ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech ah! forgive me, I meant pantaloon,
And miraculously did they fit her!

The Lodge was at work on the Master's degree;
The light was ablaze on the letter G;
High soared the pillars J and B;
The officers sat like Solomon wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged them to let him go home;
The devil himself stood up in the East,
As bold as an alderman at a feast,
When in came Mrs. Byrde!

O, horrible sounds! O, horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah, could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do,
Their feminine hearts would burst with woe!
But this is not all my story:

Those Masons joined in a hideous ring,
The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing
(The candidate's name was Morey):
"Blood to drink, and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash, and lives to take,
Hearts to crush, and souls to burn
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."

Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to utter a single word;
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the Junior Warden there;
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.

Of human bones! On grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror rolls,
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore;
Those bones, the bones that Morgan wore;

His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung;
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.

The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame
Just like , the place I will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame
And solemn melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad
(The tune was Hunkey Dorey):
"Blood to drink, and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash, and lives to take,
Hearts to crush, and souls to burn
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."

There came a pause a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up sliding doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I without tears relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in fiery hole,
She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"
While rolls of fiendish laughter rolled,
And drowned the yells of Morey,
"Blood to drink, and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash, and lives to take,
Hearts to crush, and souls to burn
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."

The ridiculous woman could stand no more;
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
Midst all the diabolical roar;
What, then, you ask me, did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all
She dreamed she had been in a Mason's hall!


To win the love of women to our cause,
The love of mother, sister, daughter, wife,
To gain her admiration of our laws,
This were the greatest triumph of our life;
For this "we well may work and well agree";
No emblem on our Trestle board so rife,
But would the brighter shine could we but see
On woman's breast its rays, that fount of purity.

Ladies, the hearts of Masons are sincere;
For you and yours we cheerful meet and toil;
We plan, in mystic gloom and silence here,
That which doth make the widow's heart to smile;
That which the mourner's sorrow doth beguile;
That which brings bounty to the fatherless,
And rescues innocence from plottings vile;
Your God and ours these charities do bless,
Then lend your brightest smiles, Freemasonry to grace.


It is reported that during the Civil War a Mason, returning from the Lodge, was waylaid by guerrillas at his own gate, and hung upon one of the trees that sheltered his dwelling. His wife at once lost her reason. Her infant died. And while she lingered for a few months she was observed always on the evening of new moon to simulate the nursing of the infant, and to talk as though its father would soon "come home from Lodge."

It was a nursing mother singing low,
Singing as though her baby crowned her knee;
The sobbing winds of winter murmur so,
But nature has no sight so sad as she;
For oh, her little one lies in the earth,
Its murdered father by the baby's side,
And she who gave the tender floweret birth
Sings crazy lullabies since baby died.

She thinks her husband to the Lodge has gone;
At Gavel's fall, with smiling, she will meet;
And she will wait, if need be, till the morn
To greet with baby his returning feet;
And sighing. oh, heart-broken one so sad!
And rocking, mother-like, as if to sleep,
Her plaintive lullabies are ceaseless made,
Which whoso heareth, let him turn and weep.

She saw him murdered, heard the murderous shout;
Saw him with gasping horror swing and die;
Then went from that poor girl her reason out,
Her mind with Jamie's soul made haste to fly;
Her baby died, 'twas well, we felt it so,
And laid the blighted bud in peace away;
We dared above it bright green sprigs to strew;
We'll meet it on the Resurrection Day.

Why should she live? this world is not her home
Her babe and husband wait beyond the sky;
Her heart and hopes already in the tomb,
Better, far better, the poor girl should die;
Not long to wait, her gentle cheek is pale;
Her lullabies grow fainter, day by day;
Hark, hark! I hear the loving Masons tell,
"Our much tried sister soon will pass away."


A poem composed for and inscribed to the Illustrious Sisters of the Four Chapters of the Order of Eastern Star, at Chicago, Ill., assembled August 31, 1881, on the Annual Festival Day decreed by the general Grand Chapter of the Order.

If there be lacking anything within this starry group,
If there is place for other grace amidst the radiant troupe,
I'll not go back on history's track to find a model clear,
But crave your light, dear ladies bright, who grace my birthday here;
And so I'll fill the measure of the EASTERN STAR

The sparkling eye, the fairy form, they shall my muse inspire;
The singing tongue, the sacred song, awake my humble lyre;
The tripping feet in mazes fleet their mystic spell shall cast,
And all shall say, "The present day is better than the past!"
And so I'll add new splendor to the EASTERN STAR!

From mothers here and maidens dear I'll borrow many a grace,
In all this earth there is no worth like that a woman has;
Last at the Cross, in lingering hope by Jesus, the adored;
First at the Grave, in eager haste to magnify their Lord;
From these I'll take fresh brilliance for the EASTERN STAR!

In each home circle, where the wife keeps household lamp alight,
From sister's vigilant eye that guides the brother's steps aright,
From mother's knee where childhood learns its one effectual prayer,
If I indeed a lesson need I'll find that lesson there,
And it will give rare glory to the EASTERN STAR.

Lastly, I'll seek the happy dead, that grave, I know it well,
How fondly loved my Ella was, ah me, no words can tell,
I know the answer that will come from yon bright maiden blest,
"They who with Jesus suffer here shall have eternal rest."
This overfills the radiance of the EASTERN STAR.

No more than this is earthly bliss, but might I dare look up,
If in the immortal mansions I might place one daring hope,
'Tis that th' All-wise will realize this fond attempt of mine
With beaming Light ineffable, with endless Life. divine,
And so unto His glory I devote the EASTERN STAR.


Bear her softly, Brothers, softly,
Slowly tread and lightly move;
Little children walk beside her,
Weeping for the one they love,
And they cannot walk so fast.
Hurry not, support her gently,
This sad march is mother's last.

Are these raindrops falling on us,
Tears of angels, dropped from Heaven?
Well they may be; never sorrow,
Tribute more sincere, was given!
Softly, Brothers; let them fall;
"Blest the dead the rain rains on,"
Angels weep o'er mother's pall.

Softly, softly, 'tis the graveyard,
And her husband's grave is here;
Right it was her grave to open,
By the man she loved so dear;
Now her widowhood is past,
All her yearnings now are over,
Let the lovers meet at last!

Slowly give her form interment,
Mother unto mother earth;
Death, thy victory was never
Over more transcendent worth!
Never one more pure than she;
O, how can we, Brothers, spare her,
From this world of misery

Lightly lay the sods above her,
Hiding from her children's eyes;
Ah, those hapless sons and daughters
Pity them above the skies!

All this world cannot afford
Unto them a friend so faithful;
None so faithful save the lord!

Brothers, yet a moment longer,
Hand in hand about her grave;
She, in fullness of our virtues,
Mason's eulogy shell have.
Ere we leave this sacred heap,
Join in tender reminiscence,
Then in silent parting, weep.

That influence that warms the earth
In spring time, waking trunks and roots,
Moved on her spirit, giving birth
To Heaven's fairest flowers and fruits;
She bloomed in spiritual grace,
In Christian light, and love, and song;
Her fruitage was to cheer and bless
The sorrowing, as she passed along.

Her pilgrimage was made with God,
His seal divine was on her brow;
His truth inspired her every word
That truth which Masons chiefly know.
Each precept in our emblems taught
Was in her life exemplified;
Freemason's works in her were wrought
And in Freemason's faith she died.

Therefore we make those ancient signs,
Which, living, she so deftly made.
Through them a mystic glory shines
Like that which gilt the Saviour's head.
In them we read of conquering faith,
And hope as free and bright as hers,
Which made immortal in their death
Five of the Old World's worshipers.

(The next stanza is recited with esoteric accompaniments.)
Like Adah, she expired in light
Like Ruth, adored the widow's friend
Like Esther, chose the crown most bright
Like Martha, did in meekness bend

Like blest Electa bore her cross
As one who scorns its weight and pain,
Laid down life's richest gifts as dross,
Believing she would rise again.

Fairest of earthly daughters, she
Among the angelic hosts doth fly;
Ten thousand forms around her be,
And all together mount the sky.
Lovely their forms; their joyous tongues
Go thrilling up to Heaven's gate,
Where cherub-shouts and seraph-songs,
Their ransomed sister's spirit wait.

Silently, silently turn away,
Patiently yield to death the sway,
Hopefully leave her in the tomb,
Until her Lord shall come.


Abide thou with me; fear not. For he that seeketh my life, seeketh thy life, but with me thou shalt be in safeguard. I Samuel xxii:23.

Abide thou here with me!
Our arms in covenant twine;
Whoever seeks thy life to harm,
Shall reach thy life through mine.
My heart thy heart secure shall guard,
Or, blend its current with thy blood.

Confide thy name with me,
No slanderer shall upbraid;
Each harmful utterance shall recoil
Upon the slanderer's head;
Traitor to friendship as to truth,
And perjured in a double oath.

Name every want to me!
Art poor? lo, here's my store
Though scanty, it is offered free,
And God will give us more.
Who formed this covenant of us twain,
Will never hear us cry in vain.

Thy slumbers leave to me!
Thy last and dreamless rest;
I'll lay thee in earth's sunniest glade,
A spot by angels blest.
And when my hour shall come to die
My choice shall be with thee to lie.


Addressed to a lady who had written various Masonic productions of merit.

Rich is song when tuned to passion,
Love, benevolence, or joy
Vast its power, and blest its mission;
Saints in Heaven the notes employ;
Heaven itself resounds with song,
Tuned by an unnumbered throng.

But its power is best extended,
When, to bless the Sons Of Toil,
Masons' joys with songs are blended,
Rhyming Corn and Wine and Oil;
Then it thrills the inner sense,
Driving gloomy shadows hence.

Sister, from your heart are welling
Thoughts attuned to sweetest song!
But the sweetest yet are telling
Of the ancient Mason-throng;
Telling of its Tenets three,
Faith, and Hope, and Charity!

Still to us your muse be given
Ours the genial spirit-birth;
Sing the Sabbath rest of Heaven,
Sing the six days' toil of earth,
Festive joys, and sacred grief,
Love fraternal, truth, relief.

Then, when death his object gaining,
Stills the answer of your lyre,
These the gems of song remaining,
Other genius shall inspire,
And the Craft, in deathless lays,
Shall embalm their Poet's praise.



Referring to the meeting between Martha and Jesus in the pleasant little wady below Bethlehem.

Where should she go, if not to Him?
Her home was cold and desolate,
For there the sorrowing Mary sate,
Her eyes with ceaseless weeping dim.

She went and met Him; met her Lord,
As up the rocky slope He came,
His pardoning spirit will not blame
The faithful girl, her hailing word.

In fond rebuke, she kneeling said,
"Master, we sent Thee timely word,
Thou wert our own, our saving Lord,
Thou didst not come, and he is dead!"

Life flows in Jesus; soon her grief
Was past, her brother raised from death;
To us who meet the Lord in faith,
His presence is eternal life.


Good night! the spirits of the blest and good
From these dear walls go with you and abide;
In hours of sorrow, hours of solitude,
Or when the hosts of melancholy brood,
And cloud your mind, may angel spirits glide
From the White Throne and give you great delight;
Dear friends, good night!

Good night! good night! and joy be with you all;
May sickness never blight, nor poverty;
May slanderous breath your spirits ne'er appall;
May no untoward accident befall,
But all things prosperous and happy be
May morning suns rise on you fresh and bright;
Dear friends, good night!

Good night! in dreams may faithful Martha come
To tell of her beloved, high in Heaven;
And Ruth, the gleaner, from her harvest home,
And Adah, maid immortal, from her tomb,
Esther and true Electa, spirits bright,
And say, good night!

Good night! and when the shadows of the grave
Close in around you, when the laboring breath
Draws heavily, and unto Him who gave,
You yield the spirit, be He strong to save,
Who is our Guide and Saviour unto death!
Then may dear friends and heavenly hopes unite
To say, good night!

A poem entitled Come, View The Holy Land has been moved from here to Part III, Memories Of The Holy Land.




When cares press heavy on the heart,
And all is gloom around,
Where shall we fix the heavy eye
In all this mortal bound?
What emblem hath the mourner here?
What love to warm, what light to cheer?

Thine, true Elects, thine which tells,
Of His distress and thine!
The Cross upon whose rugged limbs
Ye both did bleed and pine!
The Cross by heavenly wisdom given
To raise our thoughts from earth to Heaven.

Dying, as Jesus died, upon the tree,
Was ever worthier sacrifice than hers?
Sacred the Cross, the nail, the thorn; for He
Who suffered has redeemed them from the curse;
Just as she passed to blest eternity
She plead forgiveness to her murderers.


Composed for a called session of the Grand Chapter E.S. of California, May, 1876.

The angel of mercy to-night is abroad;
There gleams from her finger the signet of God;
Her work in beneficence all is designed
The sad to console and give light to the blind.

Oh brightest of beings that nestle above
The angel of mercy, the angel of love!
The sound of her wings rustles light on the air;
She bends her bright course to th' abodes of despair

Her features entrance the dull vision of pain,
And the joyless are kindled with rapture again.
Oh sunniest object that sparkles above,
The angel of mercy, the angel of love!

To lips of the fevered she tenders the cup;
The head of the drooping her hand beareth up;
The friendless she points to the land far away,
And the dying makes hopeful with visions of day.


Oh, nearest divine of the powers above,
The angel of mercy, the angel of love!
Dear Sisters, to you is her mission consigned,
To you she, departing, leaves duty behind;

In errand Celestial she bids you go forth,
And be the beneficent angels of earth!
Yes, each of you prove on the model above,
An angel of mercy, an angel of love!

A poem entitled Talitha Cumi, has been moved from here to Part III, Holy Land.



Where the bright acacia waving
Tells of life forever green,
Lo, yon starry-pointed graving
The emblem of Faith is seen.
Star that gleamed in heavenly story,
Oh, whisper tender hope in every ray,
Shine with the light of perfect glory,
And lead to eternal day.

Lo, that star that went before them,
Stood above the gentle guest!
Oh, for the mighty faith that bore them
So far in the holy quest!

Guide us up among the mountains,
Where true Adah smiled at death;
Lead us down beside the fountains,
By the scene of Ruth's great faith.

Land of Persia's queen immortal,
Star of matchless wonder, show;
Thence with Martha to the portal,
As a guide to our glad feet go.

Where the rose of Sharon bloometh,
By the martyr's grave afar,
There in mighty glory cometh
So gently the Eastern Star.


Here is a story of the grand old time.
A tale of virtues tender, yet sublime,
Inscribed on sacred page to give us faith
In woman's constancy in life and death.
Here in God's Book the bright narration see,
And five brave hearts make up the history!

Adah, great Jephthah's daughter, soul of truth;
Ruth, flower of Moab, humble, pious Ruth;
Esther, the crowned, the worthiest of a crown;
Martha, His friend whom saints and angels own;
Electa, strong the martyr's cross to bear,
These are the heroines of the Eastern Star!

Fairest among ten thousand deathless names,
How altogether lovely do they glow!
Time's annals yield no brighter, nobler themes,
No purer hearts the ranks immortal show.
Come then, oh, sisters, sister-virtues trace,
And light anew from them your lamps of grace.


A welcome and a greeting now,
To gentle friends and sisters true,
Around the place where Masons bow,
And pay their homage due;
On Checkered Floor, 'neath Starry Sky,
Welcome, kind friends of Masonry!

To her who finds a Father here;
Or Brother's strong and trusty hand;
To her who mourns the lost and dear,
Once cherished in our band;
To her who Husband's love doth own,
Greeting and welcome, every one!

Welcome the light our emblems shed;
Welcome the hopes yon Volume gives,
Welcome the love our Covenants spread,
The wages each receives;
And when is past life's toilsome week,
Welcome the Home that Masons seek.

In the bonds of Mason's duty,
Seek ye now the Mason's light,
Forms of Wisdom, Strength, and Beauty
Teach us what is good and right;
Far be every sinful passion,
Near be every gentle grace;
And so at last this holy mission
Shall reveal our Master's face.

A poem entitled The Double Score, by Henry G. Perry, has been moved from here to the Foreward, Biography of Rob Morris.



A poem entitled The Two Robs, by Joseph Robbins, has been moved from here to the Foreward, Biography of Rob Morris.


Rob Morris' The Poetry Of Freemasonry has been divided into the following parts: