(AN IMITATION OF THE OLD STYLE.)
"Gross and vulgar minds will always pay a higher respect to wealth than to talent; for wealth, although it be a far less efficient source of power than talent, happens to be far more intelligible." LACON.
HE fool may build a brick and mortar name,
The wise man soon the bricks and mortar claim;
The man who builds with cash he has to borrow,
Saps the foundation with the tears of sorrow;
He rears a structure, on it carves his name,
Confounding vanity with deathless fame;
He struts, talks big, and with an empty air,
He seems to think it dignified to swear;
Forgetting whence he sprung, he scorns the poor,
And drives the beggar almsless from his door;
He brags like one who thinks that piles immense
Form the embodiment of common sense;
Despising men of genius and of brains,
The height of folly by degrees attains,
Till starched Ignorance, like some jewelled clown,
Presumes to lead the fashion of the town.
"All is not gold that glitters," wise men say,
And fools are sometimes monarchs for a day;
In life's strange drama, each one acts his part,
The worthless scoundrel and the man of heart;
With borrowed plumes ambition proudly soars,
And plays such pranks that honesty abhors;
Let vulgar millions place a knave in power,
He'll show the cloven foot in one brief hour;
The paltry creature whose sole aim is pelf,
Thrives in the little sordid world of self;
The blooming beauty weds an aged fool,
And dotage yields submissive to her rule;
The monkey trained will do the best he can,
To ape the manners of the gentleman;
And, in some cases, apes will beat the clown
Who deems himself the nabob of the town.
Alas! though mental wants he may not feel,
The tongue betrays what art cannot conceal;
E'en wealth, nor all the arrogance of pride,
Can find a cloak his ignorance to hide;
The golden calf who scarce can write his name,
Swelled up with self, feels no nice sense of shame;
Still gazing at his piles so huge and grand,
That may the heaving shocks of earthquakes stand;
The vulgar crowd remark oft as they pass,
"There stands a brainless, self-conceited ass;"
While the shrewd money-lender, flushed with wine,
Says, like the greedy grave, "All shall be mine."
H! ye craftsmen that proudly the Mason's badge wear, Who still meet on the Level and part on the Square; While ye act by the Plumb, ever upright and just, Be ye strong in your Faith and in God put your trust.
With the Square and the Compass, to counsel and guide,
Ye may traverse the earth with a feeling of pride;
And with smiles on the face that a clear conscience brings,
Ye may shake hands with princes and sit down with kings.
Be the landmarks unharmed that for ages have stood,
When fire and the sword swept the earth like a flood;
Protected and watched by the All-Seeing Eye,
Heart-rooted they stand, and Time's changes defy.
At the altar ye kneel where your fathers have knelt,
Where the proud and the strong into tenderness melt;
So firm and enduring that man cannot sever,
Is the Mystical Tie that binds you forever.
Though your lives may be checkered and dark be the way
Where the sunbeams of Hope on the heart cease to play,
The great Light of the craft, with its lessons sublime,
Will illumine your path in the journey of Time.
Should some poor erring brother his claims on you press,
Oh! regard not his faults, but relieve his distress;
Over failings be taught to throw Charity's veil,
For the best are but mortal, and mortals are frail.
As ye stand by the grave of a Mason, and weep,
With emotions of anguish all silent and deep,
Oh! forget not the needs of his desolate hearth,
And the dear tender ties that long bound him to earth.
Go, kind Sympathy, visit the fireside of grief,
And should want be found there, carry speedy Relief;
Do not give as you would to the mendicant poor
That may shivering stand and beg alms at your door.
Should the spirit of evil your wild passions fire,
Still let moral Strength triumph and Wisdom inspire;
Charming Beauty and Virtue adorn the sure Line
That will lead you to bliss and to glory divine.
In the search of more Light, by Degrees may you climb,
Till ye pass from the earth and the trials of Time,
Wearing diadems bright, and with failings forgiven,
May all meet at last in the Grand Lodge of Heaven.
O! arouse, ye brave freemen, and grasp the sword hilt,
For the blade of the traitor is smoking with guilt;
In the tempest of war there's a heart-piercing wail,
And wild screams of the eagle are heard in the gale.
Hark! fierce hell-hounds are loose, and the worst passions rage,
In the war fratricidal that miscreants wage;
Marching on to the Music of shrill fife and drum,
Breathing rapine and blood, like hyenas they come.
Leave your altars and homes, valiant Sons of the North,
For the bugles are sounding that summon you forth;
Should you truckle to tyrants who traffic in slaves,
May the ghosts of your sires haunt you down to your graves.
Be ye gallant in war, and with sword by the side,
Let the spouse leave his wife and the bridegroom his bride; For the dark arm of Treason is raised to strike down
Freedom's flag, that has waved over fields of renown.
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