By Rob Morris
Where is the true heart's Mother Lodge?
Is't where, perchance, he earliest heard
The frightful voice, from rocky ledge,
Told of a horrid deed of blood?
Is't where his vision earliest saw
And hands enclasped that Golden Thing,
The symbol crowned, the wondrous Law,
Noblest creation of our King?
No though in fancy he may turn,
In pleasing reminiscence back,
As happy hearts at times will yearn
To tread again youth's flowery track,
The true heart's Mother Lodge is found
Where truest, fondest hearts conspire
To draw love's deathless chain around,
And kindle up love's deathless fire.
Methinks that here, dear Friends, must be
Ono the Craftsmen's happy Vale
And you, true Laborer, brave and free,
The Master in the peaceful dale!
So let me fancy, and when bowed
In daily adorations due,
I will entreat the Masons' God
To bless the Craftsmen here, and you!
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