By R. J. McLaughlin
The ciders of our ancient art
Built Temples, high and fair,
And never stone was laid in place
And never column rose in grace,
Untested by the Square.
Our elders left a heritage,
Up reared in wood and stone,
That we, who follow, might behold
The craft of these, the men of old,
Thus, through their works, made known.
Oh, let us do our work as well,
Though never dome we raise,
With brain untutored, hand unskilled,
A square-set Temple may we build,
Of simple nights and days.
The Square of Virtue for our acts
Wherewith to set them true,
Can make a building, standing quite
As worthy in our children's sight,
And in the Master's, too.
Thus may we, too, great builders be
As any ancient race
Our Temple is the square-set mind,
Wherein the Master's Self may find
A fitting dwelling-place.
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