Praise his heart filled,
More than four hundred years had fled,
Since from stern Egypt marched the bands,
Whose sons, with Solomon at their head,
And Tyrian brethern's skilful hands,
Prepare to build.

He watched them there,
Round every block, and every stone,
Masonic implements were laid,
But around _one_ were many thrown,
And yet it seemed already made,
Tried, true and square.

He wandering spake,
"Are not all from one mountain brought
As jewels for a diadem,
Why, have they at this one stone wrought,
Will not all see Jerusalem.
One house to make?"

The Widow's son
Smiled kindly in his brother's face,
And said "All are made ready here,
But not all fill the same high place,
The Corner stone this will be near,
When toil is done."

The listener bent,