Depart! Depart!
Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear,
Did'st thou not always find whatever grain
Thou cast, the same grew upward full and fair,
Thou _would'st not_ look upon the pure lamb slain,
To faith true sacrifice
Thou would'st not turn thine eyes;
Go, till thine heart.




Our Poor Brethren.

"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea."
--Masonic Sentiment



They met in the festive hall,
Lamps in their brightness shone,
And merry music and mirth,
Aided the feast of St. John.
Men pledged the health of their Queen
And of all the Royal band,
The flags of a thousand years,
The swords of their motherland.

Then mid the revelry came