Tercentenary Ode on Shakespeare
We had the honour of delivering in 1864 the principal address at the
tercentennial anniversary of Shakspeare in the Town Hall,
Ingersoll, before a large audience, and we read the following ode
on the occasion:
' Shakespeare requires no marble monument;
He lives forever in our wonder and astonishment.
BEN JONSON.
Three centuries have passed away
Since that most famous April day
When the sweet, gentle Will was born;
Whose name the age will 'ere adorn.
That great Elizabethian age
Does not leave on history's page
A name so bright, he stands like Saul
A head and shoulders over all.
Delineator of mankind,
Who shows the workings of the mind,
And in review in nature's glass
Portrays the thoughts of every class.
That man is dull who will not laugh
At the drolleries of Falstaff,
And few that could not shed a tear
At sorrows of poor old King Lear.
Or lament o'er King Duncan's death,
Stabbed by the dagger of McBeth,
Or gentle Desdimona pure,
Slain by the misled jealous Moore.
Or great Cesar, mighty Roman,
Who o'ercame his country's foemen.
His high deeds are all in vain,
For by his countrymen, he's slain.
The greatest of heroic tales
Is that of Harry, Prince of Wales,
Who in combat fought so fiercely
With the brave and gallant Percy.
Imagination's grandest theme,
The tempest or midsummer dream,
And Hamlet's philosophie [sic] blaze
Of shattered reason's flickering rays.
And now on every land on earth
They commemorate Shakespeare's birth.
And there is met on Avon's banks
Men of all nations and all ranks.
And here upon Canadian Thames
The gentle maids and comely dames
Do meet, and each does bring her scroll
Of laurel leaves from Ingersoll.
Milton
poem by James McIntyre
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Lines on Stratford
Our Canadian County Perth
Commemorates great bard of earth ;
Stratford and Avon both are here,
And they enshrine the name Shakespeare.
For here in Stratford every ward
Is named from drama of great bard.
Here you may roam o'er Romeo
Or glance on Juliet bestow.
The valley of the Thames we presume includes Stratford
on the north and Woodstock and Ingersoll on the south.
The Avon, on whose banks Stratford is located, joins the
Thames near St.Mary's. The middle branch flows through
Embro and Thamesford, the south and middle branches
unite and flow through Dorchester and Westminster and
blend with the northern branch at London, where it deviates
to Elgin in the south.
poem by James McIntyre
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Emily Dickinson Is Not Borges
EMILY DICKINSON IS NOT BORGES
Emily Dickinson is not Borges
And Borges is not Kafka
And Kafka is not Dickens
And no one is Shakespeare-
Each one is only one self
Except for those who are many selves
And those who are many selves
Do not know
Who they themselves are-
Lear is not Falstaff
And Falstaff is not Hamlet
And Hamlet is not Shakespeare
And Shakespeare is not Donne-
No one is anyone but themselves
And even those who are really ‘someone'
Are not all the others who also are-
And we who are nothing at all?
What are we?
We are not nothing at all.
We are not great
And no one will remember our names
But we are still here now
Reading Borges and Dickenson and Kafka and Shakespeare
And wondering how and why
There are those in a world of their own
With names of their own
They themselves will never completely know.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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King Claudius: Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
Queen Gertrude: Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz:
And I beseech you instantly to visit my too much changed son.
line from Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Robert Burns
The following ode was delivered by the author at the Centennial Anniversary
of Burns, Ingersoll, in presence of a large assembly in the year 1859:
This night shall never be forgot,
For humble life none now despise,
Since Barns was born in lowly cot,
Whose muse's wing soared to the skies.
'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
And raised her name in classic story,
A deathless fame he did bequeath,
His country's pride, his country's glory.
He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,
Of death and Hornbrook, and such tales
As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.
He bravely taught that manly worth
More precious is than finest gold ;
He reckoned not on noble birth,
But noble deeds alone extolled.
Where will we find behind the plow
Or in the harvest field at toil
Another youth, sweet bard like thou
Could draw the tear or raise the smile.
We do not think 'twas Burns fault,
For there were no teetotalers then,
That Willie brewed a peck of malt,
And Robbin preed like other men.
'Tis true he loved the lasses dear,
But who for this would loudly blame,
For Scotia's maids his heart did cheer,
And love is a true heavenly flame.
So here we've met in distant land
Poor honest Robin to extoll,
Though oft we've differed,
Let us stand united now in Ingersoll.
Burns sang so sweet behind the plow,
Daisies well wreath around his brow,
Musing, on thee, what visions throng
Of floods you poured of Scottish song
Scott, he did write romancing rhymes
Of chivalry of ancient times.
For tender feeling none can cope
With Campbell, the sweet Bard of hope.
Eye, with sympathetic tear in
We'll shed it for exile of Erin,
And Tannahil, while at his loom,
Wove flowers of song will ever bloom.
Hogg, Ettrick shepherd, did gain fame
By singing when the Kie comes hame,
With good time coming Bard McKay
Still merrily doth cheer the way.
poem by James McIntyre
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Christmas Folk-Song
Those who die on Christmas Day
(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)
Will be remembered, for they died
Upon the Holy Christmastide;
When they attain to Paradise,
The Angels with the tranquil Eyes
Will ask if Jesus rules on Earth
The Anniversary of His Birth;
This Question do they ask alway
Of those who die on Christmas Day.
Those who are born on Christmas Day
(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)
Will bring again the Peace on Earth
That came with gentle Christ His Birth;
They may be lowly Folk and poor
Living about the Manger Door,
They may be Kings of Mighty Line,
Their Lives alike will be benign;
To them belongeth Peace alway,
Those who are born on Christmas Day.
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Happy Birthday to the Bard
Happy Birthday Mr Shakespeare
all power to your quill and ink
your works are still as powerful today
as when you were alive and in the Pink.
You gave us the lovers Romeo and Juliet
Hamlet, Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew,
characters like Lysander, Claudius,
King Lear, and Henry the fifth part Two.
You wrote about murder and death,
treachery, war, and hideous lives,
but you also liked to make us laugh
with tales about all those merry wives.
You even had your own language and words
which is still giving your fans lots of pleasure
your plays are known all around the World
people just love The Tempest and Measure for Measure.
So happy Birthday to you William Shakespeare
even though I've found your work heavy and hard
but there's no doubt you were a literary genius
and that's why they call you our number one Bard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Victoria Park and Caledonian Games
Lines on the naming of Victoria Park, on Queen's Birthday,
1881. The ceremony was performed by Thomas Brown,
Esq., Mayor of the town.
Come one, come all, to Scottish games
On the banks of Canadian Thames ;
You'll find that 'tis most pleasant way
You can enjoy the Queen's Birthday.
In future years it will be famed
The day whereon the park was named,
With its boundry great extended
And nature's charms sweetly blended.
Full worthy of the poet's theme
Is hill and dale, and wood and stream,
And glittering spires, and busy town.
Where mansions' do each mount top crown.
Come, witness the great tug-of-war,
And the great hammer thrown afar,
See running, jumping, highland fling,
At concert hear the sky lark sing.
And the bagpipes will send thrills
Like echoes from the distant hills,
And the bold sound of the pibroch
Which does resound o'er Scottish loch.
Young men and maids, and fine old dames
Will gather on the banks of Thames,
And though we have a tug-of-war
'Twill leave no wound or deadly scar.
poem by James McIntyre
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Mother Earth
I am here to commemorate and honour the life of Mother Earth
Mother earth was everything to me
She had her virtues
That was nothing new
She was very special and unique
There was absolutely nothing in her league
Unfortunately I was not present at her birth
And deplorably I have to speak about her death
Her birth they say was an amazing wonder
Which no man alone could bring asunder
She was created from the smallest element in the universe
And yet became the greatest miracle of it
So many blessings she has showered on the human race
From endless nights to glorious days
Showered randomly by rainbow colours
Gentle winds and pouring rains
The mighty oceans and the gentle blazing sun
These were the gifts Mother Earth offered
The seas, land, air, sun, rain and thunder
She matured daily with strenght, wisdom and love
To give so much to us
Once a paradise
Ripe with variety of fruits
Blessed with many mixed cultures
Inhabited by numerous families
Rich in food and wealthy in nature
Now a barren land
Completely void
The air polluted by fumes
Sickness and poverty the earth consumes
I content myself with the beautiful memories of you
Mother Earth!
I thank you for your gifts
I await the rebirth of you
Perhaps now that we know what is true
We humans may take better care of you
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The King of our Republic
He is coming! He is coming! without heralds, without cheers.
He is coming! He is coming! and he’s been with us for years:
And, if you should pause to wonder who’s the man of whom I sing—
’Tis the King of our Republic, and the man we shall call King.
No, he comes not to amuse us, and he comes not to explain,
With the bathos of the old things over all the land again.
The debatable and tangled, and the vain imagining
Shall be swept out of our pathway by the man that we’ll call King.
He is coming! He is coming! He has heard our spirit call;
He’ll be greatest man since Cromwell in the English nations all,
And he’ll take his place amongst us while the rest are wondering—
Shall the King of our Republic, and the man we will call King.
If you find him stern, unyielding, where his living task is set,
I have told you that a tyrant shall uplift the nation yet;
He will place his country’s welfare over all and everything,
Shall the King of our Republic, and the man that we’ll call King.
Yet his heart shall still be gentle with his brothers gone astray,
For the Great Man of Australia shall be simple in his day—
Modest, kindly, but unyielding, while the watching world shall ring
With the name of our Republic and the man that we call King.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Lear: When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools.
line from King Lear, Act IV, Scene 6 by William Shakespeare (1606)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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A Monument For The Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Welcome to the Prince of Wales
Lines written when the Prince of Wales
was about embarking for Canada, May, 1860.
In his long voyage o'er the sea,
To where doth grow the maple tree,
May he be blest with pleasant gales-
The coming man, the Prince of Wales.
The Maple grows but in good soil,
Where nature doth reward for toil.
The farmer, splitting his fence rails,
He welcome bids the Prince of Wales.
In the woods the axe is ringing,
And the yeoman merry singing ;
The song resounds o'er hills and dales -
Our future king, the Prince of Wales.
'Round the brow of our future chief
We'll weave a wreath of maple leaf,
For o'er broad Canada prevails
Kind feelings to the Prince of Wales.
When in this land the Prince arrives
May he have many pleasant drives,
And on our lakes have merry sails-
Great king of princes, Prince of Wales.
poem by James McIntyre
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A Civic Holiday Trip
Lines on a civic holiday trip on the Grand Trunk,
to Toronto, August, 1882. Address to Mr. Hodge,
conductor of Caledonian games at Ingersoll.
From Ingersoll, on Canadian Thames,
We come to greet mine host of the St. James,
This being our town's civic holiday ;
Yet we remember twenty-fourth of May,
For then at our Caledonian games
He did loud proclaim the victors' names .
We came in part to contribute
To our town's mechanics' institute,
Who got up this grand excursion
Where each one has his own diversion.
Some did remain at Burlington Bay,
While we to Toronto did wend our way,
And came to see this presentation
To stalwart son of Scottish nation.
poem by James McIntyre
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Crecy
August 26: 1346
At Crecy by Somme in Ponthieu
High up on a windy hill
A mill stands out like a tower;
King Edward stands on the mill.
The plain is seething below
As Vesuvius seethes with flame,
But O! not with fire, but gore,
Earth incarnadined o'er,
Crimson with shame and with fame!--
To the King run the messengers, crying
'Thy Son is hard-press'd to the dying!'
--'Let alone: for to-day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever:
So let the boy have the glory.'
Erin and Gwalia there
With England are one against France;
Outfacing the oriflamme red
The red dragons of Merlin advance:--
As harvest in autumn renew'd
The lances bend o'er the fields;
Snow-thick our arrow-heads white
Level the foe as they light;
Knighthood to yeomanry yields:--
Proud heart, the King watches, as higher
Goes the blaze of the battle, and nigher:--
'To-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever!
Let the boy alone have the glory.'
Harold at Senlac-on-Sea
By Norman arrow laid low,--
When the shield-wall was breach'd by the shaft,
--Thou art avenged by the bow!
Chivalry! name of romance!
Thou art henceforth but a name!
Weapon that none can withstand,
Yew in the Englishman's hand,
Flight-shaft unerring in aim!
As a lightning-struck forest the foemen
Shiver down to the stroke of the bowmen:--
--'O to-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever!
So, let the boy have the glory.'
Pride of Liguria's shore
Genoa wrestles in vain;
Vainly Bohemia's King
Kinglike is laid with the slain.
The Blood-lake is wiped-out in blood,
The shame of the centuries o'er;
Where the pride of the Norman had sway
The lions lord over the fray,
The legions of France are no more:--
--The Prince to his father kneels lowly;
--'His is the battle! his wholly!
For to-day is a day will be written in story
To the great world's end, and for ever:--
So, let him have the spurs, and the glory!'
poem by Francis Turner Palgrave
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Shakespeare
TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION
APRIL 23, 1864
'Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown,
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep,
Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?
Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep;
Shall warring aliens share her holy task?'
The Old World echoes ask.
O land of Shakespeare! ours with all thy past,
Till these last years that make the sea so wide;
Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast
Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride
In every noble word thy sons bequeathed
The air our fathers breathed!
War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife,
We turn to other days and far-off lands,
Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life,
Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands
To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flowers,--
Not his the need, but ours!
We call those poets who are first to mark
Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn,--
Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark,
While others only note that day is gone;
For him the Lord of light the curtain rent
That veils the firmament.
The greatest for its greatness is half known,
Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant-lines,--
As in that world of Nature all outgrown
Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines,
And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall
Nevada's cataracts fall.
Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours,
Throbbing its radiance like a beating heart;
In the wide compass of angelic powers
The instinct of the blindworm has its part;
So in God's kingliest creature we behold
The flower our buds infold.
With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name
Stamped once on dust that moved with pulse and breath,
As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame
Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death:
We praise not star or sun; in these we see
Thee, Father, only thee!
Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love:
We read, we reverence on this human soul,--
Earth's clearest mirror of the light above,--
Plain as the record on thy prophet's scroll,
When o'er his page the effluent splendors poured,
Thine own 'Thus saith the Lord!'
This player was a prophet from on high,
Thine own elected. Statesman, poet, sage,
For him thy sovereign pleasure passed them by;
Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's ripened age,
Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial mind
Who taught and shamed mankind.
Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum rise,
Nor fear to make thy worship less divine,
And hear the shouted choral shake the skies,
Counting all glory, power, and wisdom thine;
For thy great gift thy greater name adore,
And praise thee evermore!
In this dread hour of Nature's utmost need,
Thanks for these unstained drops of freshening dew!
Oh, while our martyrs fall, our heroes bleed,
Keep us to every sweet remembrance true,
Till from this blood-red sunset springs new-born
Our Nation's second morn!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Epilogue:XXI 'Tristram of Lyonesse
OUR MOTHER, which wast twice, as history saith,
Found first among the nations: once, when she
Who bore thine ensign saw the God in thee
Smite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare: once, when death
Shrank, and Rome’s bloodhounds cowered, at Milton’s breath:
More than thy place, then first among the free,
More than that sovereign lordship of the sea
Bequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth,
More than thy fiery guiding- star, which Drake
Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake,
More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand,
This praise keeps most thy fame’s memorial strong,
That thou wast head of all these streams of song,
And time bows down to thee as Shakespeare’s land.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Battle of Blenheim
It was a summer evening;
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
“‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.
“I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often, when I go to plow,
The plowshare turns them out;
For many thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in that great victory.”
“Now tell us what ‘twas all about,”
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.”
“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“That ‘twas a famous victory.
“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
“With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
“They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlboro’ won,
And our good Prince Eugene.”
“Why, ‘twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he;
“It was a famous victory.
“And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why, that I cannot tell,” said he;
“But ‘twas a famous victory.”
poem by Robert Southey
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After Blenheim
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,
'Who fell in the great victory.
'I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men,' said he,
'Were slain in that great victory.'
'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
'Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for.'
'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,
'Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out;
But everybody said,' quoth he,
'That 'twas a famous victory.
'My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
'With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
'They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good Prince Eugene.'
'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!'
Said little Wilhelmine.
'Nay… nay… my little girl,' quoth he,
'It was a famous victory.
'And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win.'
'But what good came of it at last?'
Quoth little Peterkin.
'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,
'But 'twas a famous victory.'
poem by Robert Southey
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The Day the Soldiers Came
The old man sat at his cottage door
As the soldiers came to town,
And laughed as the trucks went rumbling by,
Laughed as the soldiers frowned,
They carried their rifles high that day,
Marched past him by the score,
And scowled as the old man mocked them there,
As they waged their futile war!
The tanks sat threatening in the square,
The people stood in the street,
Watching the flood of khaki power,
The boots on the marching feet,
The General stood in his jeep that day
A scroll in his scrawny hand:
‘It's never too late to liberate
The folk in this tortured land! '
But then a ripple of laughter came
From the townsfolk standing there,
They seemed to enjoy a local joke,
A joke that they wouldn't share.
The soldiers were tense, bemused at that,
They'd rather the ripple of fear
They'd felt in a hundred similar towns
Since the war broke out that year.
The General barked, ‘Enough of that!
Where is your National Pride?
We've come to free you from servitude
And a great deal more, beside! '
But the old man, sat in his cottage seat
Had let out a great guffaw,
And the soldiers dragged him out of his chair,
To face the General's scorn.
‘Why do you laugh, old man, ' he said,
‘I could shoot you in your pride! '
‘I'm sure you could, and probably would
As you scorch our countryside!
But what price honour, when history
Ascribes your deeds to your name,
Will shooting a poor old peasant man
Ring loud in your Hall of Fame? '
‘Then why do you laugh? ' the General said,
‘The picture here is grim!
These soldiers fought, and died and bled,
You lack respect for them! '
‘This town has sat two thousand years, '
The old man said at last,
‘Was here when Hannibal's elephants stopped
To feed on the mountain grass.'
‘The Roman Legions passed through here
In their conquest and their might,
And Charlemagne's Grand Army
For a single, baleful night;
Even Napoleon Bonaparte
Conquered this little town,
For years, we had the Fascisti, and
The Nazis held us down.'
‘But where have their soldiers gone today,
They lie, each under his mound,
While we sit back, as your troops attack
And thrive in our little town.
You'll only be here for a moment more
Two lines on a history page,
Just one more army to pass through here
In your arrogance, and your rage! '
The army was there for a week or so,
But then, they had to withdraw,
The old man laughed as the soldiers passed,
He let out a great guffaw;
The Rebel General brought his tanks
And a speech that he had planned:
‘It's never too late to liberate
The folk in this tortured land! '
18 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Masonic
The prominent names connected with Masonary are Kings
Solomon and Hiram and Saint John, the parent Lodge
is King Hiram in Ingersoll, and Saint John is the off-spring.
Both masters in 1884 are legal gentlemen.
Craft of King Hiram and Saint John
They figurative work on stone,
King Hiram he is the old sire
And he was famous King of Tyre.
But great as King upon a throne
Is the good, kind, true Saint John ;
Cathedrals did craftsmen raise,
Fills all our mind now with amase.
No modern chisel hath the power
To trace such leaf, and bud, and flower ;
But though our structures now are rude
Let us all make the mortar good.
And this injunction never spare
To have the work both plum and square,
And it must have no crack or flaw
So masters will lay down the law.
Of all our work this is the chief,
To give the needy ones relief ;
And with truth and brotherly love
We sublime structure raise above.
The greatest honor has been won
By that great builder, Solomon,
And craftsmen o'er the world do sing
The praises of that mighty King.
poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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