Across the crowd-thronged city ways
When night hangs black and friendless there,
A tide of strangers ebbs and plays
Along each cheerless thoroughfare,
And never a face lights up to see
One’s self to pass, and none to care
How lone and weary one may be.
‘Tis then unto one’s Lodge one turns
For there he finds within the door
The fire of hearty welcome burns:
If one’s not known its flames the more
Send forth a warmth his breast to fill
Until he finds his joy returns
Within that haven of good will.
The Mason’s secret lies in this,—
“A stranger here, ye took me in”;
Its Royal Art would stray amiss
Amid the world’s harsh hue and din
If warmth and welcome were to die;
Its greatest strength in these consists;
Of these is made its Mystic Tie.
H. L. Haywood