Post by Tamrin on Oct 17, 2009 15:28:58 GMT 10
Legend Of Strasbourg Cathedral
[Poem - by Harriett Annie Wilkins, 1869, www.mpoets.org - Linked Above]
Out on the quiet midnight air,
The thrilling summons swells,
As on the eve of loved St. John,
Peal out the solemn bells;
A city unawakened lies
Beneath the mournful sound,
Down street and avenue and lane,
A silence reigns profound.
But up from vault and mouldering crypt
Arise a silent band,
Once the true builders of that pile,
The guardians of their land;
And silently each takes his place;
Masters, well robed, are there —
Craftsmen, Apprentices, and each
With gavel, compass, square.
Then the old Masons meet again,
Where once their work was known,
Where in sweet music petrified,
Stands each well-chiselled stone:
With silent presages of love
Each doth his brother cheer:
Time-honoured salutations pass
Among Companions dear.
Then on the weird procession moves,
Through the dim lighted nave,
Adown the long and columned aisles,
Where mystic banners wave.
Over the gleaming marble floor,
Past the old Knights that keep
Their watch and ward with cross and sword,
The shadowy Masons sweep.
But near the spire, one female form
Floats, white-robed, pale and cold,
Mallet and chisel, damp with age,
Her slender fingers hold.
Loved daughter of the Master, she
Aided each heavy task;
Beside her father, morn and eve,
No respite did she ask.
Bread for the hungry Craftsmen, she
Duly prepared and wrought,
And words of Faith, and Hope, and Love
She to the workmen brought.
Thirsting, she cooled their parching lips;
Wearied, she heard their sighs;
Fevered, she fanned their throbbing brows;
Dying, she closed their eyes.
Ghost-like and pale, the once strong men
Glide over each known spot,
And from the memories of the past,
Awaken scenes forgot.
No mortal being hath caught the sound,
Or grasped the palsied hand,
Of they who thus fraternally
Sweep round each column grand.
Thrice round the olden building, then
They take their mystic way;
"Happy to meet," they converse hold,
Till the first dawn of day.
Then down in each sepulchral bed,
The Masons take their rest,
Till next St. John's loud midnight bell,
Stirs through each phantom breast.
This is the legend; but far down
A solemn lesson lies
For all who would their work should stand
Before the Master's eyes:
A voice from Heaven strews words of hope
Round grave, and vault, and sea,
"From labours freed, their works remain;
They did it unto me."
[Poem - by Harriett Annie Wilkins, 1869, www.mpoets.org - Linked Above]
Out on the quiet midnight air,
The thrilling summons swells,
As on the eve of loved St. John,
Peal out the solemn bells;
A city unawakened lies
Beneath the mournful sound,
Down street and avenue and lane,
A silence reigns profound.
But up from vault and mouldering crypt
Arise a silent band,
Once the true builders of that pile,
The guardians of their land;
And silently each takes his place;
Masters, well robed, are there —
Craftsmen, Apprentices, and each
With gavel, compass, square.
Then the old Masons meet again,
Where once their work was known,
Where in sweet music petrified,
Stands each well-chiselled stone:
With silent presages of love
Each doth his brother cheer:
Time-honoured salutations pass
Among Companions dear.
Then on the weird procession moves,
Through the dim lighted nave,
Adown the long and columned aisles,
Where mystic banners wave.
Over the gleaming marble floor,
Past the old Knights that keep
Their watch and ward with cross and sword,
The shadowy Masons sweep.
But near the spire, one female form
Floats, white-robed, pale and cold,
Mallet and chisel, damp with age,
Her slender fingers hold.
Loved daughter of the Master, she
Aided each heavy task;
Beside her father, morn and eve,
No respite did she ask.
Bread for the hungry Craftsmen, she
Duly prepared and wrought,
And words of Faith, and Hope, and Love
She to the workmen brought.
Thirsting, she cooled their parching lips;
Wearied, she heard their sighs;
Fevered, she fanned their throbbing brows;
Dying, she closed their eyes.
Ghost-like and pale, the once strong men
Glide over each known spot,
And from the memories of the past,
Awaken scenes forgot.
No mortal being hath caught the sound,
Or grasped the palsied hand,
Of they who thus fraternally
Sweep round each column grand.
Thrice round the olden building, then
They take their mystic way;
"Happy to meet," they converse hold,
Till the first dawn of day.
Then down in each sepulchral bed,
The Masons take their rest,
Till next St. John's loud midnight bell,
Stirs through each phantom breast.
This is the legend; but far down
A solemn lesson lies
For all who would their work should stand
Before the Master's eyes:
A voice from Heaven strews words of hope
Round grave, and vault, and sea,
"From labours freed, their works remain;
They did it unto me."