The boy was frightened; kneeling down, with shame
He to the holy saint confessed the sin.

"Son," said the father, "hast thou never read,
When men are silent rocks and stones will cry?
Mock nevermore, O son, the word of God!
A two-edged sword it is, and quick, and sharp,
And powerful. And if the heart of man
Should turn to stone, defying truth and love,
The rock with human heart will throb aloud."
Translation from the German.

THE INQUIRY.-CHARLES MACKAY.

Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my pathway roar, Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more? Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west, Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,

And sighed for pity as it answered-"No."

Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play, Know'st thou some favored spot, some island far away, Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,

Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer-"No."

And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace,
Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot,
Where miserable man might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded-"No."

Tell me, my secret soul;-oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed,
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings, and whispered—“YES, IN
HEAVEN!"

WE MEET UPON THE LEVEL AND WE PART UPON THE SQUARE.*-ROBERT MORRIS.

We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square,What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are! Come, let us contemplate them, they are worthy of a thought;

With the highest and the lowest and the rarest they are fraught.

We meet upon the level, though from every station come,The king from out his palace, and the poor man from his

home;

For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's

door,

And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered

floor.

We act upon the plumb,-'tis our Master's great command, We stand upright in virtue's way and lean to neither hand; The All-Seeing Eye that reads the heart will bear us witness true,

That we do always honor God and give each man his due. We part upon the square, for the world must have its due; We mingle with its multitude,— —a cold, unfriendly crew; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the level, to renew the happy scene. There's a world where all are equal,-we are journeying toward it fast;

We shall meet upon the level there when the gates of death

are past,

We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be

there

To try the blocks we offer by his own unerring square.

We shall meet upon the level there, but never thence depart; There's a mansion-'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful

heart;

There's a mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there Who have met upon the level, and been tried upon the

square.

*This poem, written in August, 1854, has been subjected to various alteration during its many years of active use. It is given here as found in the author's collected poems, entitled "The Poetry of Freemasonry.”

George Oliver, D. D., eminent above all others in English Masonry, and the Masonic historian for all time, said of the poem: "Brother Morris has composed many fervent, eloquent, and highly poetic compositions, songs that will not die, but in 'The Level and the Square' he has breathed out a depth of feeling, fer vency and pathos, with brilliancy and vigor of language, and expressed due faith in the immortal life beyond the grave."

Let us meet upon the level, then, while laboring patient here;

Let us meet and let us labor, though the labor seem severe.
Already, in the western sky, the signs bid us prepare
To gather up our working tools, and part upon the square.
Hands round, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright, fraternal
chain;

We part upon the square below to meet in heaven again.
Oh, what words of precious meaning those words Masonic
are,-

We meet upon the level, and we part upon the square!

LORD DUNDREARY ON "PWOVERBS."

A fellah once told me that another fellah wrote a book before he was born-I mean before the first fellah was born, (of course the fellah who wrote it must have been born, else, how could he have written it?) that is, a long time ago— to pwove that a whole lot of pwoverbs and things that fellahs are in the habit of quoting were all nonsense.

I should vewy much like to get that book. I-I think if I could get it at one of those spherical-no-globular—no, that's not the word-circle-circular-yes, that's it-circulating libwawies (I knew it was something that went round)— I think if I could just borrow that book from a circulating libwawy-I'd-yes, upon my word now-I'd twy and wead it. A doothed good sort of book that, I'm sure. I—I always did hate pwoverbs. In the first place they, they're so howwibly confusing-I-I always mix 'em up togethersomehow, when I twy to weckomember them. And besides, if evewy fellah was to wegulate his life by a lot of pwoverbs, what-what a beathly sort of uncomfortable life he would lead!

I remoleckt-I mean remember-when I was quite a little fellah-in pinafores-and liked wasbewwy jam and—and a lot of howwid things for tea-there was a sort of collection of illustwated pwoverbs hanging up in our nursery at home. They belonged to our old nurse-Sarah, I think—and she had 'em fwamed and glazed. "Poor Richard's," I think she called 'em-and she used to say-poor dear-that if evewy

fellah attended to evewything Poor Richard wrote, that he'd get vewy wich, and l-live and die-happy ever after. However-it-it's vewy clear to me that he couldn't have attended to them-himself, else, how did the fellah come to be called Poor Richard? I-I hate a fellah that pweaches what he doesn't pwactice. Of courth, if what he said was twue, and he'd stuck to it-he-he'd have been called — Rich Richard-stop a minute-how's that? Rich Richard? Why that would have been too rich. Pwaps that's the reason he pweferred being poor. How vewy wich!

But, as I was saying, these picture pwoverbs were all hung up in our nursery, and a more uncomfortable set of mak thims-you never wead. For instance, there was one vewy nonthensical pwoverb which says:

"A B-BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH."

Th-the man who invented that pwoverb must have been a b-born idiot. How the dooth can he t-tell the welative v-value of poultry in that pwomithcuous manner? Suppothe I've got a wobbing wed-bweast in my hand --(I nearly had the other morning-but he flew away-confound him!) -well-suppothe the two birds in the bush are a bwace of partwidges-you-you don't mean to t-tell me that that wobbin wed-bweast would fetch as m-much as a bwace of partwidges? Abthurd! P-poor Richard can't gammon me in that sort of way.

LOOK ALOFT.-J. LAWRENCE.

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,—
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows, like clouds, are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are nearest and dearest thy heart-
Thy friends and companions-in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, oh, when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,

'n that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "LOOK ALOFT," and depart!

THE MODERN CAIN.-E. EVANS EDWARDS. "Am I my brother's keeper?"

Long ago

When first the human heart-strings felt the touch
Of death's cold fingers, when upon the earth
Shroudless and coffinless death's first-born lay,
Slain by the hand of violence, the wail
Of human grief arose :-" My son, my son!
Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep;
A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief
Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow:
Awake, and bless her with thy wonted smile."

In vain, in vain! that sleeper never woke.
His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed
A stain which baffled wear and washing. As he fled
A voice pursued him to the wilderness.

"Where is thy brother, Cain?"

66

'Am I my brother's keeper?"

Oh, black impiety that seeks to shun
The dire responsibility of sin;

That crieth with the ever warning voice:
"Be still-away, the crime is not my own.
My brother lived-is dead, when, where,
Or how, it matters not, but he is dead.
Why judge the living for the dead one's fall"

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Cain, Cain,

Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood
Cries up to heaven against thee; every stone
Will find a tongue to curse thee, and the winds
Will ever wail this question in thy ear: