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Where is thy Brother, Craftsman, say,
Where is the erring one to-day?
We look around the festive band, —
What cheerful smiles on every hand!
The voice of laughter swells amain, —
Where is the brightest of the train?
The ready wit, the generous word,
The glee in music's best accord,
The bounteous gifts, — oh, where is he,
The prince of Masons' revelry?
Not left unwarned in death to fall,
To lapse without one friendly call!
Alas, the grave has closed above
So many objects of our love!
There is so many a vacant chair
In every group where Masons are!
Of some the drunkard's cup doth tell
Tempted, yet sorrowing, they fell
Day after day they saw the light
Recede, till day was turned to night
Yet yearned and strove to pause, and stay
Their feet upon the slippery way
They fell, and none so bright are left
As those of whom we are bereft.
A voice from out the grave demands, —
Where is thy Brother? are thy hands
Quite guiltless of his priceless blood?
How often have ye kindly stood,
And whispered loving words and prayer
Within the erring Brother's ear?
How often counseled, plead, and warned,
And from approaching danger turned?
The thoughtful tear, the heavy sigh,
Must speak for conscience a reply
Quick, then, oh Craftsman, up and save
The living from untimely grave!
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