Poetry.

Poetry .

KING SOLOMON'S TEMPLE . BY AUGUSTINE J . H . DUGANNE . PART PIHST . It is told , in a quaint old nursery tale , ; That perchance you have often read , How a castle lies hid in some charmed vale ,

Remote from all usual tread ; And , within , an enchanted PRINCESS , Asleep in her silken bed ; Whilst around about , under slumbrous charms , ' Lie the forms of her lordly train—And their squires , and archers , and yeomen-at-arms , As valiant as ever drew rein ; But with helmets , and bucklers , and lances , All clouded with mildew stain !

All corroded and mildewed with rust of time , They are lying in court and hall ; Every young knight ' s beard bears a frosty rime—Like the beard of a Seneschal , Who awaits , in his chair , at the postern , Tbe sound of a trumpet call : While below , in the crypts of his castle strange Overbrooded by self-same spell

, There are shapes like friars , in cloister'd range , Lying each at the door of his cell , And awaiting , in motionless slumber , Tbe stroke of a summoning bell 1 For whenever a Knight who is tried and true . Rides late o ' er the haunted wold , And peals a loud summons the trumpet through ,

That hangs at the postern old . Then in all the crypts of this castle , A bell is solemnly tolled—And the Princess arises , in royal gear , From the couch of her charmed rest , And her knights and her nobles take shield and spear , At their beautiful lady's behest ; And they hie to the gate of the postern

, To welcome their midnight guest ! Then afar through the cloisters and corridors , Sounds a monotone stroke of the bell ; And each friar steals forth , o'er the marble floors , From the door of his darksome cell ; And he creepeth away to the postern—His marvellous story to tell ;

While the bell of the castle is ringing amain , And the wondering guest comes in 1 And the Seneschal leadeth bis ghostly train , Away through the ghostly din ; Then the friars rehearse to the stranger Their stories of sorrow and sin .

With a patter of prayers , and a dropping of beads , They recount to the shuddering man , How their souls waxed heavy with sinful deeds , In the days of their mortal span ; And how Heaven's avenging sentence Their earthly years p ' erran ! And the Princess reveals to the stranger knight How she needs must slumber away

, Till a Prince of the Temple in valorous fight , Shall a Saracen sorcerer slay—And the spell of his midnight magic Disperse under morn's sweet ray . And the climes of the earth are as Holy Lands To the feet of the children of Song ; Every realni'hath its Mecca , where pilgrim bands

To some Kaaba of Poesy throng ; And the Homes and the Tombs of the Poets To the whole wide world belong . In the paths of their minstrels the , nations tread , And the king on his bard awaits . For Ulysses is dumb , and Achilles is dead Until Homer their soul creates : And 'tis Tasso who frees Jerusalem , Though Godfrey wins her gates .

Through the twilight of oaks and of mistletoe bowers , The hymns of the Druids I hear ; And the Fairie Queene lures me through labyrinths of flowers , And I list to all melodies clear ; From the echoes of " woodly Morven , " To the murmurs of sweet Windermere : And I hear the old Norsemen chanting their tunes , Under arches of boreal fires ;

And the Troubadours singing , through rich , long Junes , To their soft Provencal lyres ; And the Bards of the Cimbrian mountains , O ' enveeping their ' wildered wires . Oh ! those voices of Song ! how they ebb ! how tbey flow ! How tbey swell , like the tides of the main ! Every age , every clime , hath its life-giving throe ,

And its utterance of generous pain—Till its Master-thought leapeth , full armored , From out of some Jove-like brain ! Oh ! the Heroes and Kings have no story to tell , In the dust of their funeral urns ; Bnt the songs of the Poets immortally dwell , Wheresoever a true heart yearns—In the halls of the royal David , Or the cottage of Robert Burns !

PART SECOND . But the House of the Past bath its Tongues of stone , Yea ! its Voices of marble and brass—From the sands of the desolate desert up-thrown , And the mold of the wilderness grass ! Though the myth of their awful Meanings Too often we idly pass ! Where the Nile flows downby its pyramid tombs ;

, Where the ruins of Tadmor lie ; Where the Petr _ eean cities , from cavernous glooms , Like sepulchres , startle the eye—Oh ! the voices of granite and marble To our souls make audible cry .

Every crumbling plinth , every prostrate shaft , Hath a murmur of mouldering years ; From each column and cornice the low winds waft A dirge to our listening ears ; And each frieze , from its sculptured tablet , Seems weeping , with stony tears . Where the gardens of Belus o ' er Babylon hung , And wbere Nineveh ' s walls were raised ;

Where the Hundred Portals of Thebes swung , And old Tyre over ocean gazed ; And where , high upon Mount Moriah , King Solomon's Temple blazed ! But alas ! for that guest of the haunted grange , If no Templar Knight be he ; And woewhen he listeth that story strange ,

, If no memories pure hath he ! To the spell of the socerer ' s magic He must bow his powerless knee . He must sink into sleep , with the shapes he sees , And his buckler and helm will rust ! He must lie in the cloisters and crypts , with these

WJio have risen , to greet him , from rust ! And await , with them , an awakening By hero more pure and just ! Like that charmed castle , in haunted vale , Is tlie wonderous Masonic Past ! Where the heroes and yeomen of History ' s tale Are reclining in slumbers fast ;

With the spell of an indolent Seeming Over all their memories cast ! But tbe Princess , who sleeps in her mouldering bed , Is the spirit of ancient Truth : Lying evermore shrouded with tatter and shred , But for evermore fresh with youth—And awaiting the pure-hearted Seeker To come , with his valour and truth !

Like the knights and the nobles in slumber profound , Are our riddles and fables of old ; In their rust and their dust they encumber the ground , And abide in their garments of mould—Keeping Truth like a charmed Princess , Asleep in their ghostly hold .