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 Swig at the Centeuvial Festival of St. John's Ijodge, 
 Providence, June 24, 1857, 
 
 WKITTEN BY B. W. BR. JOHN H. SHEPPAKD. 
 
 Air — " .Muld Lang Syne.'^ 
 
 All hail this Sainted Jubilee ! 
 
 A hundred years have flown 
 Since on Rhode Island's verdant shores 
 
 The Light in darkness shone. 
 The Brethren, they vi'ere few and rare, 
 
 They were a little band, 
 A Lodge in a lone wilderness 
 
 Far from their Fatherland. 
 
 Then all this boundless Continent 
 
 Was mountain, lake and tree, 
 Save where the star of Empire rose 
 
 On dwellings of the free. 
 Now arrowy Steamers shoot along ; 
 
 Now cities charm the view, 
 Where once the Indian pitch'd his tent 
 
 Or paddled his Canoe. 
 
 Alas ! when memory calls her roll 
 
 Our heai-ts within us burn, 
 To think of those who once were here, 
 
 Who will no more return ! 
 And yet there 's glory in the thought ? 
 
 That in our Archives old 
 A Wakken, Franklin, Washington, 
 
 Were on that page enroll'd. 
 
 The Light which on our altar shone 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 Now spreads a starry canopy 
 
 Where two vast oceans flow. 
 From Maine to mighty Oregon, 
 
 Then raise our banners high, 
 For Wisdom, Strength and Beauty form 
 
 The immortal mystic tie. 
 
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 D E D I C AT ION II Y M N, 
 
 • Hv K W. Hk. JOHN H. SHKPI'AUI; 
 
 mt TiEW Tvr/isoi^iG TtivrftE. 
 
 Boston. Junk 24, 1867. 
 
 Ml/S/C B] LUCIAN SOri H A K l\ /-.-.SXl 
 
 'T^HF2 inovintains round Jeriiialem 
 
 Tlu- fume forever ftand : 
 But tlie dark, clouds which reft on them 
 
 Oerlhadow lea and land. 
 Xo fail is {een on CJalilee; 
 
 No harp in Judah's halls; 
 The citv, once fo brave and free. 
 
 'J'he fcimitar appals; 
 A remnant fcarce is left in her 
 To Ljuard the Holy Sepulchre. 
 
 In ftreets our ancient Brethren trod 
 Rini^s the Muezzin's cry: 
 
 Ami \\ here our Temple rose to God 
 A mofque in\ ades the fk\ : — 
 
Our 'I'dnjilf. which once flood l\il>linic 
 
 On Mount Moriah's heii^ht. 
 A mould of Beautv for all time. . W^ ^ 
 
 An oracle of li^ht: "^ A-f^ 
 
 The glorious handicraft of them. — 
 The Grand Lodge of Jerufalem. 
 
 Its form and grandeur vet furvive 
 
 In every Mafon's mind : 
 Though Mofque and Minaret mav (\rive 
 
 To leave no trace behind. 
 The ideal prefence ftands the fame 
 
 Where'er on earth we roam : 
 Jerufalem, from whence we came. 
 
 Is ftill the Brother's home. 
 He ne'er forgets while time runs on. 
 The Temple of King Solomon. 
 
 The glory of the Holy Land. 
 
 Though vanifhed from the eje, 
 Still warms the heart and guides thy hand, 
 
 Immortal Mafonry! 
 Like Venus riling from the fea, — 
 
 A form of loveliness. 
 This beautious, fculptured Fane to Thee 
 
 We dedicate, and blefs. 
 In Saint John's name, to Chrift fo dear. 
 We confecrate our Altars here. 
 
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THE SPRIG OF ACACIA, 
 
 BY JOHN H. SHEPPARD. 
 
 Deep in the grave, whene'er a Brother dies 
 
 We drop tlie Acacia at his obsequies; 
 
 A leaf — a sprig — yet this fraternal token, 
 
 When dust to dust — the Golden Bowl is broken — 
 
 Midst liallow'd rites around his lowly bed, 
 
 Portends the Resurrection of the Dead : 
 
 An 1 teai's on earth, like dew of Hermon given, 
 
 Reflect througli Hope the light which shines from Heaven. 
 
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 THEY Sang a Hymn 
 
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 WORDS BY JOHN H. SHEPPARD, ESQ. 
 
 Air — Old Scotch Melody. 
 
 They sang a Hymn ; but ne'er before. 
 
 Did chant on earth such thoughts inspire 
 Not Moses on the Red Sea shore ; 
 
 Nor David with his Uving lyre. 
 It was a long lost Hebrew air. 
 
 Oft hymn'd on hills where prophets trod ; 
 And, while they sang, as Heav'n it were, 
 
 To look upon the Lamb of God. 
 
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The Paschal moon was shining bright 
 
 On Olivet and tower and tree ; — 
 In every house a burning light, 
 
 In every soul a jubilee ; 
 Save in that lonely upper room, 
 
 With fear and anguish hearts were wrung ; 
 Dim shadows, of to-morrow's doom 
 
 Above the Cross on Calv'ry hung. 
 
 3 
 
 The trembling stars then watch'd on high 
 
 The garden of Gethsemane ; 
 While Powers of Darkness o^ather'd nio-h 
 
 That timid flock of Galilee ! 
 Thrice pray'd our Lord — worn out, they slept,- 
 
 " Father, thy will be done," cried He : 
 And drops of blood His body wept, 
 
 In that dread hour of agony ! 
 
 4 
 
 From Heav'n He came to heal our woes, 
 
 His blood He shed the lost to save ; 
 Like man He died — like God He rose, 
 
 Enrob'd in glory from the grave. 
 No tongue can tell, no heart conceive 
 
 The rest to his Beloved given ; — 
 Those martyr'd Saints, who met that eve ; 
 
 They sang a Hymn, 'twas heard in Heaven. 
 
HY A HKHEAVED FATHER, 
 
 (Bn 
 
 ABIEL WOOD SHEPPARD, 
 
 LATE OK SAN FRANCISCO, 
 
 Who lefl home. Boston, January i, 1848, and returned Monday, Sep- 
 tember 5, 1864. On the 1 2th he went to his birth-place, Wiscasset, 
 Me., to visit his cousins; was there taken sick, and, on the 26th, 
 expired, of a congestion of the brain. He was 37 years of age. 
 

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 ! for lilni hack again ; 
 ()1 for liim back again; 
 
 1 wad gie a' Knockhasi>ie's land 
 Kor Highland Harry hack again." 
 
 "TV TOR morn nor eve now glads the lonely hour I 
 
 Gone is the solace of declining 3'ears ; 
 Tasks, which once woke the soul with stirring power, 
 Now lose their charm in solitude and tears. 
 
 Ah ! when I gazed with agonizing thought 
 On that swxet face — so beautiful in death — 
 Almost in vain poor shuddering nature sought 
 To still the anguish in my struggling breath. 
 
 Oft as fond memory brings the past to view, — 
 His blooming youth, his manhood's rising day, 
 His filial love, so gentle, warm, and true, — 
 Comes that dread scene when in a shroud he lay. 
 
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For many a year with strangers did he roam, 
 Where California's golden mountains soar ; 
 In all his wanderings yet a father's home 
 Shone like a star till his return once more. 
 
 And when his light, elastic step drew nigh, 
 And joyous Hope foretold a happier fate ! 
 Lo ! the tenth wave * of sorrow, surging high. 
 Broke, and, o'erwhelming, left me desolate ! 
 
 The ancient hemlock by the lightning torn. 
 
 Each spring may put forth leaves, and cheer the glade ; 
 
 But let the aged heart be called to mourn. 
 
 Earth then forever wears a deeper shade. 
 
 * Vastius insurgens decims ruit impetus undae. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 November i. 1864. 
 
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