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Masonic News & Views - Thanatopsis August 04, 2014 |
Greetings, If you have attended a Masonic funeral service in the State of Missouri you will probably recognize these words: "In the language of poetic inspiration we say to everyone: "So live that when thy summons comes..."" You may otherwise recognize them as they are used in other parts of Masonic ritual and ceremony in differing Masonic jurisdictions. Or, you may simply recognize them as part of the famous poem below. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that while I have delivered those lines many times I only recently discovered the poem from which they originate. In my own defense, though, I may very well have known at some point that they come from the poem "Thanatopsis" by William Cullen Bryant. One of the beauties of age is that we get to repeatedly discover things as if for the first time. Whether we're new acquaintances or long forgotten old friends I'm very happy with this discovery. The poem is powerful, beautiful, contemplative and assuring. Even if I had come across it in my earlier years I'm quite sure I wouldn't have taken the time to absorb it as I have this past week. I almost hope I do forget so I can discover it all over again. I have found no evidence that Mr. Bryant was ever a Freemason. However, he is described as a man of good character, patriotism and a strong sense of duty. Sounds like a Mason to me. If you have information regarding his being a member of the Craft please let me know. And, please spend some time with his words. It will be well spent. Until next we meet I remain fraternally yours, Tim Couch ![]() BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180813 For help locating a lodge building visit the Missouri Masonic Lodge Map page on Masonsmart.com
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