A POEM, shewing the Original, Antiquity, Beauty,
and Glory of Masonry; also its Progress, Improvements,
and Usefulness; with a Description of the Mason's Lodge. All which is concluded with an Ode, sung to the tune of, The free and accepted Mason.
To which is prefixed, instead of a Preface, a Poem on the printed Pamphlet.
'Tis not, indeed, my talent to engage
In lofty trifles; or to swell my page
With wind and noise; but freely to impart,
As to a friend, the secrets of my heart;
And, in familiar speech, to let thee know
How much I love thee, and how much I owe.
Knock on my heart; for thou hast skill to find
If it be solid, or be fill'd with wind;
And, thro' the veil of words, thou view'st the naked mind.
Dryden.
Although my numbers be but faint and lame,
I've ventur'd fairly to subscribe my name.
Alex. Nicol, a free Brother.
To all free and accepted Masons.
Worshipful Brethren,
Accept, kind Brothers, of my weak essay
On that grand ancient art of Masonry:
A secret kept since first the world began,
And still unknown to the most searching man:
Obtain'd by none save in a legal way;
Nor will, while lasts alternate night and day.
Pretending fools will find themselves mistaken,
And all their confidence will soon be shaken:
Their vain pretensions better far they'd smother
Than be examin'd by a lawful Brother;
Yet, uncontroul'd, they'll boast of mighty things,
And seem as proud as emperors and kings.
The Mason word, (says one), I know as plain
As any Brother in the Mason's train;
For I have seen the whole in open print,
About which they so great a bustle vent.
O, says the other, can the thing be true?
For I of it had once a single view.
True, says the first, ay 'tis the Mason-word,
As sure and plain as any can afford.
A certain Brother whom they disoblig'd,
And treated badly, as it is alledg'd,
He, in revenge, their secret open made,
And to the world the same he published.
As fools are wise still in their own conceit,
So these pretenders think themselves complete.
If I should say, That printed pamphlet's nought,
It would not change their vain and foolish thought:
But let them answer points of entrance, then
I'll call them Brothers, and the best of men:
But they may pore on pamphlets till they're blind,
E'er they ought like true Masonry can find.
My poem will prove a riddle to all those
Pretenders, who nought of the secret knows:
To them, if told, yea, e'en the lightest word,
Would shrink their hearts, and turn their blood to curd.
But all free Brothers, known in masonry,
Will in the poem secret beauty see.
Read and approve, or disapprove; all's one;
We know what's What: pretenders, pick your bone.
