THE MOUNTAIN TOMB
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our wine and dance if Manhood still have pride,Bring roses if the rose be yet in bloom;The cataract smokes upon the mountain side,Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb. Pull down the blinds, bring fiddle and clarionetThat there be no foot silent in the roomNor mouth from kissing, nor from wine unwet;Our Father Rosicross is in his tomb. In vain, in vain; the cataract still criesThe everlasting taper lights the gloom;All wisdom shut into his onyx eyesOur Father Rosicross sleeps in his tomb.
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