Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem Part 6

Let me tell you a story, dear, Of someone I saw to-day, Only a man with a pale worn face, And auburn locks grown gray, One, I thought would never again, Come over my pathway here, One, I still hope to meet forgiven, In a better brighter sphere.

Why did you start, he knew me, yes, A flush as of pain, or pride, Pa.s.s'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face, And the high white forehead dyed, I heard the roll of carriage wheels, Unthinkingly raised my eyes, One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows, Like lightening across the skies.

Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves, Not I in my lonely life, I have a calm bright future now, He? well, he has gold and strife, They say that oft by the heaving lake, He wanders about alone, Waves that dash on the sandy beach, Answer his throbbing heart's moan.

Once or twice has been heard a name As if wrung with torturous pain, From lips to sacred silence sworn, Told only to storms and rain.

He leaves the light of gilded halls, To clasp in the midnight air, Some flowers that faded years ago, One lock of a girl's dark hair.

Ask me not with those pleading eyes, If I dream about him yet; Is anything colder to your touch, Than ashes with rain-drops wet?

What is harder to kindle up, Than lava grown black and cold, That once from burning mountain's heart, In fiery grandeur rolled.

Pity him, pray for him, that is well, Married for jewels and gold, Vipers crawl from the caskets bright, And they keep his fingers cold.

Only a flush of pain or pride, When to-day our glances met, He in his gorgeous wealth arrayed, I, out in the cold and wet.

Hush; as we sow we surely reap, Yes, he has a wife and gold, Broad lands, a mansion white and tall Like an iceberg grand and cold, I? I've the blessings of the poor, Which fall like the gentle dew, I've claims on mansions far away, I have life, and love, and _you_.

Daybreak.

Turn thy fair face to the breaking dawn, Lily so white, that through all the dark, Hast kept lone watch on the dewy lawn, Deeming thy comrades grown cold and stark; Soon shall the sunbeam, joyous and strong, Dry the tears in thy stamens of gold-- Glinteth the day up merry and long, And the night grows old.

Turn thy fair face to Faith's rosy sky, Soul so white that lone night hath kept Sighing for spirits sin-bound that lie; Wrong has ruled right, and the truth has slept; The dawn shall show thee a host ere long, Planting sweet roses abqve the mould; The sun of righteousness beameth strong, And sin's night grows old.

Turn thine eyes to the burnished zone From out of thy nest neath darkened eaves, Oh bird, who hast mingled thy plaintive moan With sobbing winds through quivering leaves; From thy heart, by light which groweth strong, Draw out the thorns that pierced on the world; Glinteth the day up merry and long, And the night grows old.

Turn thy sad eyes to G.o.d's summerland, Mourner, who waileth some love laid past, Some bark that has anch.o.r.ed on foreign strand And left her sailors free from the blast; They are not here where the gra.s.s grows long, They are not down in the red-brown mould; Heaven's day is coming up fair and strong, And earth's night grows old.

The Wife's Watch.

Sleep on, my darling, sleep on, I am keeping watch by your side, I have drawn in the curtains close, And banished the world outside; Rest as the reaper may rest, When the harvest work is done Rest as the soldier may rest, When the victor's work is won.

You smile in your happy sleep: Are the children with you now?

Sweet baby Willie, so early called, And Nellie with thoughtful brow, And May, our loving daughter.

Ah, the skies grew dark, my love, When the suns.h.i.+ne of her presence Vanished to Heaven above.

While you're resting, my darling, I dream of the shadowy hour, When one of us looks the last On the light of its household bower, Then a sad sigh heaves my breast, And tears from my eyelids burst, As I ask of the future dim, "Which shall be summoned first?"

Sometimes I pray in terror That you may be first to go, Never again to sorrow, Or to feel one throb of woe, Beyond the mists of the river, Where mystic shadows weave, I have no fears, my beloved, In One we both believe.

But I, oh I so lonely, Could I look as I look now, If this was thy last long sleep, The ice of death on thy brow; In sight of the holy angels, I offer my earnest plea, I cry to my G.o.d and pray, "If one goes first, take me."

Our lives have been happy dear, I fancy the tears we shed, By our lost children's coffins.

On faces white and dead, Are counted as dew drops now, On the flowers early sown In the gardens of Paradise, The Lord's, and still our own.

So we'll leave the future dim, Take the suns.h.i.+ne as we go, And when we come to the brink, Where black waves ebb and flow, We'll trust the voice which summons, The love that has ever kept, To fold in his arms one taken, To lead by His hand one left.

Adoniram.

A Legend of the Temple.

The dew was gone, The morn was bright, the skies were fair, The flowers smiled neath the sunbeams ray, Tall cedars grew in beauty there.

As Adoniram took his way, To Lebanon.

Praise his heart filled, More than four hundred years had fled, Since from stern Egypt marched the bands, Whose sons, with Solomon at their head, And Tyrian brethern's skilful hands, Prepare to build.

He watched them there, Round every block, and every stone, Masonic implements were laid, But around _one_ were many thrown, And yet it seemed already made, Tried, true and square.

He wandering spake, "Are not all from one mountain brought As jewels for a diadem, Why, have they at this one stone wrought, Will not all see Jerusalem.

One house to make?"

The Widow's son Smiled kindly in his brother's face, And said "All are made ready here, But not all fill the same high place, The Corner stone this will be near, When toil is done."

The listener bent, His eyes on the unfinished stone, And found himself a wiser man, Through that rough child of mountains lone, A ray of the Grand Master's plan, To him was sent.

From Masonry, That just man learnt that woes are thrown Around G.o.d's children, pain and care, But draw them near the corner stone, With the Great Architect to share, Heaven's blazonry.

Songs in the Night.

"Where is G.o.d my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.

The hour of midnight had swept past, The city bell tolled three, The moon had sank behind the clouds, No rustling in the tree.

All, all was silent as the grave, And memories of the tomb, Had banished sweet sleep far away, All spoke of tears and gloom.

When suddenly upon the air.

Rang out a sweet bird's song, No feeble, weak, uncertain note, No plaint of grief or wrong, No "Miserere Domine,"

No "Dies Irea" sad, But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang, In accents wild and glad.

How could he sing? a birdling caged, And in the dark alone, And then methought that he had seen, Some vision from G.o.d's throne, The little birdling's eyes were bright, While mine with tears were dim, Had some bright watcher glided by, And spake in joy to him?

Then I remembered what Christ said, The G.o.d of love's dear Son, "Not one of these small birds forgot Beneath the glorious sun."