>>> YOU ARE VIEWING A 200 LINE SAMPLE OF EBOOK# E07037 <<< TITLE: VICTOR ROY, A MASONIC POEM AUTHOR: HARRIET ANNIE WILKINS EBOOK: E07037 (O'Briens Book Cellar) LANGUAGE: ENGLISH VICTOR ROY; A Masonic Poem. BY HARRIETT ANNIE WILKINS. DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO DANIEL SPRY, ESQ. GRAND MASTER OF THE GRAND LODGE, A.F. & A.M. OF CANADA. PREFACE. An anecdote appeared some time ago in the pages of "The Craftsman" which gave rise to the ideas embodied in "Victor Roy." It is not a story of profound depth. Its aim is not to soar to Alpine heights of imagination, or to excavate undiscovered treasures from the mines of thought. It is a very simple story, told in very simple words, of such lives as are around us in our midst. It tells of sorrows that are daily being borne by suffering humanity, and of the faith that gives strength to that suffering humanity to endure "seeing Him, who is invisible." All lives may not see their earth day close in sunshine, but somewhere the sun is shining, and all true cross-bearers shall some day become true crown-wearers. The following pages have some references to that Ancient Order which comes down the centuries, bearing upon its structure the marks of that Grand Master Builder, who gave to the visible universe "the sun to rule the day, the moon and stars to govern the night;" an Order which, like these wondrous orbs, is grand in its mysterious symbolism, calm in its unvarying circles, universal in its beneficence. We are told of a poor weary traveller who had plucked a flower. The shadows of a grand cathedral lay before him. He entered; its architecture charmed him, its calmness refreshed him. Approaching a shrine he laid his flower upon it, saying: "It is all I can give; it, too, is God's work, although gathered by a feeble, dying hand." A priest standing near looked upon the flower and said: "God bless you, my brother, heaven is nearer to me." So, if by the perusal of "Victor Roy" one ear hears more distinctly the Apostolic declaration, "Pure religion is to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction," or if one poor sinking spirit is strengthened, as Longfellow says, to "touch God's right hand in the darkness," the wishes of the Authoress will be fully accomplished. HARRIETT ANNIE. Hamilton, August, 1882. VICTOR ROY. Victor's Soliloquy. Heavily rolleth the wintry clouds, And the ceaseless snow is falling, falling, As the frost king's troops in their icy shrouds, Whistle and howl, like lost spirits calling. But a warm luxuriantly furnished room, Is an antidote to the wild night storm, Lamplight and firelight banish the gloom, No poverty stalks there with cold gaunt form. Yet there seems a shadow, yes even there, Where all is so peacefully grand and still, No fair young face with its shining hair, No voice of love with its musical thrill. One reigneth alone in that mansion grand, And his day of life has long past its noon, The wanderer of many a foreign land, Rests, calmly waiting Heaven's final boon. There are lines on his brow of grief and care, Writ with a quill from Time's feathered wing. There are silver threads in the chesnut hair, The blossoms white of a fair dawning spring. Yet Victor Roy has a kindly word, And a kindly smile for all he meets; No cry of distress is by him unheard, While many a blessing his pathway greets. "Yes, that's right Jasper, draw the curtains close, And make the fire burn bright; God help the poor and suffering ones Within this city to-night. Did your wife send food to that sick girl in the market lane to-day? Did you carry coals to the man whose limbs were crushed by the loaded dray? Well, that's all right, what is it you say? you wish that I did but know The comfort I give to hearts that are weak, or erring or low. Have you turned lecturer, Jasper? no; but it makes you sad, To see me lonely and quiet when I'm making others glad. But Jasper, remember that you and I, hold certain things in trust, We must gain some interest on our gold, not let it lie and rust. I am but a steward for the King, till the time of his return, There, that will do, supper at ten; how bright those fresh coals burn." Poor Jasper, he thinks me moping and sad; well, well, I only know I do not wish that he or aught should ever consider me so, It would seem like base ingratitude to the Ruler of my way, Who showers His blessings about and around me every day. But oh, Great Architect, whose hand has carved my destiny, There was a time when in my pride, I owned not Thine nor Thee, Unheeding the Holy Light Divine to man's dark pathway sent, Unheeding the Bible, blessed chart, to storm tossed sailors sent; With a film in my eyes, I would not see the ladder based on earth, Yet reaching to the cloud-crowned height, where the true Light has birth. The beautiful angels passing up, with all our prayers to God, Our tears and moans, our fading flowers, all stained with mire and sod-- And coming down; ah, many a time I have blessed the Lord above, For His pure descending angels, bringing Faith, and Hope, and Love. There was a time when all this wealth of glory was lost on me, And I was like a rudderless ship, far out on the rocking sea, I had a friend, oh that blessed word, we had been parted for years, And I wandered one day to find him, my heart had no cloudy fears. That day stands out in bold relief upon Memory's wreck-strewn shore, Like a beacon light in the lighthouse, undimned by the rush and roar. 'Twas a day in the early June, the clover was red in the field, And the zephyrs garnered the kisses, the gentle violets yield. Birds sang, and the sunshine flickered out and about through the cloud, What had a day like that to do with a pall, a coffin, a shroud? I stood in a flower-decked churchyard, and on the procession came, Why did I ask to be answered back, that his was the sleeper's name, Nearer now to the dark brown earth the band of his brothers turned, And on snowy aprons and collars of blue the merry sunbeams burned, I, like a suddenly petrified stone, stood mid the crowd that day, And with ears which seemed to be leaden, I listened and heard one say: "Brother, we have met before, Where the Tyler guards the door, We have given the well-known sign, That has blent our souls with thine, Now this eve, thou giv'st no word, Back to our souls deep stired, For the Angel Tylers wait, At thy Lodge Room's mystic gate. "Brother, thou art taking rest, We must still the wild storm breast, We must build through mist and night, Thou hast seen the quenchless Light, While we hew the shapeless stone, Thou hast bowed before the Throne, While we tread the chequered floor, Thou hast pass'd the golden door. "Oh Companion, were we there, Ended every pleading prayer, Ended all the work and toil, Gathered all the fruit and spoil, Finished all the war of sin, By the Warden's hand shut in, Brother; once again with thee, What would our first greeting be? "Loved Companions, we have given, To the guardianship of Heaven, Our Brother's precious dust, And in memory of the just, Be it ours still to guard, All he loved, with watch and ward, Till like him we reach a shore, Where these sorrows come no more." "All he loved," I knew as I stood there, he loved not one of that band As we had loved in our boyhood days, heart to heart and hand to hand, They called us David and Jonathan, for our hearts were knit as one, And now I saw him left alone, in the shades of of the dying sun; Was it his spirit beside me stood; for do not their spirits come, Relieved from all burden of earthly dross, and win us up to their home? Was it his spirit urged me on, to seek for the Orient Light? It seemed that I should be nearer him if one in that mystic rite, Never a Syrian ready to perish, needed more timely aid, Never a pilgrim knocked at the door and found more restful shade, Aye, time has carried me on some way, since the hour I saw the light, And morning has gone, noontide has gone, now soon must draw on the night. I heard the young lads in the office talking about me to-day, I did not mean to play the part of eaves-dropper in their way, They were wondering who in the name of fate, I would find for my heir, Wondering why I never was married, there are some so proud and fair, They knew I could have for the asking, and so they went on with their fun, Till the "Senior Partner" gave a cough, and then all their mirth was done. But I asked from Heaven though I know the way is mingled flower and thorn, That not one from partner to porter may bear all I have borne. So Jasper thinks I am sad; how the wintry winds whistle to-night! Heaven grant no poor woman or children are out in this sleety blight. I cannot read this eve; what ails me? "Chronicle," "Tribune" and "Times," Lie looking coaxingly at me, I heed not their prose or rhymes, Is it thinking so much of Arthur, brings Aimee before me here, Aimee, my idol, my darling, my pet, who always spoke words of cheer, Did I say what brings her near me to-night, she is with me every day. God help me, for Aimee's another man's wife three thousand miles away, Oh how we loved! there's no use in talking, all do not love the same, <<< END OF SAMPLE... (THE FULL EBOOK HAS 104350 TOTAL CHARACTERS) >>>