Victor Roy, A Masonic Poem
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Harriet Annie Wilkins >> Victor Roy, A Masonic Poem
And thou, best city of olden time,
O! we might weep for thee, once chosen clime.
City, where Solomon his temple reared,
City, where gold and silver stores appeared;
City, where priest and prophet lowly knelt,
City, where God in mortal flesh once dwelt.
Titus, and Roman soldiers, laid thee low,
The music in thy streets has ceased to flow;
Yet wilt thou not return in joy once more,
And Lebanon give up her cedar store?
And vines and olives smile as now they smile,
Yet not upon the ruin of a holy pile;
Wilt thou Destruction's flood not stem?
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Cities and men, and nations, have gone by,
Like leaves upon an Autumn's dreary sky;
Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,
Like drops upon the summer's passing cloud;
Like flowers of a wilderness,
Vanished into forgetfulness.
Out of His Time.
One evening a short time since, our attention was attracted by the
prolonged ringing of a bell. The given number of strokes had sounded, yet
ring, ring, ring. Was it an alarm of fire? No other bell signalled an
answer. Was it some danger to our city? No crowds were gathering. At
length we questioned a passer by, and received for answer, "It is
ringing because an Apprentice is out of his time." "Out of his time!"
We knew nothing of the boy, neither his name or home, but the waves of
air told us something concerning him. We knew he had overcome
difficulties, often had he been disheartened and dismayed, often had he
heard the mocking laugh or coarse jest of his companions, at his
imperfect workmanship, often heard the angry words over goods or tools
spoiled through his ignorance or carelessness. He had risen on dark
mornings when his neighbors, lads his own age, were snugly sleeping; he
had toiled on glorious summer days when his indolent companions were
resting under green trees, or plunging into the cool waters; he had done
the rough work because he was "the boy." Yes, but there is another side
to the picture. With courage renewed, with eyes and fingers becoming more
and more accustomed to the handicrafts of his trade, every month has found
him progressing, till to-night, as the still ringing bell tells us, he has
overcome. His companions gather around him with boisterous mirth, and the
"older hands" feel a certain pride in him, as wringing his hand they know
he ranks among themselves, the means of an honest living at his disposal,
one of God's great army of working men. A few hours passed and another
bell resounded upon our ears. We listened, for that bell had a sad and
solemn sound. Ah, another "Apprentice was out of his time." We knew
something of how he had fought, not with rough iron, but with "the waves
of this troublesome world." We knew how in every day life he strove to do
his duty to his Lord and Master. Dismayed, how often? Discouraged, how
frequently bearing the taunt, the sneer? But he too had overcome. His
companions gather around him, but all mirth is hushed, tears fill their
eyes, and choking words are whispered as they file round the casket, and
look upon the calm dead face, that no more on earth will meet them with
its wonted smile, and the pale hands that have done all their rough
earthwork. His welcome we did not hear. Ah, it is well that the sound of
harps and the silvery peals from the chiming bells of the city of God
reach us not, or perchance we should "stand all the day idle." For are we
not all entered Apprentices in this strange world of ours? Are we not all
"serving our time?" How are we learning our trades? Are we likely to prove
"workmen that need not be ashamed," or are we through fear or negligence
hiding in the earth our Lord's money? Our indentures bear the blood-red
seals of Calvary, our Covenant is "ordered in all things and sure." The
time of our serving here is unknown to us, of the hour of our release
knoweth no man. There have been some who "being made perfect in a short
time, fullfilled for a long time." We have a long line of witnesses gone
on before, but all drawing their life and courage from that Wonderful Man,
the Redeemer of the world, the Carpenter of Galilee. He whose mysterious
indentures were cancelled in the noon-day of His life. He who could stand
among His sorrowing companions and say, "Father, I have finished the work
which Thou gavest me to do." Oh, my fellow apprentices, how often are we
tempted to leave _our_ work unfinished. Do we not thus sometimes
think, "I can never learn my trade for heaven here." We see one wasting
his Master's goods, we see the tables of the money-changers in the temple
of God, we hear our fellows arraigning the Master before their petty
tribunals, we grow faint and weary, we have foes within and without. Doubt
says, "The Master is feasting royally and forgets his poor apprentices."
Courage, courage, my brothers, we are treading the path the saints have
trod. This is but a state of preparation. We know not what work for the
King we may have to do by-and-by; over how many cities of whose locality
we at present know nothing. He may give us authority to which of the
countless worlds in our Father's universe we may be sent on the King's
message of love, to what spirits in prison we, in our spiritual life, may
go to preach of mercy. If here permitted to be the servants of Christ, and
through His merits attaining to that better country, may we not
reasonably infer that we shall aid Him more and more, till the mediatorial
work is ended. Let these thoughts encourage us amidst the cold and heat,
the scorn and shame. Let us see to it that we _do_ work the works of
our Master. Let us often turn our eyes to those two grand rules of our
workshop, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you," our golden
rule framed in the royal crimson of the King's authority; and that other
silver lettered motto, framed in the clear, true blue of heaven, "Pure
religion and undefiled before God and the Father, is to visit the widow
and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from
the world." Let us imitate that brother workman of whom Whittier says:
"He gave up his life to others,
Himself to his brothers lending;
He saw the Lord in His suffering brothers,
And not in the clouds descending."
Soon, soon we shall be out of our time; but here the figure ends. The
earthly apprentice, freed from his articles of apprenticeship, may serve
any master, the heavenly apprentice asks but _one_. Oh, Jesus,
Master, Thou Saviour of our race, have mercy upon us, grant us so to
serve Thee in time, that our earthly labours ended, we may hear Thee say,
"Well done good and faithful servant," while the pure and beautiful
angels shall rehearse to each other, "Rejoice, another apprentice is out
of his time."
Two Altars.
"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."
The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful,
Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty,
Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed,
Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch,
Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour.
Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament;
Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar,
A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered,
As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel,
Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:
"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses,
Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful arbutulas;
Look at the golden brown tints of these fruits in their lusciousness;
Look at the bright varied hues of these green leaves, closely encircling
These rich scarlet blossoms, like yonder clouds, glorious and wonderful;
Nothing on earth or in heaven could make fairer oblation.
Abel, what have you carved on your altar, in that wild devotion
By which you in vain seek to soften the anger of heaven?
A circle, to show that your God is all near, is filling
The seen and unseen with His incomprehensible presence.
Well, so let it be, then; I'll not contradict the illusion.
One thing appears certain, that we have offended our Maker,
Who visits unjustly on us the mistakes of our parents,
As if we ever reached out our hands for fruit once forbidden.
Shall we never be free from the thorns and the thistles upspringing?
Why do you still try to follow the steps and voice of your Maker?
And why still persist in slaying the white lambs of your meadows?
Take of my beautiful flowers and despise all blood shedding."
"My brother," spoke Abel, "I love the dear innocent flowers.
Are they not all, nearly all that is left us of Eden's fair glory,
All but the singing of birds, the winds and the waters, wild music,
All but the whispers of love and blessings of heart-broken parents;
But you heard, my brother, as well as myself the commandment,
Not to offer to heaven what _we_ choose, but what God declareth
Will shadow our Faith and sweet Hope in the promised atonement;
And that terrible sin, those spots in our souls, my dear brother,
Can never be cleansed by the lives of the beautiful flowers,
Only by His, shadowed forth in the death of an innocent victim."
Then angrily answered Cain back to his young brother's pleading,
"Abel, I have no patience with such mock humiliations,
I have no need of a Saviour, I have no need of blood-shedding
To wash out the stain of my own or my father's transgression.
I for myself can make perfect and full restitution;
Look at the smoke of your altar curling upward so clearly,
Making white cloudlets on high in the blue of the firmament,
While mine sweeps the ground that is cursed like the trail of the serpent:
Why comes down the Maker of this blighted universe, asking
Why art thou wroth, and why is thy countenance fallen?"
Stand I not here in the image of God, who created us?
Have I not courage, and freedom, and strength above my inferiors?
Did not our father give name to beast, bird, insect and reptile?
Shall his children crouch down and kneel like the creature that crawleth?
I will not obey this commandment, but I'll wreath up my altar
With offerings of earth, with gold of the orange, and red of the roses,
I'll not stain my hands with the blood of an innocent creature."
So Cain turned away from his wondering brother; perhaps then little
dreaming
That on the next morrow he would become earth's first murderer;
And, scorning the death of a lamb, take the life of a brother.
The Doom of Cain.
The Lord Said, "What hast thou done?"
Oh, erring Cain,
What hast thou done? Upon the blighted earth
I hear a melancholy wail resounding;
Among the blades of grass where flowers have birth
I hear a new-born tone mournfully sounding.
It is thy brother's blood
Crying aloud to God
In helpless pain.
Unhappy Cain!
Thou hast so loved to wreathe the clinging vine,
And welcomed with pure joy the delicate fruit,
Till thou hast felt a kindred feeling twine
Around thy heart, grown with each fibrous root
Of tree, or moss, or flower,
Growing in field or bower,
Or ripening grain.
But henceforth, Cain,
When the bright gleaming of the rosy morn
Proclaims another glorious summer day,
Thou may'st walk forth to greet the earth newborn,
And pluck the blushing roses on thy way;
They at thy touch shall blight,
Stricken with some strange might,
Some dire pain.
In time to come,
When thy fair child (for thou shalt have a son)
Shall lay his little, soft, warm hands in thine,
And say, "My father, growing neath the sun
Are lovely flowers, trees and moss and vine;
Here is rich soil and room
For me; make bowers bloom
Around our home."
Thy heart will shrink,
And thou wilt hear the voice the Lord has heard,
The voice of brother's blood speaking from earth,
And each pulse of thy sad soul will be stirred,
As he to whom the girl thou love'st gave birth
Brings back with fearful truth
The playmate of thy youth
From the grave's brink.
For on no shore
Shall fair earth yield unto thy stalwart arms;
No, thou may'st dig, and prune, and plant in vain,
And noxious worms and things of poisonous harms
Shall not be banished at the will of Cane;
Thou'lt set seed-bearing root,
Thou'lt plant life-giving fruit
No more, no more.
Depart! Depart!
Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear,
Did'st thou not always find whatever grain
Thou cast, the same grew upward full and fair,
Thou _would'st not_ look upon the pure lamb slain,
To faith true sacrifice
Thou would'st not turn thine eyes;
Go, till thine heart.
Our Poor Brethren.
"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea."
--Masonic Sentiment
They met in the festive hall,
Lamps in their brightness shone,
And merry music and mirth,
Aided the feast of St. John.
Men pledged the health of their Queen
And of all the Royal band,
The flags of a thousand years,
The swords of their motherland.
Then mid the revelry came
The sound of a mournful strain,
Like a minor chord in music,
A sweet but sad refrain;
It rose on the heated air,
Like a mourner's earnest plea,
"Our poor and penniless brethren
Dispersed over land and sea."
Poor and penniless brethren
Scattered over the world,
Want and misfortune and woe
Round them fierce darts have hurled;
Wandering alone upon mountains,
Sick and fainting and cold,
Lying heart-broken in prisons,
Chained in an enemy's hold.
Dying in fields of combat,
With none to answer back
The masonic sign of distress,
Left on the battle's track.
Shipwrecked in foaming waters,
Clinging to broken spars,
Dying, this night of St. John,
Mid the ocean and the stars.
Others with hunger faint--we
Taste these rich and varied meats--
Oppression gives them no home
But dark and desolate streets.
Oh, God of mercy, hear us,
As we ask a boon for Thee,
For poor and penniless brethren
Dispersed over land and sea.
Poor and penniless brethren,
Ah, in the Master's sight,
We all lay claim to the title
On this, our festival night.
Lone pilgrims journeying on
Towards light that points above,
Treading the chequered earthworks
Till we reach the land of love.
Work up to the landmark, brothers,
We shall not always stay,
The falling shadows warn us
To work in the light of day.
How often our footsteps turn
Where a brother's form is hid,
Oft we cast evergreen sprigs
On a brother's coffin lid.
Thou, who dost give to each
Some appointed post to hold,
Teach us to cherish the weak,
To give Thy silver and gold;
To guard as a soldier guards
Honor and Love's pure shrine,
To give our lives for others,
As Thou did'st for us give Thine.
To Masons all over the world
Give wisdom to work aright,
That they may gather in peace
Their working tools at night.
May love's star glitter o'er each,
Amid darkness, storm or mist,
As on this night of St. John,
Our Blest Evangelist.
Vain Dreams.
--"Throughout the day, I walk,
My path o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him."
--Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin.
Mother, gazing on thy son,
He, thy precious only one,
Look into his azure eyes,
Clearer than the summer skies.
Mark his course; on scrolls of fame
Read his proud ancestral name;
Pause! a cloud that path will dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Young bride, for the altar crowned,
Now thy lot with one is bound,
Will _he_ keep each solemn vow?
Will _he_ ever love as now?
Ah! a dreamy shadow lies
In the depths of those bright eyes;
Time will this day's glory dim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Sister, has thy brother gone,
To the fields where fights are won;
Oh! it was an hour of pride
When he was last by thy side;
Thou dost see him coming back
In the conqueror's proud track;
Hush! the bayonets earthward turn,
Dream vain dreams, he'll not return.
Woman, on the cottage green,
Gazing at the sunset scene,
Now the vintage toil is o'er,
But the gleaner comes no more
Through the fields of burnished corn;
Lo! a peasant's bier is borne
By the sparkling river's brim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Maiden, who in every prayer
Breath'st a name thou dost not bear,
Sing again thy lover's song;
Yes, he will be back ere long,
Back in all his manhood's pride,
Back, but with another bride;
Cease those bridal robes to trim,
Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.
Earthly idols! how we mould
Sand with fruit and clay with gold!
How we cherish crumbling dust,
Then lament our futile trust!
Saviour, who on earth didst prove
All the agony of love,
Fit us for that brighter shore,
Where they dream vain dreams no more.
The Forest River.
Amid the forest verdant shade,
A peaceful river flowed:
Wild flowers their home on its banks had made,
The sunbeam's rays on its breast were laid,
When the light of morning glowed.
By its marge the wolf had found a lair,
He roamed through each lonely spot;
That deep designer, the beaver, there
Built his palace; the shaggy bear
In the tall tree had his cot.
And voices sweet were heard on the bank
Of the river's gentle flow;
The whip-poor-will sang when the sun had sank,
And the hum-drum bee to his home had shrank,
When the wind of eve did blow.
The tree-frog joined with his sonorous call,
The grasshopper chirped along,
The dormice came out of their underground hole,
The squirrels peeped over their pine-tree wall,
To list to the revel song.
Nothing disturbed the murmur deep
Of the river broad and fair;
No one awoke it from peaceful sleep,
Save when floating mice o'er its breast would creep,
Or the rusty-coated bear.
One morn the sound of an axe was heard
In the forest, dark and lone;
Then started with fear the beasts disturbed,
Their reign was broke at the woodman's word,
And they scowled with anger on.
On the river's brink the emigrant's child
Passed all his lonely hours,
He laughed when he ruffled the bosom mild
Of the flowing streamlet so bright and wild,
As it bore his boon of flowers.
Soon the throng of the forest heard the horn
Of the boat, the commerce boat;
Then they started up from the brake and thorn,
And hastening away by the light of the morn,
They fled from cavern and moat.
And the bird peeped out of a pine tree tower,
And shrank away at the sight,
The humming-bird fled to his rose-hung bower,
The bright bee curled himself snug in a flower,
O'ertaken by fear and fright.
And the river which rolled for ages, still
In a gentle flow unriven,
Now bears on its bosom by man's proud will,
By the arts of industry and skill,
The blessings to mortals given.
Over its billows the steamboats tread,
With their waters rushing high,
Or the snowy sail to the wind is spread,
As the noble bark on her way is sped
To the crowded city nigh.
Oh river bright, we sail over thy breast,
Once bearing wood runners wild;
But the birds who built on the bank their nest,
Have fled long ago to the boundless west,
From thee and from man exiled.
Last Words of Sir Henry Lawrence.
"Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men."
The shades of death were gathering thick around a soldier's head,
A war stained, dust strewn band of men gathered around his bed.
"Comrade, good-bye; thank God your voice may cheer the dauntless brave
When I, your friend and countryman, am resting in the grave.
Hush, soldiers, hush, no word of thanks, it is little I have done
For the glory of the land we love, toward the setting sun.
I have but one request to make: When all is over, then
Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.
Heap up no splendid monument in memory of my clay,
No tributary words to tell of one who's far away;
It matters not to passers by where lies my crumbling dust,
The cherubim and seraphim may have it in their trust;
And bones of better men than I have bleached all cold and white
Where scorching sunbeam goes by day and the prowling beast by night.
Give me a few spare feet of earth away down in the glen,
Breathing the words of faith and hope, bury me with the men.
Bury me with the men; when the fearful seige was gained,
With British blood and British dead the Indian soil was stained.
Poor Dugald lay that fearful night and never asked for aid,
And Fraser, wounded, cheered us on, and Allan, dying, prayed,
And brave Macdonald cheered the flag with his expiring breath.
These are the men who jeopardised their lives unto the death,
They drove the murderous Sepoys back, the wild wolf to his den;
All honor to their noble hearts; bury me with my men.
Is it death that's coming nearer? how clammy grows my brow;
Yes, I'm going home for promotion, the battle's over now.
Comrades, I often fancy, how upon yon blessed shore,
In that land of recognition, we may yet all meet once more.
Colonel, we'll gather round you then, as in the days of old;
Why do whisper, comrades, are my fingers growing cold?
Oh, tell my brother-officers that I thought about them when
I was going across the river; bury me with my men.
How very dark it's growing, I suppose it's nearly night;
Well, I think we shall see England in the morning's ruddy light.
And my mother and my sister surely I see them stand
Upon the beach, and summer flowers waving in each hand;
And sounds of joy and victory comes on the evening air.
Colonel, if I go down home first, you'll come and see us there?
Do I hear my comrades sighing? Where am I? ah, amen.
Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.
To the Birds.
Onward, sail on in your boundless flight,
Neath shadowing skies and moonbeams bright,
Kissing the clouds as it drops the rain,
Touching the wall of the rainbow's fane;
With your wings unfurled, your lyres strung,
You sail where stars in their orbs are hung,
Or for stranger lands where bright flow'rs spring,
Ye have plumed the down and spread the wing.
We lay the strength of the forest down,
We wear the robe and the shining crown,
We tread down kings in our battle path,
And voices fail at our gathered wrath;
We touch; the numbers forget to pour,
From the serpent's hiss to the lion's roar;
But we may not tread the paths ye've trod,
Though children of men and sons of God.
Ye haste, ye haste, but ye bring not back
To waiting spirits the news we lack,
Ye do not tell what it is to see
The snow capped home of the thunder free,
Ye do not speak of the worlds above,
Ye tell no tales of the things we love,
No height or breadth of the sunbeam's roof,
You touch in your travels--terror proof.
You're strange in bright radience, wonderful;
You're soft in your plumage, beautiful.
Bold to bask in the clouds of even,
Free in your flight to floors of heaven.
Like dews that over the flowers spring,
Like billows rolled over Egypt's king,
You leave no track in the misty air,
Or records of wonders that meet you there.
Initiation Ode.
Air--Belmont.
Hark! unto thee a voice doth speak,
A voice of heavenly breath,
And this, the solemn charge it gives,
Be faithful unto death.
Faithful as stars in heaven's blue skies,
Though dark clouds roll between,
Or rocks that show their signal lights
In tempest's wildest scene.
Faithful 'till death, which finally
Shall close thy mortal strife,
When thy reward shall surely be
The crown of endless life.
Installation Ode.
Blest Ruler, at whose word
The universe was stirred,
And there was light;
Look now with gracious love
From Thy bright home above,
Direct in every move,
Each proved, Sir Knight.
In mysteries well skilled,
Their hearts with courage filled,
Behold they stand;
Strengthen their faith in thee,
Let hope their anchor be,
And heaven-born charity
Mark their command.
Endure with holy light
Each suppliant, Sir Knight;
May each one prove
Faithful in watch and word;
Strong the oppressed, to guard
And win the just reward
Of Faith and Love.