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    Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem
    Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem
    Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem

    By Harriet Annie Wilkins

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem

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      Book preview

      Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem - Harriet Annie Wilkins

      Project Gutenberg's Victor Roy, A Masonic Poem, by Harriet Annie Wilkins

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Victor Roy, A Masonic Poem

      Author: Harriet Annie Wilkins

      Posting Date: August 4, 2012 [EBook #8146]

      Release Date: May, 2005

      First Posted: June 19, 2003

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VICTOR ROY, A MASONIC POEM ***

      Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Curtis Weyant, Dave Maddock,

      and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

      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

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