Victor Roy, A Masonic poem

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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,