Victor Roy, A Masonic poem | Page 3

in talking, all do not love the same, To some 'tis the bread and breath of
life, to some it is only a name. We were going to be married the coming
spring, we had planned our nest, Down in the fairest of fairy dells, in
sight of the blue sea's breast, When Uncle Roy who had sailed to India,
many long years before, Gone from the towers of Edinburgh, and made
piles of golden store, Sent for me all in a hurry and ere long he died on
my breast, And far from the land of the heather we laid him gently to
rest. And then came the fever to me, sick and weak at the point of death,
Raving for Aimee--they told me 'twas Aimee at every breath. Weeks
passed and I woke again one day to breath as it were new air. The crisis
over; now health, life, love and myself a millionaire. But Victor Ellis
came back no more, I was changed into Victor Roy. Yes, a king with a
crown of gold, but the gold was a broken toy, For a letter lay by me

from England, a strange hand-writing to me, Telling me Aimee, my star
of hope, was lost in the treacherous sea. A party went boating one eve,
and the pleasure boat struck the bar, And before any help could be
given, Aimee had floated out far. Every available thing was done, that
landsman or sailor could try, So fell the burning shower of words that
met my bewildered eye. Oh the night at noon, I have wondered oft how
much the heart will bear, As strand after strand of the toughened cord,
strains with the weight and
wear.
I felt I must fly, weak as I was, to where she was lying; perhaps
'Twas a merciful Providence after all, that I took a relapse. Oh, the
weary months that crawled slowly by at a tortoise creeping pace, I
seeming to hear the dash of the waves, that hid a beloved face. Time
passed, and I learnt that the roaring sea was not the treacherous
thing.
'Twas not the dumb wave, but a living man that turned to
Winter my Spring, And Aimee had married another and sought the
Australian shore. She must have thought I was dead, Heaven help me,
betwixt us ocean's roar. I have sometimes wondered if gold is ever
aught but a curse, No, that's wrong--if honestly gained, no harm in a
well filled purse, But I often think of the little home standing there by
the sea, For far off merry England, the home planned for Aimee and me.
Oh to have toiled for her from dawn till the dews of restful night, Her
smile my guerdon, her love my prize, her heart so happy and bright.
Often I wonder if peace and love have sheltered her with their wings;
Of wealth I suppose they have plenty, and the comforts money brings,
For Montrose was the heir to a large amount of money I know, And he
certainly was not the kind of man to let his money go. But there must
be something warmer than gold to brighten Aimee's sky, And I hav'nt
much faith in a man who could win such a prize by a lie. But Heaven is
good that I found him not when my soul was passion rife, 'Twould only
have brought her grief, for my aim was a life for a life, Well-a-day!
come here "Chronicle," let us see if you have a word To calm the
current of burning thoughts that down to their depths are
stirred,
I'll read the first thing I meet with, murders, fires, or
kingdoms riven; Oh you are the first on the page, "Vera, to her lover in

Heaven."
"My lover why is it this night of storms,
My thoughts are ever turning
to thee?
You who are sheltered from all the blast,
Hear the
murmuring sounds of the crystal sea.
"My lover; do you remember the day,
When last my hands were in
yours entwined,
And the air was faint with the summer flowers,

While a roll of thunder came on the wind.
"My lover; who always spoke words of love,
The tone of thy voice is
so clear but far,
A bridge is between us I cannot cross,
But God's
will stands at each end of the bar.
"My lover; did you with your mist-cleared eyes,
See me when I
thought you were far away,
Did you bring down Hope from your
new-found skies,
While my heart was breaking over your clay?
"My lover; how long have the seasons been,
Since I tried to spell out
the small word 'wait,'
And learnt to know that your love and life,

Grow ever more strong as the years grow late.
"My lover; in dreams of the night you come,
Out of God's goodness
sent from afar,
He