Victor Roy, A Masonic poem | Page 7

us to-night,
Will he not stamp forgiveness on this
dead as right?
Perhaps in the morning light this howling storm will
stay
Its fury, and God please to open up our way.
So we can lay our
dead in quiet rest at last,
Then we, my child, go forth and dare the
world's cold blast."
"Mother, oh let me tell
Something I saw to-day: I went for bread;

But when I came to pass the church, my way
Was stopped by a
procession, a neighbor said
It was St. John's loved Festival, a day
Masons keep well.
And while we were delayed
She spoke of one who had kind words
for all,
She said his name was Roy, told me his home;
He could'nt
have heard her, yet he looked at me
So strangely, yet so kindly, that
my thoughts will roam
To him for aid.
Yes, mother; yes, to-night,
Trust me with that Masonic jewel, I
Will
keep it safe; perhaps this very man
May know of some one who
would like to buy,
At least he'll let me know its worth, I can
But do the right.
Mother, deny me not,
I'll go as "Esther went unto the king,
God will

protect me if the night is wild;
Perhaps some bright ray of sunshine I
may bring,
Pray that good angels may surround your child,
And guard her lot."
Ethel's Mission.
Out in the blinding and pitiless sleet,
The young girl goes on her
errand blest;
She starts at each sound on the lonely street,
As she
longs for, but dares not dream of rest.
She knows not the worth of the gem she holds
Close to her breast, in
her thinly clad hands;
A martyr's courage her soul enfolds,
And a
guardian angel near her stands.
She shudders oft as she passes by
Some staggering form, whose
ribald curse
Seems, 'mid the storms of that stormy sky,
To make the
loneliness ten times worse.
Now on the icy pavement she stands,
Now is plunged deep in a drift
of snow,
Now she is rubbing her freezing hands
Scarcely knowing
which way she must go.
She thinks of the past, the long dark past,
And blights that follow a
drunkard's child,
And the tears she strive's to check fall fast,
And
turn to ice in that night so wild.
For we all know how, in the darkest shade,
Dreams of the sunniest
light will come
To one in a foreign hospital laid,
No words so dear
as, "My home, sweet home!"
And Ethel sees visions of sunny bowers
Where once she played with
the ring-doves mild,
'Mid the piercing blast she can scent the flowers

She plucked with joy when a little child.
Then she starts in fear, and a nameless dread,
As she thinks of her

mother o'er and o'er,
Keeping lone watch with one lying dead,
In
that fearful stillness, behind the door;.
And, raising her trembling heart to Heaven,
She asks of Him, who
careth for birds,
That help and strength may to her be given,
And
not in air die her earnest words.
She reaches the end of the lonely gloom,
She scarcely knows if in
fear or joy,
She passes on to a snug warm room
And stands in the
presence of Victor Roy.
With tremulous efforts the timid girl
Strives to utter her story of grief,

all things grow of a dizzy whirl
As she shivering stands like an
aspen leaf.
He looks at the eyes so earnest and sad,
He hears the voice that is
sweet and mild,
He sees a figure scantily clad,
And only mutters,
"Why, that is the child."
He looks at the snowflakes melting fast
From the faded hood and the
mantle fold,
While his thoughts go dreamily into the past,
And now
he is young and now he is old.
He has taken the jewel in his hand,
He knows the mark which that
Key-stone bears;
Upon any sea, upon any land,
The sign of a
brother that jewel wears.
He looks at the Key-stone, with eyes whose ray
Grows dreamy like a
somnambulist,
and Ethel murmurs, "I saw you to-day
At the church
of St. John, the Evangelist.
Have I done any wrong in coming here?
'Twas only this evening my
father died,
And mother is lonely and full of fear;
We have no
friend in this world so wide."
And hearing the mournful voice again,
Seemed the unexplained spell

to break;
And, in tones which were partly born of pain
And partly
of hopefulness, Victor spake:
"Come nearer the fire, little girl, and tell me why here you came. Why
did you bring this jewel to me? How did you learn my name? Your
father is dead, this was not his; your name is Ethel Adair. Adair, Adair,
it seems like a dream; I have heard that name, but where? There, rest
yourself child, it's cold to-night, you can tell me by and by Where you
are from, and where you live--what do you say, will I buy? Do not fear
little girl, I am your friend; you cannot speak the word Of thanks you
wish to say, never mind, for there's One above has heard. Were you
born