Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem Part 5

When at last, in mortal weakness, Sword and spear must fall, Christ, unto Thy Grand Encampment, Take us all.

The Curl of Gold.

How wildly blows the wintry wind, deep lies the drifting snow On the hillside, and the roadside, and the valleys down below; And up the gorge all through last night the rushing storm flew fast, And there old walls and cas.e.m.e.nts were rattling in the blast.

Lady, I had a dream last night, born of the storm and pain, I dreamed it was the time of spring; but the clouds were black with rain.

I thought that I was on the bay, a good way out from sh.o.r.e Alone, and feeling much afraid at the wild tempest's roar, I tried to reach the distant land, but could not find the way, And suddenly my boat capsized far out upon the bay.

I shrieked in wildest agony amid the thunder shock, When I heard you saying unto me, "Beneath us is a Rock, Trust not to me, these waves are strong, but lift your tear-dimmed eye-- That star will lead us to the rock that higher is than I."

And through the drenching wave and surf, together on we pa.s.sed, Till the bright green slopes of Hamilton shone clearly out at last.

It seemed so strange, we stepped ash.o.r.e, your garments were all dry, And, holding hands as we do now, I heard you say "good-bye."

Dear lady, now I see it all, those blessed words you said Were with me in the storm last night, like angels round my bed.

"So many and great dangers that we cannot stand upright,"

"Defend us by thy mercy, from all perils of this night."

Lady, I am a mother, none know it here save you; Don't blush for me, there is no shame, I am a wife, leal and true.

Lady, true love is born of heaven, we may deem it dead and past, And sit with bowed down head alone, the heart's door closed and fast; When suddenly we hear a voice, and spite of bolt or bar, Like its dear Master, there it stands, stretching its arms afar; Though buried up it rises, though dead it lives anew, And breathes again its Master's words, "Sweet peace be unto you,"

Folks say, "There is a mystery about that poor sick girl,"

Lady, there's mystery round us all, that angels will unfurl, I have one favor now to ask, within this paper's fold, There's a little lock of baby's hair, just half one curl of gold, When I am in my coffin, and soon now I'll be at rest, Will you lay this little curl of gold upon my quiet breast, G.o.d and the angels only know where the other half lies hid, In the green sod of old Ireland, neath a baby's coffin lid, Don't'leave me yet, it is near night, I feel so strange to-day, You know the prayers for dying ones, oh kneel once more and pray,

Thank G.o.d for sending one to me, where the wild tempests roll, You won't forget--the little curl--Saviour receive my soul.

Holy Communion.

We were wearied in the battle, Tempted, and pained, and tried By day the din and the carnage, By night the rain's fierce tide; But we heard a loving message, From the Prince's tent it came, "Each meet in the banqueting house.

In memory of my name."

We gathered; a motley regiment, Some young in the war of life, Some chiefs in the Royal Army, Some old and sick with strife, Some limped in the sacred pathway, Some were foot sore and worn, Some had their lances all shivered, Some had their banners torn.

And we all looked dim and dusty; We all were stained with sin; But we held the Prince's message, And the porter said "Come in."

We went to the banqueting house; We sat at the Prince's board, There we polished each his helmet, We sharpened each his sword.

Our Prince--we talked of his strife, The forlorn hope He had led, How He opened the gates of life, And rescued from Death the dead; And with Him we saw a bright host, Our comrades gone on before, The right wing of our army Upon the farther sh.o.r.e.

And the festering wound was healed.

The banners were made whole, Mists rolled back from the almost blind, Faith lit each warrior's soul; We drank of the fruit of the vine, We ate the living bread, The holy benediction fell, With healing on each head.

We entered in poor worn soldiers, We came out bolder knights, To march on to the Prince's battle, And war for His glorious rights, For had we not each re-taken The oath of allegiance high, And sworn round the Royal Standard To conquer, or to die.

Song of Azael.

I heard the voice of the Death Angel speak, As slowly he pa.s.s'd me by, And I saw him throw snow on the crimson cheek, And darken the laughing eye.

I saw him glide down through many a street; Tears followed him like spring rain; And yet ever unheeding tears or prayers, He mattered his wild wild refrain, "Come away with me, sweet baby so bright, I love the young flowers of the rosebud's hue, What? mother would keep thee always in sight, And see the sad tears in those eyes so blue.

Come with me, little one.

All thorns and crosses for you are done, Mother will meet thee where all is fair, Grown to the height of the angels there.

Quiet and deep, Be now thy sleep, Baby, so white.

For thou shalt travel where sorrow and strife Never shall darken thy pathway again.

Azael must take home to the Lord of Life The darlings He bought on the cross with pain.

Ah! you smile, little one.

Pleasure and glory for you are won, Near to the angels, you're not afraid Of going with me far into the shade.

The casket grows cold, The jewel I hold, For hearts of love.

Come along with me, thou trader in gold, Many have turned from thy office to-day.

Thou hast no time to consider the claim Of the wronged or helpless who crossed thy way.

You shudder, trembling one.

Close up the ledger, business is done.

Let you stay till your vessel comes in?

I'll take you far from the market's din, And you'll have time, In that strange clime, To meditate.

For thou wilt awaken, I would not hold.

If I could, the past from memory's ken.

I fancy that other ledgers unfold, Their pages for some of you business men; Rest to night, tired one.

Not half of your merchandise is done?

The steamers, the banks, the corn exchange?

No, Azael deals not in notes or change; He keeps no gold, In his fingers cold, He takes no bribe.

Come along with me, sweet lady so fair, Who told thee I was so grim and so cold; Know you that I covet that sunny hair, And those delicate arms's caressing fold; Fear me not, gentle one.

What if the hymn and the task are done, In my arms there is far calmer rest, Then thou wilt find on thy lover's breast.

Sleep, sleep for awhile, Then waken to smile, Ever and aye.

True life is progressive, my lady fair, And thou wilt re-open those radiant eyes; Think you that I have no burden of care, Azael has to account for each prize.

Banish doubt, gentle one.

Quicksands and pitfalls for thee are all done; Human love may ere long deceive thee, But Azael's love will never leave thee Till those earth-dim eyes Look on Paradise, Never to weep.

The song of Azael melted away, On the solemn midnight's bieath, I thought of the talents, the oilless lamps-- Oh, Azael, Angel of Death, I know that ere long thou wilt come for me.

Immanuel, Lord of life, By Thy victory gained on the bitter cross, Save in that hour of strife.

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