Victor Roy, a Masonic Poem Part 9

Work up to the landmark, brothers, We shall not always stay, The falling shadows warn us To work in the light of day.

How often our footsteps turn Where a brother's form is hid, Oft we cast evergreen sprigs On a brother's coffin lid.

Thou, who dost give to each Some appointed post to hold, Teach us to cherish the weak, To give Thy silver and gold; To guard as a soldier guards Honor and Love's pure shrine, To give our lives for others, As Thou did'st for us give Thine.

To Masons all over the world Give wisdom to work aright, That they may gather in peace Their working tools at night.

May love's star glitter o'er each, Amid darkness, storm or mist, As on this night of St. John, Our Blest Evangelist.

Vain Dreams.

--"Throughout the day, I walk, My path o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him."

--Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin.

Mother, gazing on thy son, He, thy precious only one, Look into his azure eyes, Clearer than the summer skies.

Mark his course; on scrolls of fame Read his proud ancestral name; Pause! a cloud that path will dim, Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Young bride, for the altar crowned, Now thy lot with one is bound, Will _he_ keep each solemn vow?

Will _he_ ever love as now?

Ah! a dreamy shadow lies In the depths of those bright eyes; Time will this day's glory dim, Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Sister, has thy brother gone, To the fields where fights are won; Oh! it was an hour of pride When he was last by thy side; Thou dost see him coming back In the conqueror's proud track; Hus.h.!.+ the bayonets earthward turn, Dream vain dreams, he'll not return.

Woman, on the cottage green, Gazing at the sunset scene, Now the vintage toil is o'er, But the gleaner comes no more Through the fields of burnished corn; Lo! a peasant's bier is borne By the sparkling river's brim, Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Maiden, who in every prayer Breath'st a name thou dost not bear, Sing again thy lover's song; Yes, he will be back ere long, Back in all his manhood's pride, Back, but with another bride; Cease those bridal robes to trim, Thou hast dreamt vain dreams of him.

Earthly idols! how we mould Sand with fruit and clay with gold!

How we cherish crumbling dust, Then lament our futile trust!

Saviour, who on earth didst prove All the agony of love, Fit us for that brighter sh.o.r.e, Where they dream vain dreams no more.

The Forest River.

Amid the forest verdant shade, A peaceful river flowed: Wild flowers their home on its banks had made, The sunbeam's rays on its breast were laid, When the light of morning glowed.

By its marge the wolf had found a lair, He roamed through each lonely spot; That deep designer, the beaver, there Built his palace; the s.h.a.ggy bear In the tall tree had his cot.

And voices sweet were heard on the bank Of the river's gentle flow; The whip-poor-will sang when the sun had sank, And the hum-drum bee to his home had shrank, When the wind of eve did blow.

The tree-frog joined with his sonorous call, The gra.s.shopper chirped along, The dormice came out of their underground hole, The squirrels peeped over their pine-tree wall, To list to the revel song.

Nothing disturbed the murmur deep Of the river broad and fair; No one awoke it from peaceful sleep, Save when floating mice o'er its breast would creep, Or the rusty-coated bear.

One morn the sound of an axe was heard In the forest, dark and lone; Then started with fear the beasts disturbed, Their reign was broke at the woodman's word, And they scowled with anger on.

On the river's brink the emigrant's child Pa.s.sed all his lonely hours, He laughed when he ruffled the bosom mild Of the flowing streamlet so bright and wild, As it bore his boon of flowers.

Soon the throng of the forest heard the horn Of the boat, the commerce boat; Then they started up from the brake and thorn, And hastening away by the light of the morn, They fled from cavern and moat.

And the bird peeped out of a pine tree tower, And shrank away at the sight, The humming-bird fled to his rose-hung bower, The bright bee curled himself snug in a flower, O'ertaken by fear and fright.

And the river which rolled for ages, still In a gentle flow unriven, Now bears on its bosom by man's proud will, By the arts of industry and skill, The blessings to mortals given.

Over its billows the steamboats tread, With their waters rus.h.i.+ng high, Or the snowy sail to the wind is spread, As the n.o.ble bark on her way is sped To the crowded city nigh.

Oh river bright, we sail over thy breast, Once bearing wood runners wild; But the birds who built on the bank their nest, Have fled long ago to the boundless west, From thee and from man exiled.

Last Words of Sir Henry Lawrence.

"Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men."

The shades of death were gathering thick around a soldier's head, A war stained, dust strewn band of men gathered around his bed.

"Comrade, good-bye; thank G.o.d your voice may cheer the dauntless brave When I, your friend and countryman, am resting in the grave.

Hush, soldiers, hush, no word of thanks, it is little I have done For the glory of the land we love, toward the setting sun.

I have but one request to make: When all is over, then Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.

Heap up no splendid monument in memory of my clay, No tributary words to tell of one who's far away; It matters not to pa.s.sers by where lies my crumbling dust, The cherubim and seraphim may have it in their trust; And bones of better men than I have bleached all cold and white Where scorching sunbeam goes by day and the prowling beast by night.

Give me a few spare feet of earth away down in the glen, Breathing the words of faith and hope, bury me with the men.

Bury me with the men; when the fearful seige was gained, With British blood and British dead the Indian soil was stained.

Poor Dugald lay that fearful night and never asked for aid, And Fraser, wounded, cheered us on, and Allan, dying, prayed, And brave Macdonald cheered the flag with his expiring breath.

These are the men who jeopardised their lives unto the death, They drove the murderous Sepoys back, the wild wolf to his den; All honor to their n.o.ble hearts; bury me with my men.

Is it death that's coming nearer? how clammy grows my brow; Yes, I'm going home for promotion, the battle's over now.

Comrades, I often fancy, how upon yon blessed sh.o.r.e, In that land of recognition, we may yet all meet once more.

Colonel, we'll gather round you then, as in the days of old; Why do whisper, comrades, are my fingers growing cold?

Oh, tell my brother-officers that I thought about them when I was going across the river; bury me with my men.

How very dark it's growing, I suppose it's nearly night; Well, I think we shall see England in the morning's ruddy light.

And my mother and my sister surely I see them stand Upon the beach, and summer flowers waving in each hand; And sounds of joy and victory comes on the evening air.

Colonel, if I go down home first, you'll come and see us there?

Do I hear my comrades sighing? Where am I? ah, amen.

Let there be no fuss about me, bury me with my men.