Chapter 4
The Widow's son Smiled kindly in his brother's face, And said "All are made ready here, But not all fill the same high place, The Corner stone this will be near, When toil is done."
The listener bent, His eyes on the unfinished stone, And found himself a wiser man, Through that rough child of mountains lone, A ray of the Grand Master's plan, To him was sent.
From Masonry, That just man learnt that woes are thrown Around God's children, pain and care, But draw them near the corner stone, With the Great Architect to share, Heaven's blazonry.
Songs in the Night.
"Where is God my Maker, Who giveth songs in the night."--Bible.
The hour of midnight had swept past, The city bell tolled three, The moon had sank behind the clouds, No rustling in the tree. All, all was silent as the grave, And memories of the tomb, Had banished sweet sleep far away, All spoke of tears and gloom.
When suddenly upon the air. Rang out a sweet bird's song, No feeble, weak, uncertain note, No plaint of grief or wrong, No "Miserere Domine," No "Dies Irea" sad, But "Gloria in Excelsis" rang, In accents wild and glad.
How could he sing? a birdling caged, And in the dark alone, And then methought that he had seen, Some vision from God's throne, The little birdling's eyes were bright, While mine with tears were dim, Had some bright watcher glided by, And spake in joy to him?
Then I remembered what Christ said, The God of love's dear Son, "Not one of these small birds forgot Beneath the glorious sun." They have no load of grief to bear, Of sin no dark, deep stain, And yet in patience take their share Of storm, and frost and rain.
Oh, can it be unknown to us, Without one human word, The universal Father soothes The death-bed of each bird; "The whole creation groaneth," yet These pure things of the sky, Are they not nearer to the gates Than mortals such as I?
Yet while I mused, it seemed some form, Ere yet I was aware, Bent o'er my pillow, dried my tears, And turned to sing my prayer; Some subtle presence unrevealed, Seemed to repeat the words, "Fear not, for you are dearer far, Than many little birds."
I do not ask what seemed to speak; Whether the angel blest, Who hath been my appointed guard In calm or wild unrest; Or whether some sweet voice I love, But hushed to me a while, Came down on gentle mission sent, To change for tears a smile.
It matters not; God knows faith's wings Droop sometimes in the dust, And hands grow weak and lose their hold On Hope's firm anchor trust; And so, while sending dew and rain, And glowing sunbeams bright. God giveth unto those who hear, Songs in the darkest night.
In Memoriam.
They are gone away, No prayers could avail us to longer keep The ships called out on the unknown deep, We saw them sail off, some lingeringly, Some suddenly summoned put out to sea; They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in, But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin; As they turned to whisper one last good bye, We sent after each one a bitter cry; We knew on that track, They would never come back, By night or day.
Ah, we've closed dear eyes, But God be thanked that they, one and all, Had the heaven light touch them before the pall; They saw the fair land that we could not see, And one said, "Jesus is standing by me," And one, "The water of life I hear," And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here," One, "I have seen the city of countless charms," One, "'Neath me are the Everlasting Arms," So we know it is best, They should be at rest, In God's paradise.
Mary's Blessed Son, Thou wilt not chide if thou see'st that low Our harps are hanging on willow bough; We would not murmur, we know it is well, They are gone from the battle, the shot and shell, And in our anguish we're not alone; The Father knows all the grief we have known; Oh God, who once heard the Christ's bitter cry, Thou knowest what we feel when we see them die. Our light, has been hid By the coffin lid, And dark our noon.
God hears our moan, He knows how a stricken heart had said, "Oh, number her not with the silent dead, For if she stays watching the golden sea, God help, for what will become of me? The last rose out of my childhood's bower, From my English garden, the last sweet flower; Take me instead, for none call me mother." The messenger said, "I take no other." So she went the road The others have trod, And I am alone.
We shall meet again; I fancy sometimes how they talk together, Of the way they travelled, the stormy weather That beat so hard on their pilgrim road, Now changed for the city of their God; I wonder if in their special home, They keep choice rooms till their darlings come. Saviour, who loves them, protect and guide me Where they are waiting 'neath life's fadeless tree, Father and mother, And elder brother, And sisters twain.
A Song of the Flowers.
"Why are you weeping, ye gentle flowers? Are ye not blest in your sunny bowers? Have you startling dreams that make ye weep, When waking up from your holy sleep?
"Ah, knowest thou not, we fold at night, The tears earth drops from her eyelids bright, Like a loving mother her griefs are born, Lest her tender nurslings should die ere morn, And the sweet dew falls in each open cup, Till the eyes of morn are lifted up; We unfold our leaves to the sun's bright face, And close them up at the night's embrace.
Dost thou ask if grief comes creeping across, From the poplar bough to the dark green moss? No, round us the sunbeams smile and glow, Round us the streamlets dance and flow, And the zephyr comes with its gentle breeze, To sigh out its life in the young green trees, And then from the beds where the flowers grow, Rises a melody soft and low.
And the glorious rose with her flushing face, And the fuschia with her form of grace, The balsam bright, and the lupin's crest, That weaves a roof for the firefly's nest; The myrtle clusters, and dahlia tall, The jessamine fairest among them all; And the tremulous lips of the lily's bell, Join in the music we love so well."
"But startle ye not when the tempests blow? Have you no dread of a wily foe? Do you not tremble, when the serpents hiss Mid leaves that the zephyr alone should kiss?
Lady, the bells of the fainting flowers Close at the coming of thunder showers; The branches and tendrils merrily dance At the whirlwind's cry, and the lightning's glance. We dread not to see the snake's back of gold? Dart through the lilacs or marigold, For fears that dwell in the human breast, Find in the heart of flowers no rest.
We have no fears when we hear thee pass Over the fold of the tangled grass, We have no dread when we hear thee breathe Over the flowers we love to wreathe, Nor tremble when night falls from heaven above, And nature is stillness and earth is love; We steal from thy keeping when summer is o'er, And wait thee where flowers can die no more."
The Cities of Old.
Cities and men, and nations, have passed by, Like leaves upon an autumn's dreary sky; Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud, Like drops of rain on summer's fleecy cloud; Like flowers of a wilderness, Vanished into forgetfulness.
O! Nineveh, thou city of young Ashur's pride, With thy strong towers, and thy bulwarks wide; Ah! while upon thee splashed the Tigris' waters, How little thought thy wealth-stored sons and daughters,
That Cyaxerses and his troops should wait Three long years before thy massive gate; Then Medes and Persians, by the torches' light, Should ride triumphantly thy streets by night; And from creation banish thee, O! Nineveh. O! Nineveh.
And country of the pride of Mizriam's heart, With pyramids that speak thy wealth and art, Why is it that no minstrel comes, who sings Of all the glory of thy shepherd kings? Tyre, why are thy walls in ruins thus? Why is thy name so seldom spoke by us? Sidon, among the nations thou art fled, Thy joy departed and thy glory dead; Far gone ere all thy generations, Fallen nations! Fallen nations!
And Babylon, with all thy thronging bands, The glory of Chaldea's ancient lands; Thy temple, where a numerous host was seen, Thy gardens hung to please the Midian queen; Where beauteous flowers smiled on their terrace beds, Proud kings have passed through thee, and crowned heads; And grandeur and magnificence could view In thee a resting place--thy stores not few; Why is it thou art all alone? O! Babylon. O! Babylon.
And Greece, who shone in literature and might, When Marathon's broad plains saw sword and fight; Thy monumental ruins stand alone, Decay has breathed upon thy sculptured stone And desolation walks thy princely halls, The green branch twines around thy olden walls; And ye who stood the ten years' siege of Troy, Time's fingers now your battlements annoy; Why is it that thy glories cease? O! Classic Greece. O! Classic Greece!
And thou, best city of olden time, O! we might weep for thee, once chosen clime. City, where Solomon his temple reared, City, where gold and silver stores appeared; City, where priest and prophet lowly knelt, City, where God in mortal flesh once dwelt. Titus, and Roman soldiers, laid thee low, The music in thy streets has ceased to flow; Yet wilt thou not return in joy once more, And Lebanon give up her cedar store? And vines and olives smile as now they smile, Yet not upon the ruin of a holy pile; Wilt thou Destruction's flood not stem? Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Cities and men, and nations, have gone by, Like leaves upon an Autumn's dreary sky; Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud, Like drops upon the summer's passing cloud; Like flowers of a wilderness, Vanished into forgetfulness.
Out of His Time.
One evening a short time since, our attention was attracted by the prolonged ringing of a bell. The given number of strokes had sounded, yet ring, ring, ring. Was it an alarm of fire? No other bell signalled an answer. Was it some danger to our city? No crowds were gathering. At length we questioned a passer by, and received for answer, "It is ringing because an Apprentice is out of his time." "Out of his time!" We knew nothing of the boy, neither his name or home, but the waves of air told us something concerning him. We knew he had overcome difficulties, often had he been disheartened and dismayed, often had he heard the mocking laugh or coarse jest of his companions, at his imperfect workmanship, often heard the angry words over goods or tools spoiled through his ignorance or carelessness. He had risen on dark mornings when his neighbors, lads his own age, were snugly sleeping; he had toiled on glorious summer days when his indolent companions were resting under green trees, or plunging into the cool waters; he had done the rough work because he was "the boy." Yes, but there is another side to the picture. With courage renewed, with eyes and fingers becoming more and more accustomed to the handicrafts of his trade, every month has found him progressing, till to-night, as the still ringing bell tells us, he has overcome. His companions gather around him with boisterous mirth, and the "older hands" feel a certain pride in him, as wringing his hand they know he ranks among themselves, the means of an honest living at his disposal, one of God's great army of working men. A few hours passed and another bell resounded upon our ears. We listened, for that bell had a sad and solemn sound. Ah, another "Apprentice was out of his time." We knew something of how he had fought, not with rough iron, but with "the waves of this troublesome world." We knew how in every day life he strove to do his duty to his Lord and Master. Dismayed, how often? Discouraged, how frequently bearing the taunt, the sneer? But he too had overcome. His companions gather around him, but all mirth is hushed, tears fill their eyes, and choking words are whispered as they file round the casket, and look upon the calm dead face, that no more on earth will meet them with its wonted smile, and the pale hands that have done all their rough earthwork. His welcome we did not hear. Ah, it is well that the sound of harps and the silvery peals from the chiming bells of the city of God reach us not, or perchance we should "stand all the day idle." For are we not all entered Apprentices in this strange world of ours? Are we not all "serving our time?" How are we learning our trades? Are we likely to prove "workmen that need not be ashamed," or are we through fear or negligence hiding in the earth our Lord's money? Our indentures bear the blood-red seals of Calvary, our Covenant is "ordered in all things and sure." The time of our serving here is unknown to us, of the hour of our release knoweth no man. There have been some who "being made perfect in a short time, fullfilled for a long time." We have a long line of witnesses gone on before, but all drawing their life and courage from that Wonderful Man, the Redeemer of the world, the Carpenter of Galilee. He whose mysterious indentures were cancelled in the noon-day of His life. He who could stand among His sorrowing companions and say, "Father, I have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do." Oh, my fellow apprentices, how often are we tempted to leave _our_ work unfinished. Do we not thus sometimes think, "I can never learn my trade for heaven here." We see one wasting his Master's goods, we see the tables of the money-changers in the temple of God, we hear our fellows arraigning the Master before their petty tribunals, we grow faint and weary, we have foes within and without. Doubt says, "The Master is feasting royally and forgets his poor apprentices." Courage, courage, my brothers, we are treading the path the saints have trod. This is but a state of preparation. We know not what work for the King we may have to do by-and-by; over how many cities of whose locality we at present know nothing. He may give us authority to which of the countless worlds in our Father's universe we may be sent on the King's message of love, to what spirits in prison we, in our spiritual life, may go to preach of mercy. If here permitted to be the servants of Christ, and through His merits attaining to that better country, may we not reasonably infer that we shall aid Him more and more, till the mediatorial work is ended. Let these thoughts encourage us amidst the cold and heat, the scorn and shame. Let us see to it that we _do_ work the works of our Master. Let us often turn our eyes to those two grand rules of our workshop, "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you," our golden rule framed in the royal crimson of the King's authority; and that other silver lettered motto, framed in the clear, true blue of heaven, "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father, is to visit the widow and fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world." Let us imitate that brother workman of whom Whittier says:
"He gave up his life to others, Himself to his brothers lending; He saw the Lord in His suffering brothers, And not in the clouds descending."
Soon, soon we shall be out of our time; but here the figure ends. The earthly apprentice, freed from his articles of apprenticeship, may serve any master, the heavenly apprentice asks but _one_. Oh, Jesus, Master, Thou Saviour of our race, have mercy upon us, grant us so to serve Thee in time, that our earthly labours ended, we may hear Thee say, "Well done good and faithful servant," while the pure and beautiful angels shall rehearse to each other, "Rejoice, another apprentice is out of his time."
Two Altars.
"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."
The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful, Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty, Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed, Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch, Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour. Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament; Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar, A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered, As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel, Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:
"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses, Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful arbutulas; Look at the golden brown tints of these fruits in their lusciousness; Look at the bright varied hues of these green leaves, closely encircling These rich scarlet blossoms, like yonder clouds, glorious and wonderful; Nothing on earth or in heaven could make fairer oblation. Abel, what have you carved on your altar, in that wild devotion By which you in vain seek to soften the anger of heaven? A circle, to show that your God is all near, is filling The seen and unseen with His incomprehensible presence.
Well, so let it be, then; I'll not contradict the illusion. One thing appears certain, that we have offended our Maker, Who visits unjustly on us the mistakes of our parents, As if we ever reached out our hands for fruit once forbidden. Shall we never be free from the thorns and the thistles upspringing? Why do you still try to follow the steps and voice of your Maker? And why still persist in slaying the white lambs of your meadows? Take of my beautiful flowers and despise all blood shedding."
"My brother," spoke Abel, "I love the dear innocent flowers. Are they not all, nearly all that is left us of Eden's fair glory, All but the singing of birds, the winds and the waters, wild music, All but the whispers of love and blessings of heart-broken parents; But you heard, my brother, as well as myself the commandment, Not to offer to heaven what _we_ choose, but what God declareth Will shadow our Faith and sweet Hope in the promised atonement; And that terrible sin, those spots in our souls, my dear brother, Can never be cleansed by the lives of the beautiful flowers, Only by His, shadowed forth in the death of an innocent victim."
Then angrily answered Cain back to his young brother's pleading, "Abel, I have no patience with such mock humiliations, I have no need of a Saviour, I have no need of blood-shedding To wash out the stain of my own or my father's transgression. I for myself can make perfect and full restitution; Look at the smoke of your altar curling upward so clearly, Making white cloudlets on high in the blue of the firmament, While mine sweeps the ground that is cursed like the trail of the serpent: Why comes down the Maker of this blighted universe, asking Why art thou wroth, and why is thy countenance fallen?"
Stand I not here in the image of God, who created us? Have I not courage, and freedom, and strength above my inferiors? Did not our father give name to beast, bird, insect and reptile? Shall his children crouch down and kneel like the creature that crawleth? I will not obey this commandment, but I'll wreath up my altar With offerings of earth, with gold of the orange, and red of the roses, I'll not stain my hands with the blood of an innocent creature." So Cain turned away from his wondering brother; perhaps then little dreaming That on the next morrow he would become earth's first murderer; And, scorning the death of a lamb, take the life of a brother.
The Doom of Cain.
The Lord Said, "What hast thou done?"
Oh, erring Cain, What hast thou done? Upon the blighted earth I hear a melancholy wail resounding; Among the blades of grass where flowers have birth I hear a new-born tone mournfully sounding. It is thy brother's blood Crying aloud to God In helpless pain.
Unhappy Cain! Thou hast so loved to wreathe the clinging vine, And welcomed with pure joy the delicate fruit, Till thou hast felt a kindred feeling twine Around thy heart, grown with each fibrous root Of tree, or moss, or flower, Growing in field or bower, Or ripening grain.
But henceforth, Cain, When the bright gleaming of the rosy morn Proclaims another glorious summer day, Thou may'st walk forth to greet the earth newborn, And pluck the blushing roses on thy way; They at thy touch shall blight, Stricken with some strange might, Some dire pain.
In time to come, When thy fair child (for thou shalt have a son) Shall lay his little, soft, warm hands in thine, And say, "My father, growing neath the sun Are lovely flowers, trees and moss and vine; Here is rich soil and room For me; make bowers bloom Around our home."
Thy heart will shrink, And thou wilt hear the voice the Lord has heard, The voice of brother's blood speaking from earth, And each pulse of thy sad soul will be stirred, As he to whom the girl thou love'st gave birth Brings back with fearful truth The playmate of thy youth From the grave's brink.
For on no shore Shall fair earth yield unto thy stalwart arms; No, thou may'st dig, and prune, and plant in vain, And noxious worms and things of poisonous harms Shall not be banished at the will of Cane; Thou'lt set seed-bearing root, Thou'lt plant life-giving fruit No more, no more.
Depart! Depart! Ah no, not greater than the soul can bear, Did'st thou not always find whatever grain Thou cast, the same grew upward full and fair, Thou _would'st not_ look upon the pure lamb slain, To faith true sacrifice Thou would'st not turn thine eyes; Go, till thine heart.
Our Poor Brethren.
"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea." --Masonic Sentiment
They met in the festive hall, Lamps in their brightness shone, And merry music and mirth, Aided the feast of St. John. Men pledged the health of their Queen And of all the Royal band, The flags of a thousand years, The swords of their motherland.
Then mid the revelry came The sound of a mournful strain, Like a minor chord in music, A sweet but sad refrain; It rose on the heated air, Like a mourner's earnest plea, "Our poor and penniless brethren Dispersed over land and sea."
Poor and penniless brethren Scattered over the world, Want and misfortune and woe Round them fierce darts have hurled; Wandering alone upon mountains, Sick and fainting and cold, Lying heart-broken in prisons, Chained in an enemy's hold.
Dying in fields of combat, With none to answer back The masonic sign of distress, Left on the battle's track. Shipwrecked in foaming waters, Clinging to broken spars, Dying, this night of St. John, Mid the ocean and the stars.
Others with hunger faint--we Taste these rich and varied meats-- Oppression gives them no home But dark and desolate streets. Oh, God of mercy, hear us, As we ask a boon for Thee, For poor and penniless brethren Dispersed over land and sea.
Poor and penniless brethren, Ah, in the Master's sight, We all lay claim to the title On this, our festival night. Lone pilgrims journeying on Towards light that points above, Treading the chequered earthworks Till we reach the land of love.
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.