Still rolleth onward time's mystical tide,
Ebbing and flowing by night and day;
Gladness and misery scattering wide,
Gladness and misery turning away.

Fair Spring has been with her emerald leaves,
Red Summer with roses of crimson ray,
Brown Autumn has passed with its golden sheaves,
Again St. John the Evangelist's day.

Since the morning came, Masonic bands
Have gathered, old friendship's ties to renew;
True hands have been clasped in a brother's hands,
Calm rest and refreshment fall like dew.

Far over the roll of the billowy seas,
Strangers have met on the lodge-room floor,
And like Israel encamped beneath Elim's trees,
Have thirsted for love's cool draught no more.

From the ice-wrought chain of the Arctic zone,
To the silver-lit sands of rich Peru;
From the shores which guard Victoria's throne,
To the woods of the west, unshorn and new.

In the crowded street, full of noise and cheer,
In hamlets and villages, still and calm;
Where the northern bear glides cold and clear,
Or the southern cross tints the sacred palm.

Over the face of this wonderful earth,
Templars haye met in Encampment dear,
Prisoners of hope have changed sighing for rest,
Pilgrims have tarried where angels were near.

Souls that were longing for far better things,
Their faith growing dulled by the Siroc's blight,
Have shaken the dust from their weary wings,
And plumed them again for a higher flight.

They have spoke of the work of the by-gone year,
Of Ashlers now perfected true and square,
Of weary hands folded upon the bier,
Of souls passed on to a lodge room fair.

They have told of storms from the North, so chill,
How dark was the South when the daylight ceased;
They have watched the sun neath the Western hill,
They have hailed his light in the holy East.

They have sang of the victor knights whose swords,
Are sharpened to slay the dark hosts of sin;
Still marching on through Saracen hordes,
Till the King's Encampment at last they win.

They have knelt in prayer round the altar's shade,
And implored what man never asks in vain,
That creation's Grand Architect will aid,
The builders to build till calm rest they gain.

Brave hearts have brightened love's armor anew,
And so shall the magical spell last on,
Till all who have worked by his pattern true,
Shall meet face to face their beloved St. John.

Within the dwelling of Victor Roy,
A fair girl awakens soft music's power,
And a woman listens in silent joy,
To the thrilling strains at that quiet hour.

"Ethel, my child, cease playing, come to me,
There, lean your head upon your mother's knee,
Do you remember dear what night this is?
Look back at last St. John's day, then at this,
You've often wondered why upon that night,
When you my guide led from the gloom to light;
That when you gave the name Adair it seemed,
To him who heard it, as if he had dreamed.
Like a dim funeral knell from some old chime,
Heard years ago, in some far distant clime,
Ethel, we should speak kindly of the dead,
Unable to defend themselves, their spirits fled
To worlds unknown to us, we cannot see
The homes they occupy, the destiny
It pleases God to give them, this we know
That our reaping must be what we sow,
If we plant thistles, we the thorn shall meet,
If we sow ripe grains, we shall harvest wheat,
And something else we know of future life,
That be the memories of war and strife,
Of evil thoughts which may have been controlled
Of hearts through which wild passions unchecked rolled;
Of base mean deeds that burn like felon brand,
In the pure sunlight of the eternal land;
Or if sweet recollections of the past,
Of homes where love her golden radiance cast,
Of deeds of mercy unto man unknown,
But breathing incense to the star-gemmed throne;
We know that not one of Adamic race,
Is unknown unto Him, the Lord of Grace,
And with the thoughts that shape themselves to prayer,
We can but leave them in His gracious care,
Who, as sharp nails were piercing each vein through,
Prayed 'Father forgive, they know not what they do,'
And preached of mercy to the souls in prison,
Ere He from the well guarded tomb had risen;
So darling think as gently as you may,
On one you saw so sadly pass away.
But duty bids me tell you, deeds of shame,
Stamped dark dishonor on our household name,
When we were living in the distant west,
A trouble came; grief was no stranger guest,
For racking fears sad day and anxious night,
Seemed to hold life-long leases as their right,
The trouble came through some high words at play.
All I know was before noon next day,
A letter came bidding me leave that night;
Bring what I could and let none know my flight,
To change my name, and if need be to swear
I never knew 'Montrose' only 'Adair.'
Part truth, part falsehood born of inward shame,
That sank the true one for the middle name,
I heard that dark red stains ended a strife
Began in so-called play, and closed with life.
I know for many months a namless dread,
Hung like the sword of Damocles overhead,
And we again had crossed the stormy main
And hid away among the hills of Spain,
But when you were an infant, nurse and I
Took you one morning ere the sun was high,
And in the little church covered with vines,
O'er which the setting sun in glory shines,
We gave you into the good Shepherd's Care
Amid our falling tears and Heaven sent prayer;
And there without respect to friends or foes,
Stands your true name, Ethel Adair Montrose.
My child before you close your eyes to-night,
With no forebodings for to-morrow's light,
Return your heartfelt thanks to Him whose hand
Has led us safely through a desert land,
Has kept our feet on many a slippery way,
And guided us from midnight to the day,
Lay at the Glorious Giver's blessed feet,
All that he asks, your time that passes fleet,
Your heart's first holiest love, your talents give
To him who scorned not death, that we may live."

Mother, I'll not forget,
To ask rich blessings upon you and him,
Whom God sent as a life boat to the lost,
A year ago to-night, when on the dim
Dark seas of woe, our bark was tempest toss'd,
The sun of hope had set.
I'm glad I went to-day,
And laid a cross upon that snow-strewn grave,
The sun gleamed out and on the white leaves burned,
It seems as if the childhood love, I gave
The one that calmly sleeps there, had returned
Watch to keep o'er his clay.
And yet it's not the same
In quality, the love I cherish now
Has more of pity perhaps; another one
Has surely right to my allegiance; how
Can I forget all he for us has done?
Hark! now he calls my name.

Ethel! where are you, there is the group you were speaking about one day,
Do you know the faces, two you love best, then drive those tears away,
What is there to cry for child, in a locket that's new and bright,
It was to have been your Christmas gift, but it's just as good to-night,
It bears the name of the day you came to spoil my dog and cat,
My birds and me too I'm afraid, if you say much more like that.
Sing me something instead, it's scarcely supper time yet--my child;
I see you are weary, go and rest while these winter winds blow wild,
Ethel, before you say 'good night,' we will sing "Abide with me,"
As I heard it twenty-six years ago the night I went to sea.

And softly upon the evening air,
The strain of praise from true hearts was given
And angels wafted the holy prayer,
Like incense up to the throne of Heaven.

"Good night, sweet Ethel," a silence fell
Solemn and calm, by no whisper broke,
Two sat watching the fire, a spell
Seemed holding each, until Victor spoke.

"Of what are you thinking so earnestly, you fancy I know the thought,
That has grown to deep for utterance, with strange sad memories fraught,
A year, a memorable year ago, yes, we shall ne'er forget,
That day of St. John the Evangelist, that night when two old friends met,
'Twas a dreary watching too my love, all that night in solemn gloom,
Where the dead lay cold and silently, waiting his lonely tomb,
I am glad that Ethel went to-day, and laid a cross on that grave,
I am glad that we each can truly say at the judgement day, 'I forgave,'
I read some lines the other day, that may have been written for us,
Heart histories repeat themselves like others, the lines ran thus:

"And midnight wearily stole on,
Heavy clouds o'er the young moon swept,
We looked out upon life and prayed
We looked upon the dead and wept,
That God can work while man looks on,
That truth will triumph o'er our dread,
A lesson sometimes hard to learn,
We learnt while watching by the dead.

'Twas not a scene that lovers choose,
Did any say that we had loved,
The dead was by us, yet we knew,
That we were living and beloved,
Truth's talisman was on each heart
Oh was there sin in what we said,
The troubles told, the truth confessed,
The night we watched beside the dead."

Aimee, look at this jewel rich, I have worn it the live long day,
You think I value it, so I do, yet I deem it worthless clay,
Compared with the other jewel rare, this Keystone brought to me,
Bright gem, long hidden but not destroyed in some unfathomed sea,
More honorable than golden fleece, more precious than the stone,
That alchemysts seek vainly for, or gems of a regal crown,
A Keystone brought to light once more, all uninjured by the storm,
The rains of fire that have swept round my other jewel's form,
For the fire doth but clear the dross, the waves but wash the dust,
From off the jewels of purest gold, such jewels I hold in trust,
For I should have claimed you still as mine, if we never more had met,
Till free from stain of sorrow or sin we stand where hope's suns ne'er set,
Where angels live on, in their life of love, unchanged yet ever new,
And then the time, God's own right time would have come for my taking you,
For this re-union upon earth, is the sign, beloved wife
Of the eternal rest we'll share in the bright hereafter life;
For have we not assurance blest, that whichever first goes home,
Will await with loving patience, till the other one shall come,

Unto those who wear God's blessed seal upon each united heart,
Those words must half their horror lose 'until death do you part,'
For true love doth dissolve death's power, as spring's suns melt the snow,
'Tis the only password at the gates, through which we both must go,
Where born of that benevolence which fills our Father's breast,
Angelic masons now prepare our special house of rest,
God's promises will never fail, if we but wait His hours,
He sends His messages of peace, like His rainbow after showers,
O'er one beam of that holy arch, this scroll now seems to glide,
"After the dark and dreary day, it shall be light at eventide."