H E A R T S O N G S.
HEART SONGS
BY
JEAN BLEWETT.
TORONTO:
GEORGE N. MORANG.
1897
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
————
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by George N. Morang, in the Office
of the Minister of Agriculture.
————
Printed by
The Brown-Searle Printing Co.
Toronto
CONTENTS
Wooing His Valentine
IF I could speak in phrases fine,
Full sweet the words that I would say
To woo you for my valentine
Upon this February day.
But when I strive to tell you all,
The charms I see in your dear face,
A dumbness on me seems to fall—
O, sweetheart, let me crave your grace!
I fain would say your eyes of blue,
Like violets to me appear;
Shy blossoms, filled with heaven’s dew,
That throw their sweetness far and near.
How tender are your lips of red!
How like a rose each velvet cheek!
How bright the gold upon your head—
All this I’d say, if I could speak.
How warm your blushes come and go!
How maidenly your air and mien!
How pure the glances you bestow—
Wilt be my Valentine, O Queen?
The angels walking at your side,
Methinks have lent their charms to you,
For in the world so big and wide,
There is not one so good and true.
If I had but the gift of speech,
Your beauty and your grace to prove,
Then might I find a way to reach
Your heart, and all its wealth of love.
Then, sweetheart, take the good intent—
Truth has no need of phrases fine—
Repay what long ago I lent,
And be to-day my Valentine.
Jealous, Sweetheart?
A STEP on the walk she’s waiting to hear—
Waiting—waiting—
There’s a frown on her face—pouting ’tis clear,
Ah, someone is late in coming I fear.
All lovers are very fickle, my dear,
Waiting, waiting!
Only last week he was praising up Nell—
Praising—praising—
Saying her voice was clear as a bell,
Thinking her fairer, and who is to tell
All that he said as they walked through the dell?
Praising, praising!
Perhaps he is with her this summer night—
Who knows? Who knows?
Perhaps he is holding her hand so white,
Perhaps he is watching her eyes so bright,
Perhaps he is wooing with all his might,
Who knows? Who knows?
Perhaps he is saying, “I love you best!”
Who cares? Who cares?
No need to carry a weight on one’s breast,
No need to worry and lose one’s rest,
Life is a comedy, love is a jest,
Who cares? Who cares?
What if he has quite forgotten to keep
Old ways—old ways—
There’s a path where the silver moonbeams creep,
And the tangled flowers have fallen asleep,
And the dew is heavy—the clover deep—
Old ways—old ways!
He’s not coming to-night, no need to wait,
Ah me! Ah me!
Hark, the clock is chiming the hour of eight,
And once on a time he railed at the fate
That kept him, if only a half-hour late—
Ah me! Ah me!
But who comes here with a swinging stride?
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Turns she away in her pique and pride,
Turns she away, till he says at her side,
“There’s but one for me in the world so wide!”
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Now in the blossoms the beaded dew slips,
Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Someone is kissing two tremulous lips,
And there lingers no sign of the past eclipse,
Down in the clover a drowsy bee sips,
Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
The Day Neil Rode to Mill
MACLEOD of Dare called his son to him,
MacLeod of Dare looked morose and grim,
For he was sending on mission grave
This son of his, both handsome and brave,
And trembled, thinking, “what if he make
In his heedless youth a grave mistake?”
’Twas not for country, nor for the King,
Nay, ’twas a much more important thing
Than the Church, or State, than feud or strife—
The mission was to search out a wife.
And young Neil listened with scanty grace,
A look of impatience on his face,
While the old man told him where to go,
Told him what to say, and what to do,
“On the morrow ye’ll gang an’ stay
Wi’ yer rich auld uncle, Allan Gray;
He ’ill gie ye the welcome o’ a son,
Ye’ll marry the dochter, there’s but one,
She’s worth the winnin’, for in her hand
She hauds the deed o’ all o’ his land,
She’s no weel-favored, a homely maid,
But guid, an’ properly grave an’ staid.”
“But why should I wed a woman plain?
You didn’t yourself—” MacLeod was vain,
He smiled well-pleased, and said, “True, Neil, true,
But I was handsomer far nor you!
Just coort the maiden, an’ never mind
A squint or freckle, since luve is blind,
Or ought to be in a case like this,
For ’tis na’ a chance I’d hae ye miss.
“She’s na’ sae braw as her cousin Kate,
But ’tis wi’ Janet I’d hae ye mate,
For Kate, puir lassie, she has nae land,
Her face is her fortune, understand,
She live’s wi’ Janet, who loves her much,
And fond o’ pictures, an’ books, an’ such;
Gie her gude-day when you chance to meet,
But mind an’ yer cousin Janet greet
Wi’ warmer words, and a gallant air,
Go win’ ye a wife—an’ a warld o’ care!”
Neil listened closest to what was said
Of Kate, the penniless, pretty maid,
And when at length he came to the place
’Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace,
While Janet viewed him with conscious pride,
As one who would some day be his bride.
He stopped with them for many a day,
A favorite he of old Allan Gray;
They walked together over the hill,
And through the valley, solemn and still,
The old man showed him acres wide
That would go with Janet as a bride,
Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair,
The blue of her eyes, her golden hair,
“She’ll hae no flocks, an’ she’ll hae no land,
She’ll hae no plenishin’ rich an’ grand,
But gin’ she stood in her—scanty dress,
What man o’ mettle would luve her less?”
The youth’s heart warmed to the logic old—
O, what worth was land, what worth was gold,
What worth anything under the skies
Save the lovelight in a lassie’s eyes?
Janet pestered him day after day,
Did he walk out, why, she went that way,
Did he come in to rest him awhile,
She was waiting with beaming smile;
He never could get a step nearer Kate,
Janet was there like the hand of fate.
She was so cross-eyed, that none could say
Whether or not she looked his way.
But one day it chanced that, going to mill,
He overtook Kate under the hill.
Would she mount behind, and ride along?
Perhaps she would, there was nothing wrong—
So he helped her up with trembling arm,
O, surely the day is close and warm!
Whoa mare! go steady! no need for haste
When two soft arms are about his waist;
Neil, shame on him, pressed her finger-tips,
Then turned he about and pressed her lips!
On the road the hawthorn blossom white
Scattered itself just in sheer delight,
A bird was singing a tender rhyme
Of meadow, mate, and the nesting-time,
The hill looked beautiful in the glow
That heaven flung on the world below.
Ah me! if that ride could last a week,
Her gold hair blowing against his cheek,
As they rode to mill, say the world-wise,
Nay, rode in the lane of paradise.
Travel that way, though your hair grow white,
You never forget the journey quite!
Next day, Neil went to the old home place
And met his stern father face to face;
Boldly enough he unfolded the tale,
Though maybe his cheek was sometimes pale,
He would marry Kate, and her alone,
He had tried to care for the other one,
But she squinted so, her hair was red,
And freckles over her face were spread;
In all the world there was none for him
But his Kate. Then laughed that old man grim,
“Your mither, lad, was a stubborn jade,
A stubborn an’ handsome dark-eyed maid,
An’ in a’ our battles she’s always won,
An’ Neil, you are just your mither’s son;
But I haven’a lived through a’ my days
And just learnt nothing, heaven be praised!
Hark now, a gaed to your uncle’s hame
An’ bargained wi’ him afore ye came,
A’ saw yer Kate an’ like’t her weel,
A luik o’ your mither I could spell
In her bonny face, a woman to win
By ony means, that is short o’ sin,
Sae I tellit him to let Kate be
The lassie puir an’ o’ low degree,
An’ sort gie ye to understand
That Janet was owner o’ the land.
Why need I gie mesel’ sic a task?
Ye stiff-neck fellow, ye needna ask,
Gin ye was coaxed, ye wouldna move—
Ye’d be too stubborn tae fa’ in love;
Like a’ the Campbells ye’ll hae yer way,
Yer mither’s hae’d hers mony a day.
’Tis glad ye should be this day—my word!
Tak’ time right now to thank the Lord,
Yer father’s wisdom gat ye a bride
An’ plenty o’ worldly gear besides.”
Ah, thankful enough was Neil that day,
The joy leaped up in his eyes of gray,
But not for his father’s wisdom great,
Though maybe it had gotten him Kate,—
Not for the land, and not for the gold,—
Not for the flocks that slept in the fold,
“Thank heaven,” he said, with a glow and thrill,
“Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill.”
At Joppa
PERCHANCE the day was fair as this—
The eastern world is full of glow,
With warmer sun, and bluer sky,
And richer bloom than we can show—
At Joppa quaint, beside the sea,
When Simon Peter went to pray.
I wonder if he did not pause
Awhile to gaze on God’s great book,
To read on earth, and sea, and sky,
The smile divine, the tender look;
For when the hour of vision’s given,
The two worlds touch—our earth and heaven.
God teaches with a tenderness
That we who follow him should learn,
Hides not His glory when ’twill bless
Eyes that look up, and souls that yearn.
He sent the vision fair to see,
And spoke to Peter on that day.
Sleeping, the voice fell on his ears,
I hear bold Peter say “Divine,
’Twill live and sound forever-more
In this poor wayward heart of mine—
‘What God has cleansed,’ so broad, so free,
My narrow creed flees shamed away.”
Who would not be with Peter now?
Blue heaven above, and earth below,
So near to God, so far away
From sin, and wretchedness, and woe.
Before his eyes—gone, every doubt—
The glory of the skies spread out.
But hark! men knock upon the door,
And voices call, and not in vain,
For Peter comes down to the earth,
And takes his life-work up again,
Down from the fullness to the need,
From God to man, a change indeed.
We fain would on the housetop be,
We fain would hold communion sweet,
But looking up, we never heed
The work unfinished at our feet.
God, give to us, we humbly ask,
Strength for the vision and the task.
The World is Growing Old
I AM so weary, Master dear,
So very weary of the road
That I have travelled, year by year,
Bearing along life’s heavy load,
It is so long, it is so steep,
This highway leading to the skies,
And shadows now begin to creep,
And sleep lies heavy on my eyes.
I am so weary, Master dear,
So very weary of the road,
I pray I may be very near
That snow-white City built of God,
Where pain and heart-ache have not strayed,
Where nought is known but peace and rest,
Where thy dear hands have ready made
A place for e’en the humblest guest.
But come thou closer, Master dear,
My weakness makes me sore dismayed,
O, let me whisper in thine ear,
For I am troubled and afraid.
What if my soul its way should miss
Between this and the world above,
And never share the perfect bliss
Provided by thy tender love?
But lo, He speaketh at my side
So close I feel His shelt’ring touch,
“Thou art my guest, can harm betide
One called of me, and known as such?
Dear child, the journey is not long,
Thy heart need not to fear or shrink
An opening door, an angel’s song—
Oh, heaven is nearer than you think!
At Dawn
I CANNOT echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!
We have been glad together greeting some new-born and radiant days,
The earth would hold me, every day familiar things
Would weight me fast,
The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings
Goes flitting past.
Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath
To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,
And combat death.
It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes
The sorrow grow.
Love, could I lift my own undimmed to paradise
And leave thee so!
A thousand chords would hold me down to this low sphere,
When thou didst grieve;
Ah! should death come upon morn’s rosy breast, I fear
I’d crave reprieve.
But when her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,
When shadows creep,
Then just to put my hand in thine and say, “Good night,”
And fall asleep.
She
A WOMAN who knows how to droop
Her eyes before the world’s bold gaze,
And teach, by silence, just how near
That world dare venture to her ways.
A woman who knows how to lift
Her eyes to mine without dismay—
For innocence is might—
And say that wrong is wrong alway,
That right and truth are best alway,
Eyes heaven-lit and clear, to-night
I’ll take, if for my own I may,
The creed you hold—the right!
The Two Marys
THEY journey sadly, slowly on,
The day has scarce begun,
Above the hills the rose of dawn
Is heralding the sun,
While down in still Gethsemane
The shadows have not moved,
They go, by loss oppressed, to see
The grave of One they loved.
The eyes of Mary Magdalene,
With heavy grief are filled;
The tender eyes that oft have seen
The strife of passion stilled.
And nevermore that tender voice
Will whisper “God forgives;”
How can the earth at dawn rejoice
Since He no longer lives?
O, hours that were so full and sweet!
So free from doubts and fears!
When kneeling lowly at His feet
She washed them with her tears!
With head low bowed upon her breast
The other Mary goes,
“He sleeps,” she says, “and takes His rest
Untroubled by our woes.”
And spices rare their hands do hold
For Him, the loved and lost,
And Magdalene, by love made bold,
Doth maybe bring the most.
It is not needed, see the stone
No longer keeps its place,
And on it sits a radiant one
A light upon his face.
“He is not here, come near and look
With thine own doubting eyes,
Where once He lay—the earth is shook
And Jesus did arise.”
And now they turn to go away,
Slow stepping, hand in hand,
’Twas something wondrous he did say,
If they could understand.
The sun is flooding vale and hill,
Blue shines the sky above,
“All Hail!” O voice that wakes a thrill
Familiar, full of love.
From darkest night to brightest day,
From deep despair to bliss,
They to the Master run straightway
And kneel, His feet to kiss.
O, Love! that made Him come to save,
To hang on Calvary,
O mighty Love! that from the grave
Did lift and set Him free!
Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth—
With voice so sweet and strong,
Sing, till it thrills through all the earth—
The Resurrection Song!
The Mother’s Lecture
THERE’S nothing, did you say, Reuben?
There’s nothing, nothing at all,
There’s nothing to thank the Lord for
This disappointing fall.
For the frost it cut your corn down,
Right when ’twas looking best,
And then took half the garden,—
The drouth took all the rest.
The wheat was light as light could be,
Not half a proper crop,
Then the fire burned your fences,
And burned till it had to stop.
The cows were poor because the grass
Withered all up in the heat,
And cows are things that won’t keep fat
Unless they have plenty to eat.
Suppose the frost did take the corn,
And the cattle are not fat,
Another harvest is coming—
You might thank the Lord for that.
The fire that burned your fences down,
And laid your haystacks flat,
Left the old house above your head,
You might thank the Lord for that.
You’ve lost from field, and barn, and fold,
You’ve that word “loss” very pat,
But you’ve lost nothing from the home,—
You might thank the Lord for that.
And here is your mother at your side,
Braiding a beautiful mat,
I’m old, my boy, but with you yet—
You might thank the Lord for that.
Your wife is a good and patient soul,
Not given to worry or spat,
Nice to see, and pleasant to hear,
You might thank the Lord for that.
Here in the cradle at my side
Is something worth looking at,
She came this disappointing year,
You might thank the Lord for that.
Your boy is calling out, “Daddy!”
As hard as ever he can,
There’s lots of folks would thank the Lord
For just such a bonnie man.
Ashamed of yourself, eh, Reuben?
Well, I rather thought you’d be—
What! going to keep Thanksgiving
In a manner good to see?
To kill the biggest gobbler
That’s strutting round the farm?
To give poor folks provisions,
And clothes to keep them warm?
You’re going to help and comfort
Each sad old wight you find?
You’re feeling so rich and thankful,
And heaven has been so kind?
Ah, now my own boy, Reuben,
I’m so glad we’ve had this chat,
You’re growing so like your father—
You might thank the Lord for that.
Spring
O, the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep,
And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.
The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves,
Give never a murmur or sigh of woe—they are dead—no dead thing grieves.
No carol of love from a song-bird’s throat; the world lies naked and still,
For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.
Not a flower,—a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose or jessamine soft,
To lay its bloom on the dead river’s lips, that have kissed them all so oft,
But look, a ladder is spanning the space twixt earth and the sky beyond,
A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace—the strong, the subtle, the fond!
SPRING, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath,
Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.
SPRING, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam’s heart,
Thrown over her shoulders, bonnie and bare—see the sap in the great trees start,
Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright,
A-stirring and spreading of something fair—the dawn is chasing the night!
SPRING, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein,
The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.
SPRING, with the hyacinths filling her cap, and the violet seeds in her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;
SPRING, with its daffodils at her feet, and pansies a-bloom in her eyes,
SPRING, with enough of the God in herself to make the dead to arise!
For see, as she bends o’er the coffin deep—the frozen valley and hill—
The dead river stirs, Ah, that ling’ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!
And then as she closer, and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud,
Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!
The hill where she rested is all a-bloom—the wood is green as of old,
And ’wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.
Reminiscences
THERE came a dash of snow last night,
An’ ’fore I went to bed,
I somehow got to thinkin’ ’bout
That old place, Kettletread.
I’m silly ’bout that spot of earth,
Though why, I can’t surmise,
For it has got me in more scrapes
And made me tell more lies,
When me, an’ you,
An’ Taylor’s boys,
Were always in the spill,
A stealin’ off
From work to go
A-coastin’ down that hill.
Do you rec’lect how we used to stand
An’ holler out like sin,
“Now one must pass that walnut stump
Afore the rest chips in?”
An’ if one tumbled in the snow, we only stopped to laugh,
An’ all the help we ever gave was aggravatin’ chaff.
Zip! Zip! the frost and snow
A pickin’ at our face,
The wind just howlin’ ’cause it knowed
’Twas beat fair in the race!
Good gracious! Jim, if I could stand, a-lookin’ down that hill,
A-watchin’ you boys tumblin’ off an’ laughin’ at the spill;
An’ then grab up my Noah’s Ark, so clumsy and so wide,
An’ pull the rope, an’ hold her back, there let her go kerslide—
An’ see that glazy piece of ice
A-spannin’ that old crick,
An’ know I couldn’t stop this side
If ’twas to save my neck—
Now don’t you get excited, Jim, ’cause I’m a-talkin’ so,
That would be awful foolish—Gosh! just hear that north wind blow.
Ammiel’s Gift
THE City, girded by the mountain strong,
Still held the gold of sunset on its breast,
When Ammiel, whose steps had journeyed long,
Stood at the gate with weariness opprest.
One came and stood beside him, called him son,
Asked him the reason of his heavy air,
And why it was that, now the day was done,
He entered not into the city fair?
Answered he, “Master, I did come to find
A man called Jesus; it is said He steals
The darkness from the eyeballs of the blind,
The fever from the veins—Ay, even heals
That wasting thing called sickness of the heart.
His voice they say doth make the lame to leap,
The evil, tearing spirits to depart.”
From Nain there comes a tale
Doth make me weep,
Of one a widow walking by the bier
Of her dead son, and walking there alone,
And murmuring, so that all who chose might hear,
“A widow and he was my only one!”
This Jesus, meeting her did not pass by,
But stopped beside the mourner for a space,
A wondrous light they say shone in His eye,
A wondrous tenderness upon His face;
And He did speak unto the dead, “Young man,
I say arise”—these tears of mine will start—
The youth arose, straight to his mother ran,
Who wept for joy and clasped him to her heart.
Within me, Master,
Such a longing grew
To look on Him, perchance to speak His name,
I started while the world was wet with dew,
A gift for Him—Ah, I have been to blame,
For when a beggar held a lean hand out for aid,
I laid in it, being moved, a goodly share
Of this same gift, and then a little maid
Lisped she was hungry, in her eyes a prayer,
I gave her all the fruit I plucked for Him,
His oil I gave to one who moaned with pain,
His jar of wine to one whose sight waxed dim—
O, Master, I have journeyed here in vain!
Within the city Jesus walks the street,
Or bides with friends, or in the temple stands,
But shamed am I the Nazarene to meet,
Seeing I bring to Him but empty hands.
The sun had long since sunk behind the hills—
The purple glory and the gleams of light
Had faded from the sky, the dusk that stills
A busy world was deep’ning into night.
“Son, look on me,” the sweetness of the tone
Made Ammiel’s heart begin to thrill and glow,
“Full well,” he said, “I know there is but One
With simple words like these could move me so.”
“Son, look on me,” and lifting up his eyes
He looked on Jesu’s face, and knew ’twas He,
Knelt down and kissed His feet, and would not rise
Because of love and deep humility.
Up in the deep blue of the skies above
Were kindled all the watchfires of the night
The voice of Jesus, deep and filled with love,
Said, “Come, bide with me till the morning’s light.
At dawn my beggar asked not alms in vain,
Since dawn, have I been debtor unto thee,
All day thy gifts within my heart have lain,
Fruit, oil, and wine, come through my poor to me.”
Robin
THERE’S not a leaf on the vine where you swing
And the wind is chill and the sky is grey,
But all undaunted you flutter and sing,
“Ho, the first of May! Ho, the first of May!”
There’s never a hint of yesterday’s frost,
Of the hunger and cold and waiting long,
Never a plaint over what you have lost
Thrown into the notes of your happy song;
The gladness is pressed in your bosom red,
And the gloss is laid on your little head.
I thank you for singing, robin to-day,
For flaunting before me, jolly and bold,
Chirping, “Ho! Ho! do you know it is May,
Or are you so dull you have to be told?”
Margot
NOW Margot, dinna flout me,
O, dinna be unkind!
Mayhap to do without me,
A hardship you would find.
Ye haud yer head too high, lass,
Ye haud yer head too high,
What if I wad pass by, lass,
Instead o’ lingerin’ nigh?
Ye canna quite forget, dear,
The sunny days o’ yore,
They haud our twa lives yet, dear,—
The days that are no more.
When in the warld sae wide, dear,
One lesson we could spell—
When it was a’ our pride, dear,
To love each other well.
When riches had na found ye—
My maid o’ tender face!
Before yer pride had bound ye,
An’ stolen a’ yer grace.
’Tis best that I should leave ye,
Cold are your eyes o’ blue,
’Twould be a sin to grieve ye,
A love sae warm an’ true.
Sae put yer hand within mine,
Forget—we can but try,
Here’s ane kiss for auld lang syne,
And here’s ane for good-bye.
What is it that you say, dear,
You will not let me go?
Then ye maun bid me stay, dear,
This much to me ye owe.
Twa foolish things were we, dear,
To dream that we could part,
The blind might almost see, dear,
Your image in my heart.
So haud me close and fast, dear,
With arms so soft an’ white,
A fig for quarrels past, dear,
You are my ain to-night.
Dreamland
WITH an angel-flower laden,
Every day a little maiden,
Sails away from off my bosom
On a radiant sea of bliss.
I can see her drifting, drifting—
Hear the snowy wings uplifting,
As he woos her into dreamland,
With a kiss.
Blissful hour, my pretty sleeper,
Whispering with thy angel keeper,
List’ning to the words he brings thee
From a fairer world than this;
Ah! thy heart he is beguiling,
I can tell it by thy smiling,
As he woos thee into dreamland
With a kiss.
Could there come to weary mortals
Such a glimpse through golden portals,
Would we not drift on forever,
Toward that far-off land of peace;
Would we not leave joys and sorrows,
Glad to-days, and sad to-morrows,
For the sound of white wings lifting,
For an angel’s tender kiss.
Only a Picture
SOMETHING to show me—well, my lass,
Make haste, I have no time to idle,
These bright spring hours they seem to pass
Like colts that fly from bit and bridle.
A picture—well, if that is all,
I can’t—my child don’t look so sorry,
I’ll come and see, although I call
The whole thing only waste and worry.
But have your nonsense while you may,
Your brushes, paints, and long-haired master,
They’re pretty whims for you who see
Such beauty in a canvas plaster.
What’s in a picture? there’s but one
Could win for me an hour’s gazing;
It comes sometimes when day is done,
And dusk falls on the cattle grazing.
A big, old house that fronts the sea,
The sunlight falling on the gables,
The wood—what’s this? Why, can it be!
Lass, you have neatly turned the tables.
Know it? Ay, know each blade and stalk,
Each sunny knoll, each shady cover,
Why, every flower beside yon walk
Has had in me a faithful lover!
Know it? See yonder worn old step,
The open door, the bench beside it,
The rose-tree trained where it should creep—
I almost see the hand that tied it.
The sunny windows seem to throw
On me a tender look of greeting,
And in my heart awakes the glow
Of other days so glad and fleeting.
The dear old faces, one by one,
Come out from shadows swiftly thronging,
Dear picture of my boyhood’s home,
My eyes are dim with love and longing!
Her Boy
THERE’S a looking-glass, a hammer,
Some toys all broken up,
There’s pebbles, and glass, and sawdust,
And papa’s shaving cup;
A little cart with the wheels off,
A horse that’s lost an eye,
A kitten tied to a chair-leg
That’s looking scared and shy.
“Ah me!” the busy mother sighs,
I’m tired off my feet,
I really wish he were grown up
So I could keep things neat!
He catches her reproving eye
And is inclined for play,
So dons his bonnet wrong, and cries
“Bye, baby’s goin’ away!”
The mother holds her darling close—
A culprit, cute and small—
For wild disorder reigning there
She does not care at all.
But, spendthrift with a mother’s love,
Puts kisses on his lips,
And on the cheeks so warm and red,
On neck, and finger-tips.
Perhaps she thinks of coming years,
When in no childish play
Her boy shall bid her a good-bye,
Her baby go away,
To walk without her tender care
To shelter every move,
To stand without his hand in hers—
Away from home and love.
“I loves you bestest in the world!”
He lisps with pretty wiles,
“Thank God he’s but a baby yet!”
The mother says, and smiles.
The Indian Girl
NOW to the missionary’s home there came one autumn day,
A girl, borne in the arms of one so haggard, worn, and gray.
“White man,” he said, “the fever burns my little sunbeam up,
Naught ask I for myself, not bread nor water from a cup,
But give to her some healing thing, I leave her in your care,
Deal kindly with her, one harsh touch will bring revenge—beware!”
Ere they could answer yea or nay, the old chief he had gone,
Had vanished in the gloom of night which came so swiftly on.
They could not stay the hand of death, its touch was on her brow,
O, bearer of the message true, here’s one to listen now!
The Indian maiden heard it all, and looked with wondering eyes,
How sweet to her the story of the life beyond the skies!
Her eager throbbing heart drank in each precious promise given,
An Indian girl, a child of God, heir to a throne in heaven?
The joyful tears crept to her eyes, and down her dusky cheeks,
And all aglow with love and joy, in her soft tongue she speaks,
“Now I will tell my father, now I will tell him all
That I have heard of Jesus, who hears us when we call,
He does not know of Heaven, how happy we will be,
When, by and by, the Brother kind will bring him home to me.
“When he sits down beside me he looks so stern and lone,
For I, his child, am dying, his last and only one.”
At twilight of another day he came—erect and tall,
As though he would not bow his head though heavy blows might fall,
But soft the glance and tender, he threw upon his child,
“My little Sunbeam in the dark!” he said, in accents mild.
“Come closer, Oh my father,” the Indian maiden cried,
“Come closer while I tell you of One who loved and died
That we might live together, and never grieve in vain,
Of One who suffered cruel blows to rescue us from pain.”
Her fevered hands crept into his; his heart grew sick with fear,
The hour of parting and of grief was surely drawing near,
This child who shared his cup and couch—his “Sunbeam in the night”
Would go, and never come again to gladden his dim sight.
“No gold have I,” the old chief said, “but name the Friend so good,
That I may prove an Indian brave forgets not gratitude.”
There, in the silence of the night he heard the story old,
Of Christ’s dear love for sinful man, the sweetest ever told;
And when the sun came creeping up all glorious to the eye,
His haughty soul had learned to say, “It is not much to die.”
It is but evening to a land whose shores are always green,
Where never night comes darkly down, where tears are never seen,
Where heartbreak may not even touch, where sorrow may not come,
But where the weary rest and say, “’Tis good to be at home!”
Some Joys We May Not Keep
“Something is lost to me,” she said, “that nevermore
Will be my very own,
Something has swiftly slipped through my heart’s door,
And to the winds has flown.
“Loss was the kindest thing that fate could send—
Some joys we may not keep—
And yet, because this is the very end,
I needs,” she said, “must weep.
“Feeling my heart so empty and so chill—
There is no glow to-night,
No wakening of the old-time tender thrill,
No pulsing of delight.
“When death hides from our eyes a much loved face,
We let our tears fall fast,
And then we take each sign, each ling’ring trace,
And seal it up—so—‘Past.’
“And I must put the memories away,
The toys love left behind,
The sweets we shared upon a summer day;
The kiss, the faith so blind.
“I was so rich, so proud, awhile ago,
And now, I am so poor,
O, empty heart, there’s nothing now to do
But just to close the door!”
In Sunflower Time
IN the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John,
With only the sunflowers looking on.
Now, a farm-house kitchen is scarce the place
For a knight or lady of courtly grace.
But this was a common, everyday pair
That held the old kitchen, this morning fair.
A persistent and saucy thorn-tree limb
Had sacrified a part of the brim
Of the youth’s straw hat, so his face was brown,
Save his well-shaped forehead, which wore a frown,
And his boots were splashed with the mud and clay
Of the marsh land pastures, over the way,
Where the alders tall, and the spicewood grew,
And the frogs croaked noisily all night through.
’Neath the muslin curtains, snowy and thin,
The big homely sunflowers nodded in.
Nan was worth the watching, her gingham gown
Had, it may be, old-fashioned grown,
But it fitted the slender shape so well,
Was low at the neck where the soft lace fell;
Of sleeves, it had none, from the elbow down,
While in length—well, you see, the maid had grown.
A labor of love was her homely task
To share it, no mortal need hope or ask,
For Nan she was washing each trace of dirt
From fluted bodice, and ruffled skirt.
There are few that will, and fewer that can,
Bend over a tub like our pretty Nan,
As she took each piece from its frothy lair,
The soap bubbles flying high in the air,
And rubbed in a cruel, yet tender way,
Till her curls were wet with the steam and spray,
Then wrung with her two hands, slender and strong,
Examined with care, and shook slowly and long,
Then flung in clear water to lie in state—
Each dainty piece met with the same hard fate.
“There!” and she gave a look of conscious pride
At the rinsing-bucket, so deep and wide,
Then wiping the suds from each rounded arm,
She turned to the youth with a smile so warm;
“I have kept you waiting, excuse me please—
The soap suds just ruin such goods as these.”
“And you are so fond of finery, Nan,
Nice dresses, and furbelows,” he began.
“Ah, maybe I am, of a truth,” she said,
And each sunflower nodded its golden head.
“Well, Ned Brown’s getting rich,” John’s words came slow,
“And, he’s loved you a long while as you know;
My house and my acres, I held them fast,
Was so stubborn over them to the last,
For when my father was carried forth,
And the men were asking, ‘what was he worth?’
I knew that they said, with a nod and a smile,
As they whispered together all the while,
‘’Tis a fine old homestead, but mortgaged so,
What a foolish thing for a man to do!’
And I said, my father is dead and gone,
But he’s left behind him a strong-armed son,
And my heart was hot with a purpose set,
To pay off that mortgage, to clear off that debt.
I’ve worked, heaven knows it, like any slave,
I’ve learned well the lesson of pinch and save,
I’ve kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown—
I haven’t a dollar to call my own.
O, I’m beaten—well beaten! yesterday
Everything went to Ned Brown from me;
My meadows, my acres of tassled corn,
The big orchard planted when I was born.
What I would have saved had I had the choice,
Was my chestnut mare, for she knows your voice.
So I’m only a beggar, Nan, you see—
Don’t fancy I’m begging for sympathy,
You see for yourself that I don’t care much—
Thank God, health’s a thing the law can’t touch!
Why! the happiest man I ever knew
Was born a beggar—and died one too.”
And so wisely nodding each yellow head
The sunflowers they listened to what was said,
As Nan in her careful and easy way,
In the old farmhouse kitchen that summer day,
Set a great and a mighty problem forth—
“Tell me the truth, John, how much am I worth?”
The question has stood since the world began
With Adam, a lone and a lonesome man.
Now the sunbeams kissing her golden hair,
Her cheeks, and her round arms dimpled and bare,
Seemed stamping a value of mighty wealth
On youth and love, and the bloom of health.
John looked, and looked, till his eyes grew dim,
Then tilted the hat with the worthless brim,
To hide what he would not have her see,
“You’re—you’re just worth the whole world, Nan,” said he.
“Then you are no beggar”—O sweet, bold Nan!
“You’re the whole world richer than any man.”
Now, a girl queen wearing a crown of gold
Did something like this, so the tale is told;
But no royal prince that the world has seen
Ever felt quite so proud as John, I ween,
As he clasped both her hands with new-born hope—
Hands all crinkley with water and soap.
Only the sunflowers, now looking on,
So—he kissed the maiden, O foolish John!
As he hastened out through the garden gate,
Ned Brown was just coming to learn his fate.
He was riding a handsome chestnut mare
But, somehow, our John didn’t seem to care.
Ned thought of the acres he’d won from John,
“Poor beggar,” he said, and rode slowly on;
John thought of all he had won from Ned,
“O you poor, poor beggar,” was what he said.
Why? Under the heavens smiling and blue,
Only John and the yellow sunflowers knew.
As it Began to Dawn
MARY MAGDALENE.
A coward heart I carry in my breast,
Think you the soldiers stern will let us put
These spices that we carry, in his grave,
Or will they drive us hence?
See how I start
If but the breeze shakes on my head,
From limb or vine, the heavy drops of dew—
Art weary Mary, weary and afraid?
MARY.
Nay, but so heavy-hearted, and so lost
To hope, so full of horrors was that day,
So full of grief, the mem’ry of it all
Will weigh upon me till my life is done.
And if I close my eyes, I see in dreams
His arms stretched out upon that cross so wide,
His head, His kingly head, crowned with the thorns.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush, Mary,
Or I drop upon the ground in weakness.
My friend! my tender, and my faithful friend!
When down thy forehead crept those crimson drops
The agony was more than I could bear.
’Tis said that Peter and the rest did sleep,
Did sleep and take their rest that last night in
Gethsemane, leaving Him there to keep
His watch alone. O, poverty of love!
Think, Mary, had we heard that sobbing prayer
Could we have slept and our Lord sorrowful?
MARY.
Nay, we would but have had one thought, to share
His grief, to comfort and to cheer,
But man
Is dull at conning tasks of tenderness,
He is well qualified to guard with sword,
But not to keep long watches in the night;
His, is the strength to fight, ours, is the strength
To wait, and waiting, hold our faith In love.
They loved Him well, but being men they slept.
A loneliness
Grows on me as the dawn
Lights hill and valley, and the fertile plain.
His feet have pressed the paths, oft has He gone
Down this way to the gate, oft has He sought
The stillness, and the quiet of that mount
Lifting its head to heaven—Mount Olivet—
And always will there be on Calvary
The heavy shadow of a cross of wood,
And if a hardy flower blossomed there,
Blood red its hue would be.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Surely it shuddered as it felt His weight,
That heavy cross on which He hung till eve!
How could they plunge the spear into His side,
And mock at Him with all their cruel tongues?
O, Mary,
When I think of His dear hands
That ever held out succor to the lost,—
That ever touched to heal the sons of men,—
That ever took the burden and the pain
From heavy hearts—His strong and tender hands
That lifted up the fallen and the weak,
That dwelt in blessing on the little ones,
That broke the bread to feed a multitude,—
Wounded and hurt, the sharp nails through each palm,
My heart, it breaks with pity and with woe!
MARY.
I wonder if he saw us standing there,
So weak, and helpless, and so buffeted.
One soldier pulled the covering from my head,
Another scoffed, ‘O woman ye are fools!’
And yet another, ‘Look now at your King!’
I cared not, nay, was glad to feel that we
Shared in his trial, feared not their contempt,
I hope He saw us, that He understood
That love and faith were one with such as we.
When He cried out, I thought upon a day
When He did come to rest Himself with us,
The harvest fields were yellow, and the sun
Beat down so fiercely that it hurt the head
Of Ruth’s fair little one. ‘The pain!’ he cried,
‘The pain! the pain!!’ with hot tears on his cheek,
And Ruth did lift him up and run with him
To where the Master was, who pushed the curls
Back with His hands and touched the forehead white,
The crying ceased, the quiver left the eyes,
The pallor crept away from off the cheek—
He fell asleep, a smiling, healthy child.
MARY MAGDALENE.
And I thought of a day when He did meet
A woman, in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the life filled full of shame,
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the hatred of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she. O, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And little children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And took her hand in His, and what He said
Is past the telling; there are things the soul
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world.
And when He went His way, upon her brow
Where shame had lain, set the sweet word, Forgiveness.
And Mary Magdalene
Did follow Him, led by a wondrous love,
Did wash His tender feet with grateful tears,
And wipe them with the soft hairs of her head.
MARY.
Joseph of Arimathea laid his form
In a new tomb. I tremble as we come
So near! and tell me, do you note a light,
Fairer than dawn, is cast on all things here.
Behold! one sits upon the stone, robed all
In white, a wondrous radiance on His face,
I fear and am perplexed. Let us go back.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Nay, we must put these spices in His grave—
My fears have gone and left me strong and bold,
Let us advance and question him, for he
Is some good angel keeping watch and ward,
It may be he has caused the heavy stone
To roll away that we might enter in
With love’s last offering. What doth he say?
MARY.
He says that Jesus is alive to-day,
And bids us come and see the empty grave,
O, what a joy, if this were only true!
But, ’tis too great a mystery. Come hence,
Someone hath borne away our Lord,
To wrest from us the sorrowful delight
Of looking on His face, dead, with the lines
Of mortal agony on brow and lips,
Oh, Mary Magdalene, the world’s strong hate
Might well have spared us this last cruel blow!
MARY MAGDALENE.
But it may be
The angel tells us true,
And that He has arisen from the grave,
And is alive to love and keep His own—
O, blessed hope! which all my being yearns
To grasp and hold—for if He is alive,
It means that you, and I, and all that love
And hold their faith in Him, can never die.
MARY.
I never understood what He did mean
By Life Eternal. So many things I had
Hid in my heart to ask Him.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Look how the sunshine sweeps down on the world!
There never was a yesterday so fair,
Something within me answers to the glow—
And answers to the glad songs of the birds—
And something seems to call out sweet and clear
The night is gone—is gone! the night is gone!!
MARY.
I am amazed! the tears have quickly dried upon your cheek.
I thought your grief was strong,
Too strong to lose itself in Nature’s smile,
The dazzling sunlight, and the song of birds,
The fair——
MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush! ’tis our Lord himself who comes this way,
The wounds made by the thorns still on His brow,
His hands and feet marked with the cruel nails.
MARY.
It is the Master and my fears are gone—
O, hark! He speaks. How often have we heard
That voice so filled with peace and tenderness?
Dear Lord, we fall and worship at Thy feet.
MARY MAGDALENE.
O risen Son of God!
Give me one hand pierced on the cross for me,
That I may place it on my heart and say,
For my transgression was He wounded sore,
Bruised, shamed, and hurt for my iniquity.
MARY.
We walked, O Master, in a maze of doubt,
Misgiving, grief, and great perplexity,
Knowing not where to turn, what to believe,
Then, through the tumult did we hear Thee say,
‘All Hail!’ O, words of cheer! O, greeting, glad!
MARY MAGDALENE.
These words shall be a song—a song of joy
For a sad world to sing, a glorious song
Of triumph, and immortality,
The glad notes shall ring clearly up to heaven,
And echo down through hell. All Hail!
The Son of God
Hath left the grave and given us Life,
All Hail!
Her Lesson
SOMEONE had told her that a sea-nymph dwelt
Within a murmuring shell, she called her own,
And she did love to hold it to her ear,
And always she could catch the meaning of
Its song.
When she was gay the nymph she thought
Sang joyously, when she was sad at heart
The murmuring voice seemed full of plaint and tears.
One day, when longings softly stirred her breast,
She took the shell down to the shore and sat
Listening to all the things it had to tell,
Till, by-and-by, so homesick grew the voice
That called back to the waves when they did call,
A pity for its loneliness did make
Her suddenly resolve to set it free,
So with a stone she brake the shell in twain,
’Twas empty as the air.
Who was it told
Her such a fair untruth—a pretty lie?
A mist fell down upon the wooded hills,
And crept from thence out over all the sea,
Her soft eyes caught it in their depth and held
It prisoner, till presently it grew
Too strong and subtle for the wide white lids
Which made but timid trembling sentinels,
And let it slip to liberty unchallenged.
The light unfeeling waves about her feet
Laughed at her grieving over such a thing—
Laughed, calling to her as they rushed and ran,
“O pretty little one!
That one bright day
Didst think thyself so wise—didst count thyself
So rich? O foolish, foolish child, to weep
And break thy little heart o’er something that
Is not—has never been, save, in thy thought!”
Until We Meet
DEAR one, who crossed the border land
Into a world of love and song,
One of the tender white-robed band
To whom eternal joys belong!
Thy memory lives within my heart,
Will live until thy face I see;
The two worlds lie not far apart,
I soon will be at home with thee.