Jean Blewett: Verses about Beautiful

You cannot take from out my heart the growing,
The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill.
'O Earth,' you cry, 'you should be old, not glowing
With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!'

Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom!
Old, and my children drawing life from me!
Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom!
Old, steeped in richness and fertility!

Old, while the growing things call to each other,
In language I alone can understand:
'How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother
Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!'

Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them
In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace!
Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them
Healing and soothing and a hiding place.

And then, my human children, could you listen
To secrets whispered in the stillness deep
Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten-
'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.

Some tell me moving tales of love and passion,
Of gladness all too great to be pent in-
The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion-
Another cries out brokenly of sin.

While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it,
Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast,
Sobbing: 'Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it,
Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!'

The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow
I hear to-day-I heard it yesterday-
Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow
That ye may bring to me, O Century.

I answer mourner, penitent, and lover,
With quick'ning stir, with bud and leaf and sap:
'Peace, peace,' I say, 'when life's brief day is over
Ye shall sleep soundly in your mother's lap.'

The loss, the longing of mankind I'm sharing,
The hopes, the joys, the laughter and the tears,
And yet you think I should be old, uncaring,
The barren, worn-out plaything of the years!

Past centuries have not trodden out my greenness
With all their marches, as you well can see,
Nor will you bring me withered age or leanness.
March on-what are your hundred years to me

While life and growth within me glow and flourish,
While in the sunshine and the falling rain
I, the great Mother, do bring forth and nourish
The springtime blossom and the harvest grain?

March on, O Century, I am safe holden
In God's right hand, the garner-house of truth-
The hand that holds the treasure rare and golden
Of life, and sweetness, and eternal youth!

Do you remember that June day among
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
That skipped and chased each other merrily
In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
And over all the stillness of the hills,
The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
'Ye are not of the hills,' so said the looks,
'Not of our kind, but strangers come from out
The busy, bustling world to taste the sweets
Of silence and of peace. We wish you well.'
In eager quest of what the hills might hide,
Some valley of content, some spring of youth,
Some deep, enchanted dell filled to the brim
With subtle mysteries, allurement rare,
We followed down a path, a little crooked,
Wand'ring path that lost itself and found itself
So oft we knew it for the playmate of the stream
That went with us and sang a clamorous song-
A never-ending song of flock and fold
Of sea-mist and of sun-until at length
We came into a valley warm and wide,
A cradle 'mong the hills. In it there lay
No infant hamlet, but one gray and old
That dozed and dreamed the soft June hours away.

Gardens there were with fragrant wall-flowers filled,
And daffodils, and rhododendrons pale,
And sweet, old-fashioned pinks, phlox, rosemary;
An avenue of elms, with cottages,
And barefoot children sporting on the green.
''Tis Poynings,' said the rustic, 'see, the church
Lies yonder, and the graveyard just beyond;
This path will lead you straight to it.'

Do you remember-rather, will you e'er forget?-
That gray church built, how many centuries
Ago? The worn stone steps, the oaken door,
The crumbling walls, the altar carved,
The stories told by stained-glass windows set
Deep in the walls; the ivy, thick and green,
Which crept and hid the grayness quite from sight.
Within, the smell of roses from the sheaf
Of scarlet bloom before the altar laid,
Close mingled with the mould and must of age;
On wall and floor memorials to the dead,
Who, unafraid, had slumbered there so long.

And then the graveyard out among the trees-
No graveyard, but a garden, flower filled-
Moss roses white as moth wings in the night,
And lilies sorrowful but very sweet,
Low-growing violets in grasses hid,
And rue which spoke of some heart's bitterness.
Old Time had decked the stones with lichens rare,
Rubbed out with careless hand the lettering:
In memory of someone's life and love
Each stood, but whose we might not know.

And while we lingered in the perfumed gloom,
And watched the golden sunshine smite the hills,
An English blackbird straight began a song
So sweet, so high, so shrill, so wondrous clear,
That! listening, our eyes grew dim the while
Our hearts did thrill. Whoe'er has heard the song
An English blackbird carols forth in June
Knows well the power it has, the wondrous charm!
Strangers were we within the gates, and so
He gave us welcome, clearer, warmer still,
A welcome to the beauty and the bloom,
The silence of the churchyard old and gray,
A welcome to the grasses and the brook,
The shade of feathery elm trees, and the glow
Of sunlight quivering, golden on the sward,
A welcome to the valley dim, and to
The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills.

McLeod of Dare called his son to him.
McLeod of Dare looked stern and grim,

For he was sending on mission grave
His son, and though he knew him brave

The old man trembled lest he should make
In heedless youth a grave mistake.

'Twas not for the country, nor for the king,
Nay, 'twas a more important thing

Than country, or clan, or feud, or strife,
The young man went to woo a wife.

He listened, did Neil, with scanty grace,
Haughty gloom on his handsome face,

While the old man told him where to go,
And what to say, and what to do.

'The morrow ye'll go for a lang, lang stay
Wi' your rich uncle, Donald Gray.

'He'll gie ye a welcome wairm and true,
And mate his only child wi' you.

'She's weel worth winning, for in her hand
She hauds the deed o' a' his land.

'She's far frae haun'some-a homely lass,
As you will see-but let that pass.'

'Why should I wed a woman that's plain?
You didn't yourself.' McLeod was vain.

He smiled and he smirked, 'Ah, true, Neil, true,
But I was haun'somer nor you.

'Juist coort this cousin, and never mind
Squint or freckle, since luve is blind-

'Or ought tae be in sic case as this-
'Tis no a chance I'd hae ye miss.

'Jane's na sae braw as her cousin Kate,
But 'tis wi' Jane I'd hae ye mate;

'For Kate, poor lassie, she hasna land-
Her face is her fortune, understand.

'Gie her guid day when ye chance tae meet,
But Jane, remember, your fain tae greet

'Wi' warmer words, and a gallant air.
Go, win a wife-and a warld o' care!'

Neil listened closest to what was said
Of Kate, the poor but pretty maid.

And when he reached his good uncle's place
'Twas Kate that in his eyes found grace,

The while Jane simpered with conscious pride,
As if to say: 'Behold your bride!'

In this home he dwelt for many a day,
A favorite, he, of Donald Gray.

They walked together over the hill,
Or through the valleys solemn and still,

And the old man showed him acres wide
That would be Jane's dower as a bride,

Then spoke of the cousin, poor but fair,
Her eyes of blue and her golden hair.

'She'll hae na flocks, and she'll hae na laund,
She'll hae na fortune rich and graund,

'But gin she stood in her scanty dress,
Would man o' mettle luve her less?'

The lad's heart warmed to the logic old.
What worth has land? What worth has gold?

Compared with the light in Katie's eyes,
What worth was aught beneath the skies?

Jane courted briskly day by day,
If he walked out she walked his way.

Did he sit him down to rest awhile,
She looked his way with tender smile.

Did he try to get a word with Kate,
Jane was there like the hand of fate.

One day it chanced, as he rode to mill,
He met with Kate just under the hill.

Would she mount beside him, ride along?
Yes, if he felt 'twould not be wrong.

He helped her up with a trembling arm;
Surely the day is close and warm.

Whoa, mare! steady! there's no need for haste
With two soft arms about his waist.

Neil-shame on him!-pressed Kate's finger-tips,
Then turned about and pressed her lips.

All over the road the blossoms white
Scattered themselves in sheer delight.

A bird flew singing a tender rhyme
Of meadow, mate, and nesting time.

The world looked beautiful in the glow
That heaven flung on the hills below.

Ah me, if that ride could but last a week,
Her gold hair blowing against his cheek!

The road to the mill, says worldly wise-
Nay, nay, the road to Paradise!

Travel it once if you wish to know
Something of heaven here below.

Though your eyes grow dim, and locks grow white,
You'll not forget this journey-quite.

But Neil must go to the old home place,
Meet his stern father face to face.

Altho' his cheek was a trifle pale,
Boldly enough he told his tale.

He would marry Kate-and Kate alone-
He could not love the other one.

Her eyes were crooked, her hair was red,
Freckles over her face were spread,

And the whole world held no lass for him
But Kate. Then laughed the old man grim.

'Your mither, she was a stubborn lass,
Self-willed, handsome-but let that pass.

'In a' oor battles 'twas she who won,
And Neil, you're juist your mither's son.

'But I hae na lived these mony days
Wi'oot walking in wisdom's ways.

'I saw your Kate, and like't her weel-
In luiks she's like your mither, Neil;

'The same blue een, and the same gowd hair-
But no sae fair, Neil, no sae fair.

'I tou'd your uncle to let Kate be
The lassie poor, o' low degree,

'And gie ye at once to understand
'Twas Jane who owned baith flocks and land.

'Why gie mysel' sic a senseless task?
I wunner, lad, ye've hairt tae ask.

'Gin ye was driven ye wouldna' move,
Too stubborn to even fa' in luve!

'Like a' the Campbells, ye'll hae your way-
Your mither has hers every day.

''Tis prood ye should be, upon my word,
Tak' time to yoursel' and thank the Lord

For plans that gat ye a bonny bride-
An' heaps o' wardly gear beside.'

Ah! thankful enough was Neil that day-
Joy flashed in his eager eyes of gray.

'Twas not for the land, not for the gold,
Not for the flocks that slept in fold,

Not for the wealth-the worldly gear-
But something wonderful, sweet and dear.

'Thank heaven,' he cried, with a glow and thrill,
'Thank heaven for the day I rode to mill!'

He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart,
A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart.
His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one,
He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone;
At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear,
A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair.
He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest,
That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best.
For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course,
But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse;
Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told,
For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old,
And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate,
Going errands for the people who really could not wait.
His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same,
For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came.
He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to think
That linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink.

His wife, she was the primmest thing, as neat as any doll,
And looked like one when walking by her husband big and tall.
It almost broke her heart that he refused to give a thought
To how he looked, or do the thing, or say the thing he ought.
Sometimes, though well she loved him, quite high her temper ran,
For 'tis hard on any woman to have such a careless man.

Think! when the conference president came visiting the place,
The preacher down at Coles he had a badly battered face-
One eye was black as black could be; he looked, so we've been told,
More like a fierce prize-fighter than a shepherd of the fold.
'How did it happen?' questioned him the visitor so wise,
With hint of laughter on his lips, and in his twinkling eyes.
'Old Betty Brown,' the preacher said-his wife broke in just here,
'A cross-grained spinster of the place who hates him, that is clear;
And never did a woman have a meaner tongue than hers-
The slighting things she says of him, the mischief that she stirs!'
'Fields have we,' said the president, 'in country and in town;
Believe me, Madam, most of them can boast a Betty Brown.'

The preacher stroked his blackened eye, and laughed good-naturedly.
'She doesn't like me very well, but what of that?' said he.
'The other night I found the poor old creature sick in bed,
She 'didn't want no prayin' done,' she very quickly said,
So, seeing that she was so ill and worn she could not stir,
I thought with care and patience I could milk the cow for her.
I stroked old Spot caressingly, and placed my little can,
But Spot she knew, and I came home a sadder, wiser man.'

The preacher down at Coles he was no orator at all,
But sick, and sad, and sinful were glad to have him call.
Not that he ever found a host of happy things to say;
In fact, as far as talking went, he might have stayed away.
But oh, the welcome that he got! I think his big right hand
Gave such a grip that all the rest they seemed to understand.

Some of the congregation would have liked a different man,
He couldn't hope to please them all-few ministers that can.
Once, at the district meeting, the good old farmer Bowles
Stood up and spoke his mind about the preacher down at Coles.

'There's not,' he said, 'you know it, too, a better man than he;
An' you fault-findin', carpin' folk-I say this reverently-
If the Lord 'd take an angel and gently turn him loose
To preach down here, do you suppose he'd please the hull caboose?
Not much! It's human nature to quarrel with what we've got,
An' this man is a better man than we deserve, a lot.'

But he did preach curious sermons, just as dry as they could be,
And the old folks slumbered through them every Sabbath, peacefully;
But they all woke up the moment the singing would begin,
And not an ear was found too dull to drink the music in.
For though the preacher could not boast an orator's smooth tongue,
He could reach the people's heart-strings when he stood up there and sung.

O the wondrous power and sweetness of the voice that filled the place!
Everyone that heard it swelling grew the purer for a space.
And men could not choose but listen to the singer standing there,
Till their worldliness slipped from them, and their selfishness and care.
Mourners turned their eyes all misty from the crosses tall and white
Where their loved ones slumbered softly all the day and all the night;
Listening, faith rose triumphant over sorrow, loss, and pain,
Heaven was not a far-off country, they would meet their own again.
And the white-haired men and women wished the singing need not cease,
For they seemed to see the beauty of the longed for Land of Peace.
Upward soared that voice, and upward, with a sweetness naught could stem,
Till each dim eye caught the glory of the new Jerusalem.

He was such a curious fellow, the preacher down at Coles!
One winter day the word was brought to town by Farmer Bowles
That in a little shanty, in the hollow by the mill,
Were children gaunt with hunger, a mother sad and ill,
The father just a drunkard, a vagabond who left
His family for long, long weeks of love and care bereft.
The squire talked of taking a big subscription up,
And talked, and talked, while in that house was neither bite nor sup.
O, these talking folks! these talking folks! the poor would starve and freeze
If the succoring and caring were done by such as these.

The preacher down at Coles he had not very much to say;
He harnessed up the old roan horse and hitched it to the sleigh,
And piled in so much provisions that his wife said, tearfully,
She didn't have a cake or pie left in the house for tea.
He filled the sleigh with baskets, and with bundles-such a pile!
Heaps of wood, and clothes, and victuals-everybody had to smile
As they watched the old roan canter down the crossroad, o'er the hill,
To the little cheerless shanty in the hollow by the mill.
The preacher built a fire and bade the children warm their toes
While he heard the worn-out mother's tale of miseries and woes.
He brought in a bag of flour, and a turkey big and fat-
His dainty wife had meant to dine the Ladies' Aid on that.
He brought in ham and butter, and potatoes in a sack,
A pie or two, a loaf of cake, and doughnuts, such a stack!
Ah! his wife and her good handmaid had been baking many a day,
For the Ladies' Aid would dine there-he had lugged it all away.
He brought in a pair of blankets, and a heavy woollen quilt;
Betty Brown, who happened in there, said she thought that she would wilt,
For these things the active members of the Missionary Band
Had gathered for the heathen in a far-off foreign land.
'These belong unto the Lord, sir,' Betty said, 'I think you'll find.'
But he answered her quite gently, 'Very well, He will not mind.'
'To see him making tea for the woman in the bed
Made me wish I had been kinder to the preacher,' Betty said.
Though he was so big and clumsy he could step around so light,
And to see him getting dinner to the children's huge delight!
It was not till he had warmed them, and had fed them there, that day,
That he whispered very softly: 'Little children, let us pray.'
Then he gave them to the keeping of a Father kind and wise
In a way that brought the tear-drops into hard old Betty's eyes.
She felt an aching in her throat, and when she cried, 'Amen!'
Other folks might flout the preacher, Betty never would again.

He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles
Shook their head-a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls,
Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street
Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat.
Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things;
'Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings.'
Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay;
Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say.
Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more;
Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling-then the farmer took the floor.

'Wish,' he said, 'our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long;
I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song.'
Sing? I wish you could have heard him-simple songs of long ago,
Old familiar things that held us-warm that golden voice and low-
Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale;
Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale,
Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet,
Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet.

'Now we'll take up the collection,' said the wily farmer Bowles,
And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles.
'Here's a cheque,' said lawyer Angus, ''tis the best that I can do;
Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!'

The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way
Unmindful of what people think or of what people say.
Some still are finding fault with him-he doesn't mind it much-
Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such,
Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text,
As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext!
'I think,' she says, 'as much of him as any woman can,
But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man.'

There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will.
He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still;
And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad-
Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God.
Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way
When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day.
'Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man;
Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span
You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round
Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound.
Our man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good
There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood.
Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised,
Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised.
Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls
There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles.'