Jean Blewett: Verses about Death

The fluttering leaves above his grave,
The grasses creeping toward the light,
The flowers fragile, sweet, and brave,
That hide the earth clods from our sight,

The swelling buds on shrub and tree,
The golden gleam of daffodil,
The violet blooming fair and free
Where late the winds blew harsh and chill,

The lily lifting up its breath
Where snowdrifts spread but yesterday-
All cry: 'Where is thy sting, O death?
O grave, where is thy victory?'

Each Eastertide the old world sings
Her anthem sweet and true and strong,
And all the tender growing things
Join in her resurrection song.

O the grave is a quiet place, my dear,
So still and so quiet by night and by day,
Reached by no sound either joyous or drear,
But keeping its silence alway, alway.
O the grave is a restful place, my dear,
Unvext by the weightiest loss or gain,
All the undone work of the speeding year
May beat at its portals in vain, in vain.
O the grave is a tender place, my dear,
The Love immortal, the faith, the trust,
The grace and the beauty, lie buried there,
So pure and so white in a robe of dust.
O the grave is a home-like place, my dear,
Where we all do gather when day is done,
Where the earth mother folds us close and near,
And the latch string waits for the laggard one.

Day of battle and day of blood
Found you steady and strong, I ween;
Sons of the land of the Maple Leaf,
Face to the foe, you died for the Queen.

Brave boys, our boys, filling to-day
Nameless graves upon veldt and plain,
Here's to your mem'ry gallant and true,
Sons of our soil, who thought it gain

To fight and win, or to fight and fall!
Strong of purpose, you took your stand,
Proved with your life-blood red and warm
Canada's faith in the Motherland!

Brave boys, our boys, this have you done,
Drawn us closer, and bound us fast;
One are we with the Isle in the sea,
One in the future, the present, the past.

Brave boys, our boys, honor we owe,
Honor and homage a mighty debt-
You proved our love and our loyalty-
The land that bore you will not forget!
Canada's soldiers, Canada's sons,
The land that bore you will not forget!

So still you sleep upon your bed,
So motionless and slender,
It cannot be that you are dead,
My maiden gay and tender!

You were no creature pale and meek
That death should hasten after,
The dimples played within your cheek,
Your lips were made for laughter.

To you the great world was a place
That care might never stay in,
A playground built by God's good grace
For glad young folks to play in.

You made your footpath by life's flowers,
O happy, care-free maiden!
The sky was full of shine and showers,
The wind was perfume laden.

Your dimpled hands are folded now
Upon your snowy bosom,
The dark hair nestles on your brow-
O tender, broken blossom!

The white lids hide your eyes so clear,
So mirthful, so beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you, dear,
Your lips seem softly smiling.

And do you feel that it is home,
The city far above us?
And were they glad to have you come?
And will you cease to love us?

Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note, with keen delight,
Your radiance and beauty.

And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God's streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.

The sunshine streaming through the stainèd glass
Touched her with rosy colors as she stood,
The maiden Queen of all the British realm,
In the old Abbey on that soft June day.
Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set
All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;
Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow
Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay.

The ashes of dead kings, the history of
A nation's growth, of strife, and victory,
The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:
'Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!'
A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,
Since back of her was God, and at her feet
A people loyal to the core, and strong,
And loving well her sweetness and her youth.


1901.

Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown
Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more.
Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held
The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power
All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,
Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard
For strength of purpose and for purity,
For grand achievement and for noble aim.

To-day the cares of State no longer vex;
To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.

Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat
With tenderness for all beneath her rule.
Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard
The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her
No more will strike a mighty blow for right
And justice; make a wide world stand amazed
That one so gentle as old England's Queen
Could be so fearless and so powerful!

Full wearily the sense of grief doth press
And weight us down. The good Queen is no more;
And we are fain to weep as children weep
When greedy death comes to the home and bears
From thence the mother, whose unfailing love
Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.
O bells that toll in every zone and clime!
There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.
East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,
Voicing a great, a universal grief!

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 jasmine 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 lap and violet seeds in her hair,
With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes,
Spring, with enough of 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 abloom, the wood is green as of old,
And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;
Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown
Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.
'We do petition Thee,' he said, 'to have a watchful care
Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call
Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!'
'Amen!' a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: 'Dear Lord,
A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word
For those who stay at home and wait-the mothers and the wives.
Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!'

The Bishop prayed: 'Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;
The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust.'
He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,
It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!
And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.
I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man.

'Amen!' they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;
'Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying-dead;
Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,
The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!
I know, dear Christ, how hard it is,' I whispered as I kneeled,
'For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.
Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day
With love and longing for the ones in danger far away.'

'They will not shrink,' the Bishop prayed, 'nor fear a soldier's grave;
Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.
God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,
And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!'

'Amen!' a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,
But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:
'Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,
Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!
O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!
The saddest sound in all God's world-a crying in the dark.'

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies,-but he loved his country best.
'I'll come home again,' he told her; 'I'll come home again some day,'
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, 'Laddie, laddie, bide at home,'
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
'Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!'

His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid,
And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad.
Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead,
But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led-
Magersfontein-and the bullets biting fiercely left and right,
And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight.
Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed,
Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade!
Someone blundered, this we know,
When you met the ambushed foe,
But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die;
This we know, this we know.

Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west,
Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast,
And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last-who knows-
Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose,
With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue,
And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true.
Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear
Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear,
Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows,
'Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!'

Two men were born the self-same hour:
The one was heir to untold wealth,
To pride of birth and love of power;
The other's heritage was health.

A sturdy frame, an honest heart,
Of human sympathy a store,
A strength and will to do his part,
A nature wholesome to the core.

The two grew up to man's estate,
And took their places in the strife:
One found a sphere both wide and great,
One found the toil and stress of life.

Fate is a partial jade, I trow;
She threw the rich man gold and frame,
The laurel wreath to deck his brow,
High place, the multitude's acclaim.

The common things the other had-
The common hopes to thrill him deep,
The common joys to make him glad,
The common griefs to make him weep.

No high ambitions fired his breast;
The peace of God, the love of friend,
Of wife and child, these seemed the best,
These held and swayed him to the end.

The two grew old, and death's clear call
Came to them both the self-same day:
To him whose name was known to all,
To him who walked his lowly way.

Down to his grave the rich man went,
With cortege long, with pomp and pride,
O'er him was reared a monument
That told his virtues far and wide;

Told of his wealth, his lineage high,
His statesmanship, his trophies won,
How he had filled the public eye-
But empty praise when all was done.

The other found a narrow bed
Within God's acre, peaceful, lone;
The throng cared not that he was dead,
A man uncultured and unknown.

But in the house that he had left
A woman whispered through her tears:
'Christ, comfort me, who am bereft
Of love that failed not through the years.'

And oft his stalwart sons and tall
Would murmur as their eyes grew dim:
'A useful life is best of all;
God grant we pattern after him!'

A sick man sighed: 'I'll miss his smile;'
A shrivelled crone did shake her head
And mutter to herself the while
How oft his hand had given bread.

A maimed child sobbed: 'He carried me
To gather blossoms in the wood,'
And more than one said, brokenly:
'A man who always did me good.'

One came at twilight to the grave,
And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod.
'Oh, faithful soul,' she cried, 'and brave,
'Twas you that led me back to God!

'Back from the sin, the shame, the snare-
Forget your trust and faith?-not I;
Each helpful word, each tender prayer,
I will remember till I die!'

Two men that sleep: above the one
The monument an artist's hand
Has fashioned from the block of stone,
A thing of beauty, tall and grand;

Above the other naught-what then?
Ere he did fold his hands for rest,
He builded in the hearts of men
The fairest monument and best.

When Mary found fault with me that day the trouble was well begun.
No man likes being found fault with, no man really thinks it fun
To have a wisp of a woman, in a most obnoxious way,
Allude to his temper as beastly, and remark that day by day
He proves himself so careless, so lacking in love, so mean,
Then add, with an air convincing, she wishes she'd never seen
A person who thinks so little of breaking a woman's heart,
And since he is-well, what he is-'tis better that they should part.

Now, no man enjoys this performance-he has his faults, well and good,
He doesn't want to hear them named-this ought to be understood.

Mary was aggravating, and all because I'd forgot
To bring some flowers I'd promised-as though it mattered a lot;
But that's the way with a woman, your big sins she may forgive,
But little things, not worth mention, you hear of as long as you live.

A few sweet peas and carnations to start a tempest, forsooth!
For Mary got in a temper-I did the same, of a truth.
I said things that weren't gentle; she pretended not to mind-
But answered back in a manner that left me away behind.

It ended up in our saying good-bye for the rest of our days,
Both vowing we'd be happier going our different ways.
And I strode out in the garden where the trees were pink and white,
Where bobolinks scolded sparrows, and robins, wild with delight,
Chirped and called and fluttered in the blossoming trees above,
Where Nature was busy teaching her lessons of joy and love.

I made a bed of the soft, warm earth, stretched me out in the sun.
Vext and weary, I fell asleep, and slept till the day was done.
The voice of my brother waked me, crying, 'Quickly arise and come;
Bear up like a man, Heaven help you! Death has suddenly entered your home!'

'Twas Mary, my own sweet Mary! The eyelashes slept on her cheek,
The lips had a half-smile on them, as though they were going to speak
Some of the old-time tender words, witty rejoinder or jest,
Or ask the question they'd asked so oft, 'Jim, who do you love the best?'

But the small hands gave no pressure when I took them in my own,
And bending down to kiss her face, I found it cold as a stone.
And it came to me I could never-never, since Mary was dead-
Say, 'Dear one, I didn't mean them, the bitter words that I said.'
Never see the tears go from her sweet, dark eyes, and
the brightness take their place,
Never watch the joy and gladness come back to my darling's face.

Not a fault could I remember-she'd been perfect all her days,
With her sweetness and her laughter, her tender womanly ways.
Dead-dead in her fresh young beauty-oh, I had an anguished heart
At thought of the quarrel ending in our agreeing to part!

When two people love each other, I'll tell you the wisest way,
'Tis to think before speaking harshly, for there surely will come a day
When one will sleep on so soundly that he or she will not wake,
The other sit in the stillness and cry with a great heart-break.
It is to ears all unheeding our tenderest words are said-
The love that the living long for we waste it upon the dead.
We say this life is so dreary, talk much of heaven, I know,
But if we were good to each other we'd have our heaven below.
'Mary,' I whispered, 'my Mary, no flowers to you I gave,
But I'll heap them on your coffin and plant them over your grave.'

A bird sang sweetly and shrilly in the blossoms over-head,
And I awoke, awoke, awoke-I'd dreamed that Mary was dead!
I woke in the golden sunshine, the birds were singing aloud.
There was no still form beside me, nor any coffin or shroud,
But just a slip of a woman with her brown eyes full of tears-
Oh, that blessed, blessed waking I've remembered through all the years.
I told the story to Mary, who hasn't let me forget
That dream in the blossoming orchard-I hear of it often yet.
If I neglect to bring flowers, it's: 'Oh, you're going to save
Your roses to heap on my coffin, your pansies to plant on my grave?'

And if I lose my temper-a common weakness of men-
The sweetest voice in the world says: 'You'll have to get dreaming again.'

Jack's dead an' buried; it seems odd,
A deep hole covered up with sod
Lyin' out there on the hill,
An' Jack, as never could keep still,
A sleepin' in it. Jack could race,
And do it at a good old pace,
Could sing a song, an' laugh so hard
That I could hear him in our yard
When he was half a mile away.
Why, not another boy could play
Like him, or run, or jump so high,
Or swim, no matter how he'd try;
An' I can't get it through my head
At all, at all, that Jack is dead.

Jack's mother didn't use to be
So awful good to him and me,
For often when I'd go down there
On Saturdays, when it was fair,
To get him out to fish or skate,
She'd catch me hangin' round the gate
And look as cross as some old hen,
An' tell me, 'Go off home again.
It's not the thing for boys,' she'd say,
'A hangin' round the creek all day;
You go off home and do your task-
No, Jack can't go, you needn't ask.'
And when he got in scrapes, why, she
Would up and lay it on to me,
An' wish I lived so far away
Jack couldn't see me every day.

But last night when I'd done the chores
It seemed so queer-like out of doors,
I kept a listenin' all the while,
An' looking down the street a mile;
I couldn't bear to go inside,
The house is lonesome since he died.
The robber book we read by turns
Is lyin' there-an' no boy learns
All by himself, 'cause he can't tell
How many words he'll miss or spell,
Unless there's some one lookin' on
To laugh at him when he gets done.

An' neighbor women's sure to come
A visitin' a feller's home,
An' talkin', when they look at me,
'Bout how thick us two used to be,
A stealin' off from school, an' such,
An' askin' do I miss him much,
'Till I sneak off out doors-you see,
They just can't let a feller be!
Well, I walked down the road a bit.
Smith's dog came out. I throwed at it,
An', do you know, it never howled
Same as it always did, or growled;
It seemed to say, 'Why, Jim's alone!
I wonder where's that other one?'

Afore I knew it I was down
'Way at the other end of town,
A hangin' round in the old way
For someone to come out and play.
There wasn't no one there to look,
So I slipped into our old nook.
I found his knife down in the grass
Where we'd been Zulus at the pass.
The can of bait, the hook and line
Were lyin' with the ball of twine,
An' 'Jim,' I seemed to hear him say,
'The fish will suffer some to-day.'

'Twas more than I could stand just then;
I got up to go off home, when
Someone kissed me on the cheek,
An' hugged me so I couldn't speak.
You wouldn't believe it, like as not,
But 'twas Jack's mother, an' a lot
Of great big tears came stealin' down
Right on my face. She didn't frown
A single bit-kept sayin' low,
'My blue-eyed boy, I loved you so!'
Of course, I knew just right away
That she meant Jack. My eyes are gray,
But Jack, he had the bluest eyes,
Blue like you see up in the skies,
An' shine that used to come and go-
One misses eyes like his, you know.

An' by-an'-by she up an' tried
To tell me that she'd cried an' cried
A thinkin' of the times that she
Had scolded Jack an' scolded me,
An' other things that I won't tell
To anyone, because-Oh, well,
Boys can't do much, but they can hold
Tight on to secrets till they're old.
She's Jack's relation, that's why she
Feels kind of lovin' like to me.
But when she called me her own lad,
Oh, say, I felt just awful bad;
My head it went round in a whirl-
I up an' cried just like a girl.

But say, if Jack could see us two
He'd laugh a little, don't you know;
For if I'd ever brag around
That I'd lick some one safe an' sound,
He'd laugh an' say, 'Jim, hold your jaw!
You know you're scared to death of maw.'
Oh, I'd give all this world away
If I could hear him laugh to-day!
I get so lonesome, it's so still,
An' him out sleepin' on that hill;
There's nothin' seems just worth the while
A doin' up in the old style;
'Cause everything we used to do
Seemed allus just to need us two.
My throat aches till I think 'twill crack-
I don't know why-it must be Jack.
There ain't no fun, there ain't no stir.
His mother-well, it's hard on her,
But she can knit an' sew, an' such-
Oh, she can't miss him half as much!