Jean Blewett: Verses about Success

O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With its piping and its chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!
There is magic in the music that he flings us with such zest:
'Love's the only wealth that's lasting-who cares aught for all the rest?
Never mind though ill-luck dog you, never mind though times are hard,
Have you not the wife and bairns?' chirps the sweet, insistent bard-
Chirps and chirps, until you heed him, till your heart is all aglow-
'Love's the only wealth that's lasting, home's a bit of heaven below.'
O the gayest of musicians! O the gladdest thing on earth,
With his piping and his chirping, is the cricket on the hearth!

'O last days of the year!' she whispered low,
'You fly too swiftly past. Ah, you might stay
A while, a little while. Do you not know
What tender things you bear with you away?

'I'm thinking, sitting in the soft gloom here,
Of all the riches that were mine the day
There crept down on the world the soft New Year,
A rosy thing with promise filled, and gay.

'But twelve short months ago! a little space
In which to lose so much-a whole life's wealth
Of love and faith, youth and youth's tender grace-
Things that are wont to go from us by stealth.

'Laughter and blushes, and the rapture strong,
The clasp of clinging hands, the ling'ring kiss,
The joy of living, and the glorious song
That drew its sweetness from a full heart's bliss.

'O wealth of tenderness! O gladness great!
That crowned me, covered me a year ago!
A bankrupt, I-gone faith, gone warm caress
Gone love, gone youth, gone all!'
She whispered low.

'Oh, last days of the year, you take away
The riches that I held so close and dear.
Go not so swiftly, stay a little, stay
With one poor bankrupt,
Last days of the year.'

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!

As 'Peace on earth!' the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
'Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!'
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and 'Glory! Glory!' sing,
Upon the City's threshold fair
A woman steps, and lingers there.

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
'Tell Christ,' she says, 'a mother waits who fain would speak with Him.'
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
And hearing it, straight from His throne
Comes down to her the Kingly One
With shining face and eyes that hold
Such wealth of love and peace,
She feels her trembling heart grow bold,
Her doubt and grieving cease.
'Dear Lord!' she cries, and lowly kneels, 'I have a prayer to make;
O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake,
Since heaven will not seem fair to me
If one dear face I may not see.

'Dear Christ, a mother's love is great
To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.
The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son,
Whose soul, though deeply stainèd by sin, may yet by love be won
To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way;
O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?

'Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.
I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!
Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low,
The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago,
And bared her snowy breast to Thee,
And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.

'And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again,
To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!
Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move;
O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?
That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim
Because my heart is back with him?

'With him-the wandering son of mine, the wayward one-whose need
Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!
Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest;
'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.
On this glad morning of Thy birth,
O grant me leave to visit earth!'

Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand,
'Fear not,' she hears, 'a love like thine the Christ can understand.
No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year,
For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear,
I do remember that My cheek
Lay on a bosom warm,
I do remember Bethlehem,
And Mary's cradling arm.'

The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle store
On ancestry, acres, and siller,
Nor cared to remember the good days of yore,
Nor grandfather Allan, the miller-
The honest old miller.

'We're wealthy fowk now, tak' oor place wi' the best,'
Said the heid o' the Allans, one Dougal,
A man whom Dame Fortune had royally blest,
Of sensible habits, and frugal-
Uncommonly frugal.

'We're honored by great fowk and wise fowk, now min',
O' the kirk each Allan's a pillar-
What more could we spier o' a providence kin',
Unless 'twere a little more siller-
A little more siller.

'For it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get;
Ye'll fin' this an unco' guid motto,
We chose it lang syne, and we stick to it yet,
Altho' not sae close as we ought to-
Not nearly sae close as we ought to.

'There is ane o' the name is a spendthrift, an ass;
The reason tae ye I'll discover:
Oor gran'faither marrit an Inverness lass,
Juist because he happened to luve her-
Foolish mon, he happened to luve her!

'And the wild Highland strain is still i' the bluid-
'Tis i' Colin, as sure's you're leeving;
Ye ken how it is wi' the whole Highland brood-
'Tis a' for spending and geeving.

'Gin ye're freen' o' the clan, why, ask what ye may,
Ye'll get o' the best, ay, get double;
Gin ye're foe o' the clan, weel, juist gang your way
If so be ye're no hunting trouble.

'Brither Colin was daft when a lad at the school,
Wi' ways and wi' morals improper,
Had high flowing notions-poor family fool,
His notions ha' made him a pauper.

'What owns he? Bare acres a few, and a house,
Yet when we, last year, were expecting
Twa relatives, ane puir as ony church mouse,
Ane freighted wi' wealth, unreflecting,

'He spat oot graun' like, 'Sin' ye're ower fond o' pelf
'Ye can hae,' said he, 'the rich pairty,
But I'll tak' the mon that is puir as mysel'
And gie him a welcome right hearty'-
A welcome right hearty.

'Gosh! I had tae lauch at the feckless auld mon
As he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling;
Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clan
That marched to the pibroch's mad skirling.

'Ah! hot-headed, high-handed, go as you please,
These Highlanders no worth a copper,
Wi' their kilt and hose, and their uncovered knees-
A bold dress, and highly improper!

'Oor Colin's the same; hark ye, Davy and Jock,
Go no to the hills for your mating;
Twa weel dowered lassies o' guid lowland stock,
'Tis for such I'd hae ye both waiting.

'Ho! it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get,-
What is it ye whisper amang ye?
What! oor rich uncle's deid-weel, weel, dinna fret,
Ah'm certain that he wouldna wrang me.

'He promised to leave everything he possest-
Before witness promised it fairly-
To the most deserving, the noblest and best
O' a' the Allans o' Airlie.

'Ye ken I'm the mon. Here's the lawyer at hand,
(I'm richer a'ready and prooder)
Hark ye! 'Give and bequeath my gowd and my land'-
Mr. Grant, I pray ye, speak looder.

'I'll buy me the laird's castle doon by the park-
Oh, me! but I'll step aboot rarely.
'To my nephew, Colin'-it canna' be-hark!
'To the grandest Allan o' Airlie.'

'To Colin! I'd ficht, but I've no got the pluck,
I'm auld, and I'm broken, I tell ye;
I ca'd him a fool-he has had a fool's luck,
And noo he can buy me and sell me.

'Now hearken ye, lads, frae the morn till the nicht
It pays best tae act quite sincerely;
Get what ye can-aweel, the motto's a'richt,
But some things are gotten too dearly.
Ay, some things are gotten too dearly.

'I'm thinkin' o' gran'faither's Inverness wife,
Nor cattle nor siller she brought him,
Juist a hairt fu' o' luve-some queer views o' life-
How runs that auld ballad she taught him?

'I've a lowly cot and a wide open door,
Neither old nor young need pass by, sir;
A piece of red gold for the brother that's poor-
Ho, a rich, happy man am I, sir!'

'Aweel! there be lessons ye'll no learn in school,
It tak's my breath away fairly-
The ne'er-do-weel Colin, the family fool,
And the graundest Allan o' Airlie!'

J. Thomas Gordon left home one day,
Left home for good and all-
A boy has a right to have his own way
When he's nearly six foot tall;
At least, this is what J. Thomas thought,
And in his own young eyes
There were very few people quite so good,
And fewer still quite so wise.

What! tie as clever a lad as he
Down to commonplace toil?
Make J. Thomas Gordon a farmer lad,
A simple son of the soil?
Not if he knew it-'twould be a sin;
He wished to rise and soar.
For men like himself who would do and dare
Dame Fortune had much in store.

The world was in need of brains and brawn,
J. Thomas said modestly,
The clever young man was in great demand-
They would see what they would see.
He would make his mark in the busy world,
Some day the daily press
Would herald the glad news forth to the throng,
J. Thomas is a SUCCESS.

Then would the doubters and sceptics all
Say, with regret sincere,
'To think that we gave his hopes and his aims
But an unbelieving sneer!'
As for him, he would kiss his mother,
And give her wealth galore,
Shake the hand of his father-maybe-
Then back to the world once more.

With big ambition and high conceit
Was young J. Thomas filled;
The warning of friends and their arguments
His eloquence quickly stilled.
'You may go,' said the irate father,
'I'll not urge you to stay;
You will learn your lesson, you headstrong fool,
Be glad to come back some day.'

So J. Thomas Gordon left the farm,
As boys have done before,
And his mother began to count the hours
Till he would be home once more.

The father wearied as time went on-
Missed the boy from his side;
But all through the years the fond mother kept
Her love, her hope, and her pride.
With a mother's beautiful faith, she said:
'I know my boy will come
So wealthy, so honored, noble and great,
Proudly come marching home.'

And ever she looked at eventide
Into the glowing west
For the dust of the carriage bringing her
The one that she loved the best.
Ah! how she longed to look on his face,
Her stalwart lad and true,
With his sunburned cheek, and his ruddy hair,
And his eyes so bright and blue.

To those who said 'twas cruel of him
Never a line to send,
She had but one answer, with eyes ashine:
'It will all come right in the end;
He's busy making a name and place,
And I must patient be
Till this clever, ambitious lad of mine
Finds time to come back to me.'

Important and wealthy and famous,
Honored and wise and great!
But look you, who can that ragged tramp be,
Down there by the garden gate,
Pale as if hunger had pressed him sore,
Trembling because so weak,
Pushed on by his longing, held back by shame-
A tear on his poor pale cheek?

'Tis he! Had he come back rich and great
She'd have met him at the door,
But she's down the path with her arms outspread,
Because he has come back poor.
Gone, gone are her day-dreams sweet and fair-
Gone in the swift glad shock
Of folding a ragged tramp in her arms,
But love stands firm as a rock.

She rang the dinner bell long and loud,
The father came with speed;
The welcome he gave the prodigal
Was a tender one indeed.
'The young fool has learned his lesson,'
J. Thomas whispered low.
'So he has-God bless him!' the father cried,
'He'll make a good man, I know.

'Honest, unselfish, and true as steel,
Our boy will stand the test;
Kindly of thought and word and deed-
The homely virtues are best.
I knew when you went, and you know it now,
That all this pride and style,
This yearnin' to fill up the public eye,
Isn't really worth the while.'

Oh, the happy face of the mother
That night as, kneeling low,
Tom said the prayer that he used to say
At her knee so long ago.
A new J. Thomas had this to add-
With his bonnie blue eyes wet-
'Thank God for the home, for the faithful hearts
That never change or forget.'



Though far and wide on the world's rough sea
The children, reckless, roam,
The boldest thanks God in some stress of storm
For the harbor lights of home.