Part 1

HEART SONGS.

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

PAGE

Wooing His Valentine 9

Jealous, Sweetheart? 11

The Day Neil Rode to Mill 14

At Joppa 20

The World is Growing Old 22

At Dawn 24

She 26

The Two Marys 27

The Mother’s Lecture 30

Spring 33

Reminiscences 36

Ammiel’s Gift 38

Robin 41

Margot 42

Dreamland 44

Only a Picture 45

Her Boy 47

The Indian Girl 49

Some Joys We May Not Keep 53

In Sunflower Time 55

As It Began to Dawn 61

Her Lesson 69

Until We Meet 70

His Care 71

With Her Sunshine, Breeze and Dew 72

What the Poppies Said 73

Eve 74

Ring Out Glad Song 77

In the Conservatory 81

A Bud 84

Envy 84

A Fancied Loss 85

How Close? 86

In the Wood 87

Lac Deschene 93

Deserted 94

My Neighbor 95

Hollyhocks 96

The Miscreant 99

Her Birthday 100

Slander 102

Summer Holidays 103

Violet 104

My Lady of the Silver Tongue 106

Sweeping to the Sea 107

Minerva’s Essay 108

To the Queen 111

In the Old Church 112

September 117

Spring o’ the Year 118

Mildred 119

The Old Valentine 121

The Boy of the House 124

For He was Scotch and so was She 127

The Legend of Love 128

Our Father 131

Jack 132

A Pledge 137

Blue-Eyed Bess 137

The Courtier’s Ladye 139

The Rustic’s Lassie 140

Her Dower 142

Mavourneen 143

Song of the Wind 145

The Richer Man 147

His Wife and Boy 149

She Just Keeps House for Me 151

Love’s Humility 153

Our Host and His House 155

The Mother’s Story 157

In Lovers’ Lane 160

O Last Days of the Year 164

Back on the Farm 165

He Meditates on the Critic 167

Jacynth 168

Her First Sleigh-Ride 171

His Own Little Black-Eyed Lad 176

Be Good and Glad 178

The Making Up 179

O Radiant Stream 180

My Sweetbriar Maid 183

My Canada 184

Perfect Peace 186

The King’s Gift 189

I Love Her Well 189

Good-Night 190

Her Gold 191

Good-Bye to Work 192

Somebody 195

My Little Maid 196

Heather White 199

Granny’s Message to Jack 200

The Ever and Ever So Long Ago 203

The Height 203

Her Portrait 204

God Loveth Us 205

An Etching 206

Shadows 207

A Merrie Christmasse Untoe Ye 207

Marguerite 208

The Hoar Frost on the Wood 212

Two Creeds 213

His Ex-Platonic Friend 216

The Grave 218

Settled by Arbitration 219

The Circuit 221

Gethsemane 224

My Friend 224

The Prodigal 226

At Quebec 230

The Tea-Kettle’s Tune 230

The Creed of Love 232

In the Clover-Field 233

Lullaby 234

A Sunset Talk 235

Truth Upon Honor 238

Elspeth’s Daughter-in-law 242

Cold Water 248

Long Time Ago 254

The Meanest Man 258

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.