Heart Songs. Jean Blewett
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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.