Poems (Helen Jenkins)/Marion Lee

MARION LEE.

A blithesome child was Marion Lee,
A winsome country girl,
A sweet-faced little maiden
With never a dimple or curl;
Yet her spirit was joyous and sunny,
Clear and stainless as pearl.

She was quaint and quiet; in childhood
Aloof from all she played,
Or away on the craggy hilltops
In childish wonder strayed,
Where the ledges and granite boulders
The wildest pictures made.

She was sensitive and timid,
And shrank from every eye;
In self-distrust and shyness,
From strangers she would fly;
Only those who loved the child
Could win her heart, so shy.

And yet, in the realm of nature,
She found friends everywhere:
In woodland, field and forest,
She knew each floweret fair,
And loved all bright-winged creatures,—
Insects and birds of the air.

She carried about in her apron
The curious pets she found,—
Big beetles, and caterpillars
Curled up so soft and round;
Or, if she chanced to find them,
In shrouds of satin bound.

These, like Pandora's fabled box,
Blessings with wings contained,
Which all too quickly flew away,
While naught, alas! remained;
In each fuzzy ball was hidden
A life yet unattained.

The gems and jewels of winter
Gave her the keenest delight.
She danced on the frozen brooklet
In the clear and frosty night;
Or flew o'er the crusted meadows,
Like a laughing, joyous wight.

She loved the deep-toned music
Of the noisy waterfall;
And the quiet, deep seclusion
Of the forest grand and tall.
She worshiped nature's beauties
And the God who made them all.

Books were the coveted treasures
Of this hungry-hearted child;
And oft her yearning soul the hours
With glowing dreams beguiled,
Of an enchanted world of lore,
Of sweetest Lopes fulfilled.

The wonderful fountain of knowledge
Away in the distance gleamed.
O'! when might she ever enter
This world of which she dreamed,
And gather its golden fruitage?
How rich and full it seemed!

To her, these coveted blessings
Came not with the passing years;
And her eyes, so weary with watching
Grew dim with sorrowful tears.
Then she knelt in the temple of nature,
Telling her griefs and her fears.

For we, in nature's solitude,
Come nearest the great Unseen.
We kneel in her "holy of holies,"
And the veil is rent between:
Aye! "the inner court" is opened
By God's gracious hand, I ween!

We worship so deeply His greatness,
His goodness and care over all,
If darksome and dreary our pathway,
To Him we can ever call;
For never, without His notice,
Can even a sparrow fall.

'Tis said, "They also serve the Lord,
Who only stand and wait,—"
And Marion could be wise and good,
Lamenting not her fate;
She could work in the Master's vineyard,
Toiling early and late.

At length, with blushes, as shyly
As flowers their leaves unfold,
Of a love that was almost worship,
A whispered story was told,—
So old, yet so new in its sweetness,—
A poem in "blue and gold."

Surely, sweet maiden Marion
Had found her favored knight!
And he loved her then and ever,
For her soul so pure and white;
And they, in a wildwood cottage, found
A home and a fireside bright.

The forest vanished, as one by one
The grand old monarchs fell;
And wide green fields and waving grain
Of tireless endeavor tell;
While here and there, on the hills around,
Young pioneers came to dwell.

And, as days and years sped onward,
In the cottages far and near,
The needy, and the suffering ones
Found help and comfort there;
For Marion's heart was strong and brave,
Helpful and full of cheer.

She made them garments, nursed the sick
With kindliest good will;
She helped them with her willing hands,
And taught them thrift and skill;
The poor and friendless came to her
Whenever things went ill.

Even poor simple-minded "Jim"
Lingered about her door,
And always, in his stammering way,
Repeated o'er and o'er,
Good wishes for his faithful friend,—
"Good wishes, if nothing more."

She pitied his poor darkened soul
Struggling to find the light,
Though hopelessly he wandered
In a dark and starless night;
Yet, to win her kind approval,
He was eager to do right.

There was always room enough with them
For an orphan child, or more,
However many the "chicks" might be
In the dear home-nest before.
They had been orphans, and homeless, too;
And they opened wide their door.

Their charity was devoid of show
Or boastful pride and noise;
They never blew a trumpet loud,—
It was only "a still, small voice,"
A whisper, which, though soft and low,
Made many hearts rejoice.

O, such a life is beautiful!
So full of worthiest deeds,
And words o'erflowing from a heart
Which felt all human needs!
So full of love and tenderness,—
Pity which clothes and feeds!

Ah, Marion! in those earlier years,
Though gifts you sought, denied,
How beautiful the Master's hand
Could make life's eventide,
When, in the light of truth divine,
Your work was glorified!