The Bethunes :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Bethunes

or, The Fifeshire Foresters [by John Bethune]

Bethune, John (1812-1839)

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THE BETHUNES:

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THE BETHUNES:

or, The Fifeshire Foresters.

Part First.

We sing not of the carpet knight
On whom fair fortune smiles—
Who wins the day at tourney gay,
And the night with song beguiles.

Nor of veteran bold, to meet the foe
Who dashes to the fray,
And many a noble crest lays low
On many a bloody day.

'Tis not for warriors such as these
I tune my silent lyre—
Their praises sound on every breeze,
And every lip inspire.

But I saw a vision of chivalry
In a shady nook afar,
Where never arose the battle cry
Nor the bloody heat of war.

'Twas a Scottish nook unknown to fame,
Where a humble people dwell—
And no poet voice hath breathed in song
The tale I seek to tell.

His earliest home was Moniemail,
And John Bethune his name;
While still a bairn in his mother's arms,
To Woodmill Mains they came;

Nigh to the spot where calm Lochend
Smiles on the stilly lake,
Where sky, and wood, and waters clear,
A lonely Eden make.

His father had been bred to toil,
A forester was he,
Inured to clear th' encumbered soil,
And fell the spreading tree.

And John would wander thro' the woods,
A tender little child—
No ruder school-boy sports were his,
No cruelties beguiled—

So merciful! he could not see
The struggles of the fly
Laboring to free its little wings
From spider's net on high;

His hand was ready to release;
His heart could pity all;
No creature of God's world too mean
His mercy to enthral.

The humble bee which clung around
The autumn-withered flower,
Benumbed with cold, he loved to take
From biting frost and shower,

And nurse it in his hand, while slow
The parting life returned;
Or place it in his bosom till
His guest the refuge spurned,

And, buzzing, left—to sip again
What sweetness it could find;
And little recked the loving boy
The sting it left behind!

Untaught, he wandered o'er the moor,
His father's cows to herd,
Watching the sky in sunset dye,
And listening to the bird.

His task was little to his taste;
And he afterwards took shame
For frightening home the cows before
The appointed hour came!

But he was then a little lad,
But eight years old at most;
Full soon he learnt to cross his will,
And not to count the cost.

A brother he had, and he loved him well,
Alec Bethune was he;
They shared one home—they shared one bed,
And were brothers in unity.

True to each other—knit together—
One, not alone in name—
They herded the flock in the purple heather,
And at night to the poor cot came.

David and Jonathan loved full well—
Drawn closely, friend to friend;
Yet not more closely than were knit
The herdboys of Lochend.

A student from St. Andrew's came
To teach a neighboring school;
He had a love for poetry,
And his memory was full

Of passages from Walter Scott,
Which he gloried to recite—
The two Bethunes stood silent by,
And listened with delight.

This laid the germ of what became
A passion in the end;
They set themselves to versify,
And hour on hour would spend

In this delightful toil, while still
They watched the lowing herd;—
At first, 'twas very hard to write—
John could not spell a word!

The single day he passed at school,
Brought headache to the boy;
And so they did not send him back—
His mother would employ

Her leisure time in helping him
In reading; and his brother
Would try to teach him how to shape
One letter from another.

Rapid his progress; for the child
Was quick to apprehend;
But the hardest task his teachers had,
Was reading what he penned.

For all his spelling was by sound,
And wondrous did it look—
Until he took to copying
Whole chapters from a book.

Accustoming his eye at length,
The right from wrong to tell;—
He worked away laboriously,
And soon succeeded well.

And, as we read his early verse,
We mark the up-turned eye;
And smile upon th'untutored wings
That struggle to the sky.

Part Second.

A few years—and the brothers came
To break stones on the road,
Fired with desire to win their bread,
Needing no other goad;

And in those chilly latitudes,
And through the biting frost,
With limbs half-frozen by the cold,
And outer sunshine lost,

They labored deftly o'er the stones,
And cheered, with jest and smile,
And not a murmur of complaint
Escaped their lips the while.

For father now was drooping fast,
And mother very weak;
They saw that they should have to toil
The parents' bread to seek.

And you will say,—“'Tis common this—
A tale of every-day.”
True! there are thousands who like them
Have walked the toilsome way;

But many there are not, who feed
Like them on poets' lore,
Herding the cows, and breaking stones
Beside the “waveless shore;”

But nursing in their souls the love
Of very different things,
Rising aloft from drudging work
On holy spirit-wings.

So self-relentless at their toil,
But raising aye the eye,
To catch the passing gleam of light
And mark the sunset dye;

Picturing the martyrs gathered there,
Tracing their cloudless home;—
The soul of John already yearned
To the land where he soon should come.

His verses flowed in loving strain,
With the tale of the martyr band;
And he fancied he saw thro' the glowing mists
The wave of their beckoning hand.

No victory gained o'er wrong and might,
But woke his sympathy;
His heart was with the brave who joyed
For home and faith to die.

And he imaged the bliss which filled their souls,
As they leant from the shining cloud,
To view the freedom of their land,
No longer to tyranny bowed.

Unmarred by conscious questionings,
No brooding victim he;
No worker, watching his shadow fall
O'er the lake's tranquillity.

He worked, because there was work to do,
And dear ones to be fed;
He thought, and wrote, and dreamed, because
His soul was heaven-ward led.

There was pain, and want, and toil below,
But light and life on high—
When his flesh was bowed 'neath the earthly load,
He found comfort in the sky.

Part Third.

And years flowed past—John struggled on
To help his father more;
He thought the weaver's work would bring
An increase to their store.

So went away to Collassie,
A young apprentice lad;
'Twas not till after years, they knew
His heart was very sad,

And all his thoughts were pointed at
The moment of return;
So he worked away, with double zeal,
The weaver's wage to earn,

Till sickness laid him low awhile;
A foretaste of the end—
They stretched him in a cart, and brought
Him back unto Lochend.

But up again within the week,
He thirsted to be doing—
The thought, that they would miss his work,
His frame with strength enduing.

With terrible frugality,
His scanty pence he saved,
And all the petty agonies
Of self-denial braved,

To win enough to let him buy
The humble weaver's loom,
That he and Alec might unite
And take a neighbouring room,

And do the business for themselves
Beside the father's cot;
For father now had lost his place,
And strength to work had not.

“We'll come and work beside the home,
And earn for father too—”
Alas! the weaving business fails—
They have to start anew;

Returning to their daily toil,
As laborers on the road;
No little need of faith there was
To cheer them 'neath their load.

But all this while, they snatched the hours
At morning, or at night,
To write and study earnestly—
It was their one delight.

John's spirit breathed of poetry;
He penned his boyish lays
In secret; striving now to hide
His work from others' gaze.

He wrote upon the little scraps
Which wrapt the grocery store;
The only paper that he had:
And through the crazy door

And from the roof, the rain would come
His manuscripts to wet;
They now are scarcely legible,
In smoke and dust-heaps set.

In summer he would rise at three,
In winter, after four,
To read and write, before he went
To work beyond his door.

He used to have his paper set
Resting upon his knee,
Above a tumbled copy book,
No writing desk had he.

There would he sit for hours until
He heard a footstep nigh;
And then would cast away the pen
And paper, with a sigh.

But never at his work remiss;
The time he snatched to write
Was either in the early morn
Or after toil at night.

Nor always then—for three long years
He gave his evening hours
To till the widows' plot of ground,
And cultivate their flowers.

The name of “widow” was to him
A very sacred name—
“The Bible had so honored it;”
And he would do the same.

Two widows dwelt beside the Loch,
Feeble, and poor, and lone—
He thought it would be well to help,
And make their work his own.

And so he gave his precious hours,
Not looking for reward;
He did not think the good deed strange,
Nor that the work was hard.

Oh! John Bethune! the angels looked
With favor on thy face!
See we not here a kingly gem
Set in a lowly place?

Part Fourth.

One day, went Alec out to work
To blast a neighbouring rock,
Unconscious of the danger nigh
And of the coming shock.

Struck down—in agony of frame—
In sore dismay of mind—
Soon as the smoke had cleared away
Was seen the wreck behind.

Alec lay stretched upon the ground—
They bore him to his home;
'Twas long before the injured lad
Back to his work could come.

The accident imprisoned him
For many a weary day;
And mourning over idleness
He fretted as he lay.

Nor were his sufferings so sore,
As feeling that to John
Was left the burden of support
Of father, mother, son.

But John accounted this as naught—
The “love made labor light;”
He worked all day to gain the bread,
And took his watch by night,

Sharing the nursing of the lad
With tender brother's care;
Perchance he penned his “vigil” poem
While watching by him there.

And with the great emergency,
His strength appeared to rise—
He would not be forsaken
By his Guardian in the skies!

And then, thank God for Alec's life;
The scars would pass away;
It was so cheering to behold
Him mending day by day.

And Alec—gazing from his bed
With wistful, thankful eyes,
Saw not the future—nursing John;
His turn should soon arise!

Part Fifth.

Meanwhile, the muse of poesy
Kept whispering in their ear;
John sang the glories of the heavens
And of the glad new year;

And dived into diviner themes—
“Of immortality”—
And dwelt on the fulfilment of
The mystic “Prophecy;”

While Alec penned, with glowing heart
The “day-dreams” of his youth;
And mused upon “a mother's love”
With Nature's tender truth.

And though their outer life was dark
And hard, and drear, and cold;
Their spirit-fancies were to them
A mine of wealth untold;

Nor did they view these poet-dreams
As useless waste of hours;
They looked to better the parents' bread,
And put forth all their powers

To make their verses worthy of
A distant, wider sphere;—
One kind of toil was breaking stones—
Another kind was here.

But both alike were dedicate
To father and to mother—
The one they buckled to for need,
But they dearly loved the other.

John's verses were accepted by
A monthly magazine;
But this was all—they did not help
To bring the needful in.

His next attempt was to produce
An article in prose;
'Twas then on “Irish absentees”
Much loud discussion rose;

But disappointment waited on
The author and the bard;
His paper was returned to him—
And Alec thought it hard!

But John was hopeful to the last,
And penned his verses still,
He thought he saw the distant height
As he labored up the hill;

And, sitting by the single pane
Lighting the single room,
He loved to trace the dawning gleam
Emerging from the gloom.

And, e'en while laborer at work
Upon the rugged earth,
His brain was busy all the while
Producing thoughts of worth;

And he carried with him paper scraps
On which to write them down;
Lest, trudging homeward, he should find
The happy thoughts had flown.

And troth, the brothers might have gained
Their struggling living well,
Had not disease come striding on
Ringing the cold death-knell;

For John's weak frame again succumbed;
His illness came to be
From clearing out that watercourse,
With water to the knee

Upon a chill November day.
The racking cough began;
He did not murmur; 'twas his work,
He'd do it like a man.

And when so weak that scarce his limbs
Could carry him along,
He still persisted day by day
To labor, weak or strong.

And the hours lost on sick-bed days
He loved to compensate,
As soon as health came nigher him,
By working long and late.

Disease strode on. They bade him go
To take marl from a pit,
Within a marshy tract of land;
And he accomplished it;

But going home, all drenched and cold,
The hollow cough returned;
He did not mind—he could not help;
The wage at least was earned.

Next, in December's chilling blast,
He set himself to drain
The standing water from a swamp,
Regardless of the pain

Which rack'd his breast; and after that
He could not lie in bed
For nights together, for the cough,
But had to sit instead

Through the long hours. I think he knew
He had not long to live;
And burned to work, while work he could;
While strength remained, to strive.

They never saw him fret, but when
Illness or blinding snow
Forbade his going to his toil;
'Twas this that laid him low.

As long as he could still be doing,
His spirits kept their tone;
Duty, and love, and honest labor—
He lived for these alone.

Through six long years he suffered 'neath
A painful malady:
He grew accustomed to the pain,
And bore it silently.

When twenty-one, he strained himself,
Drawing a heavy weight:
If he was offered work to do,
How could he hesitate?

A common labourer on the road,
Took what his masters gave;
And all they gave him seemed to bring
Him nearer to the grave.

And still the cough! where could he look
For aid from doctors' skill?
He copied out advertisements
Of cures for many an ill;

But where the time to get the drugs?
His time was not his own;
It must be given to parents poor,
And to the widows lone.

His life—himself? ah, well! it was
In other, higher hands;
He had but to discharge the task,
And follow the commands;

And if disease were growing fast,
With daily gnawing pain,
He knew that he'd have rest at last,
And rest which would remain.

So he buckled still to his daily task,
And smiled on his parent's face!
Have we not here a kingly gem
Set in a lowly place?

Part Sixth.

Three years passed on, and John attained
To be an overseer
Upon the Inchrye property:
The way seemed dawning clear.

His heart rejoiced, for now he hoped
The father's debts to pay—
The debts which father could not help,
Caused by a “rainy day.”

'Twas wonderful how far it went—
The money earned by John;
How much he managed to bestow,
How little lived upon.

His whole expences for the year,
For clothes, and books, and food,
Cost little more than seven pounds,
While dwelling in the wood.

The rest all found its way to them;
His selfish wants were few,
And books the only luxury
His self-denial knew.

At Inchrye, there were plans to make,
And a report to draw;
So manuscripts were laid aside,
And not a line he saw,

Until his work was well despatched,
And leisure came again;
His hours were now his master's right,
And should be master's gain.

And thoughtful for his master's cost,
And saving of expence,
He set to work, tho' overseer,
Upon the meadow fence.

Eye-service would have hurt his pride;
He'd rather go beyond
The duties which were given him,
Than keep within his bond.

Nor deemed he that the humblest toil
Had power to degrade;
Alike to him in honour were
The pen and garden spade.

For “work,” as “work,” was dignity,
Be it or high or low;
Only he loved the pen the best,
And still aspired “to know!”

Yes! and that simple labourer's soul
The double wisdom proved—
Like Paracelsus, he “would know;”
Like Aprilè, he “loved.”

True, 'twas but little that he knew,
But it was quite enough
To help him forward to the stars,
Along the pathway rough;

And though much learning might have made
His life a brighter thing,
'Tis little when we gauge it by
Celestial reckoning.

The “silvery spark” which shone so clear,
Would live beyond the sky,
When the “rosy light” and “azure beam”
Alike were doomed to die.

Part Seventh.

At Inchrye John remained, until
His master's wide domain
Passed into other hands, and he
Was turned adrift again.

No other opening greeted him;
So he quietly went back
To father's cot beside Lochend,
To walk the beaten track,

And serve as labourer on the road,
Till better times should come:
He mourned to lose his place, and yet
Rejoiced to be at home.

Repeated disappointments came,
To fret his eager spirit;
He wrote, but still the world refused
To recognise his merit.

His sympathies were with the poor—
The very suffering poor;
And he and Alec longed t'apply
Some palliative or cure;

So they devised a plan to write
A lecture, on the theme
Of “Practical Economy”—
And carried out the scheme,

As far as penning lectures went;
But when they came to think
Of speaking them before a crowd,
John's heart began to sink.

And thus the manuscripts were laid
Aside for many a day,
While the brothers pursued their daily task,
Plodding their toilsome way.

Part Eighth.

And now approached the time when they
Should be compelled to go,
And leave their humble little home,
The home they cherished so.

And the garden, with its barren soil,
On which, through weary hours,
They'd laboured hard to raise the fruit,
And cultivate the flowers,

Should pass to other hands, and all
That they had done be lost—
Those sturdy hearts! no mortal knew
The pain the parting cost.

They rooted up their favourites—
The plants they loved the best,
To carry with them where they went;
And as John viewed the rest,

He let a sigh escape to see
How a single hour may
Annihilate the heavy toil
Of many a laboring day.

His next thought was to build a cot,
Where the parents might remain,
Secure from landlord's cold caprice,
And never quit again.

At Inchrye he had pinched and saved,
With such frugality,
That a sum of thirty pounds was there
For building to apply.

And he and Alec set to work,
And hired a mason too—
John's strength seemed coming back to him,
With this darling aim in view.

He left his home each morn at five,
Walked three miles to the spot,
And there remained till half-past seven
Working, and resting not.

Dinner of bread he bore about,
And, as he worked, partook;
And, while he watched the building rise,
And planned each fav'rite nook,

Imagination pictured there
His hoary-headed sire,
Resting beneath his own roof-tree
And by his cottage fire.

The thought was one to nerve his hand,
And prop his failing powers;
It cheered him thro' his day of toil
And in his suffering hours.

Part Ninth.

Five months elapsed—the work was done;
There stood the little home
Looking towards the distant hill—
They bade their parents come.

But little thought how short a time
The father was to share
The comforts which his faithful sons
Had struggled to prepare.

Three months! and he was called away.
They laid him in his grave
Within the Abdie churchyard, where
The spreading elm-trees wave.

Part Tenth.

'Twas at this time, a friend appeared
With proffer to obtain
Some post for John, which might afford
Both pleasant work and gain.

But with an independent will—
Mistaken, as I think—
He would not take the proffered help;
He dreaded most to sink

Into dependence, should he cling
To aid from those above;
His principle was “not to owe
Men anything but love.”

'Twas to the publisher alone
He looked for fav'ring eye;
To give fair work for fair return
Was not dependency.

But 'twas ordained that where his hopes
Had yearned and hungred most,
Cold disappointment should abide
Till the last gleam was lost.

Though he was “straining up the steep
Of excellence;” and spared
No trouble to perfect his verse
The work no better fared.

They paid him for some little tales;
But his lectures did not sell;
And, one by one, his cherished hopes
Of a sunny future, fell.

Weakened in frame, and suffering,
At length his buoyant mind
Succumbed beneath the long assaults
Of life's cold wintry wind.

His cheerfulness was clouded, for
He knew his strength would fail,
And saw how futile his attempts
To stem the adverse gale.

When Alec marked the grief he felt,
He whispered—“'Twill indeed
Be a hard world, if I cannot earn
For my own and my brother's need!”

And John, with smile of mournful love,
Lay back upon his chair,
And sought for comfort in the Psalms
And in the secret prayer.

While Alec toiled, with heart and hand,
As John was wont to do—
With sore dismay at the solemn hour
Which was hastening fast, he knew.

Nor this the solitary cross
Which Alec had to bear,
Another weighed upon his soul
And filled him with despair.

There was a maid he chanced to know,
Whose eyes beamed bright and clear
Beneath a brow of dazzling snow;
And to him that maid was dear.

Those eyes were angel lattices
Through which the spirit shone;
And his true heart panted for the bliss
To call her his very own.

But his sense of right was combating
With the love of his manly heart;
“How can I take this tender thing
From mother and home to part?

“To share the burden of the load
Which crushes on my head—
To walk with bleeding feet, the road
Which I am doomed to tread?

“Could I bear to see the lines of care
Furrow her sunny brow?
The colour fade—the features wear
A look they know not now?

“Oh! tender nursling! sweetest bird!
Downy and soft thy nest;
Sealed be my lips from e'en a word
Which might make my own hearth blest!

“The winds are cold—the birds of prey
Are hovering around;
I could not carry thee thus away
To crouch on the stony ground.”

So he saw her blue eyes turned on him,
And asked not for one smile—
But his lip grew white, and his eye grew dim,
And his heart was breaking the while.

Part Eleventh.

Thus travelled many weary months—
The parting nearer came;
Alternate hopes and fears prevailed—
But death strode on the same.

John suffered on—and Alec nursed;
And sorrow filled the home;
John's spirit now was very calm,
He felt his hour had come.

And Alec loved to watch his face
Lit by the evening glow,
As the sunshine shed its yellow beams
Through the window long and low.

And to Alec's eyes the features wore
A yet diviner hue,
As though upon him there fell the light
Of the land he was hastening to.

Why should we chronicle the end?
Or Alec's anguish tell,
As he wiped the death-damps from the brow
Of the brother he loved so well?

Night after night he nursed him there—
Day after day despaired,
While the dying man lay calm and still
For the coming change prepared.

He called for his mother to comfort her,
And spoke to her tenderly;
And to Alec—“My eyes are growing dim,
But your face I still can see!”

There was no sorrow in his heart
Because his call was nigh—
He grieved that he could no longer help
In the struggle 'gainst penury.

No dread assailed him of Death's cold stream—
His God would support him through;
And he bade his dear ones “sorrow not
As hopeless mourners do.”

The trial was sore to flesh and blood,
But Alec, with bursting heart,
Struggled to cleave to the daily toil,
And to compass the double part.

Part Twelfth.

And Alison Christie watched her son,
With the big tear in her eye;
For she knew full well what he had done
Their needful to supply.

And not alone in the fiercer strife
Was his love made manifest;
In the humble nothings of daily life,
It shone, and smiled, and blest.

He donned the dying sufferer's clothes
In the early morning grey,
That nor damp, nor chill, should deepen the ill
Which was gnawing him day by day.

And John looked out with death-struck eyes
On the brother and nurse in one;
And ghastly he struggled in vain to rise
And do as he once had done.

But no more should he toil, and sweat, and do,
To aid with the daily bread—
'Twas a passive cross for him now, he knew,
Though he clung till hope was dead.

And then came the end;—he had borne enough;
The film passed slowly o'er—
He had faltered not, though the way was rough;
He should suffer on earth no more.

And his mother prayed, as she wrapped him up,
And laid him within his bier,
For submission to drink the bitter cup
And refrain the rebel tear.

“And may I live” said the mourning one,
“Till I see him given to fame,
And his words in type, through the world, that none
Be missing to bless his name!”

Her prayer was granted—the last half-sheet
Was placed in her trembling hand;
None other words should the dim eyes meet
Till she reached a better land.

For blindness smote on the failing orb
When the great desire was won—
She had looked her last—she was hasting fast
To follow her ransomed son.

So she folded her hands upon her breast,
With “Lord! let me now depart!”
And the Shepherd soon took her unto His rest
To bind up her broken heart.

Mother and son were laid beside
The ancient ruined tower,
Within the Abdie churchyard, where
Keep watch full many a flower,

Guarding the precious dust beneath;
Fair daises thickly spread
Smile on the “drooping elms” which wave
Their branches overhead.

The “hoary tower” rears high its spire
Towards the cloudless skies,
As though to “point to brighter hopes,
And bid the spirit rise.”

And the “ruin, roofless, rent, and grey,”
Shivers beside the trees,
Defenceless 'gainst the winter snow,
And 'gainst the chill March breeze.

Still, still they stand, as then they stood,
When the priest had murmured low
Over the open grave; and when
The angels dropped the snow,

So white and pure upon his bier,
Like wedding raiment given,
To hide the stains of earth beneath
The holy love of heaven.

Part Thirteenth.

And Alec was left by the silent sod
To follow his work alone,
With a steadfast will, and a faith in God,
And a heart nigh turned to stone.

“Parent, and friend, and brother gone,”
And the love of his manhood's prime!
Truly he “stood on the earth alone”
Dead to the things of time.

And though friends arose to open forth
A vista of better days,
He felt that earth's triumphs were little worth,
And shrunk from the voice of praise.

All had departed to whom the sound
Of his fame would have rung so sweet;
And he yearned to pass to the holy ground
Where he and his own should meet.

“The iron had entered within;” and now
The touch of fair fortune's wand,
But caused his stricken head to bow,
And to tremble his death-cold hand.

Too late! too late! ambition's lure
Was powerless to inspire—
He had sweated and toiled for parents poor,
And walked thro' the burning fire;

But now—his earthly hopes were hushed,
And hushed was his earthly strife;
A few short years, and his ransomed soul
Should awake to a better life.

Conclusion.

And now I lay my pen aside;
The simple tale is told;
No need to add one word to gild
The setting of the gold.

But I would say to those who scoff
At the lowly walks of life—
“As noble is their humble toil—
As glorious their strife.”

The scornful lordling greatly errs
In despising man for class—
The brothers Bethune had won their spurs
If ever champion has.

They fought not for the pride of fight
Nor the love of earthly fame,
Nor to chain the eyes of maiden bright
And immortalise their name;

But they fought the battle of the brave
'Gainst want and suffering,
And nobly sank to their early grave
In manhood's dawning spring.

To duty and right their hearts were leal,
And the warrior soul was theirs;
They had zeal to work, and hearts to feel,
And faith to wing their prayers.

And mid all the moil of their daily toil
A strange poetic vein
Ran through the strife of their struggling life
And lulled their sense of pain.

'Twas the earnest given of union with
Th' immortal and unseen,
Though clouds might lower upon their way
And darkness roll between.

And that “starry spark” which shone so clear
Now lives beyond the sky—
Tho' the ruby light, and the “azure beam”
Alike were doomed to die!