The Passage.

    O soul on God's high seas! the way is strange and long,
    Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong;
    For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem,
    The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam.

    O soul on God's high seas! look to your course with care,
    Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair.
    Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own -
    The soul that sails on God's high seas must sail alone.

    O soul on God's high seas! sail on with steady aim,
    Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame.
    Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star,
    There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

The Mother.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The Usurer.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Poynings.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Life's Day.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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Thy Ship

Hadst thou a ship, in whose vast hold lay stored
The priceless riches of all climes and lands,
Say, wouldst thou let it float upon the seas
Unpiloted, of fickle winds the sport,
And of wild waves and hidden rocks the prey?

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And yet behold it drifting here and there -
One moment lying motionless in port,
Then on high seas by sudden impulse flung,
Then drying on the sands, and yet again
Sent forth on idle quests to no-man's land
To carry nothing and to nothing bring;
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The Lighthouse

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
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The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
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Even at this distance I can see the tides,
    Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
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And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
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Not one alone; from each projecting cape
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I.

Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores,
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"Oh, we are sick of rowing here!
With toil our arms are numb;
With smiting year on weary year
Salt-furrows of the foam:
Our journey's end is never near,
And will no nearer come
Beyond our reach the shores appear
Of far Elysium."

II.

Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand,
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Outbound

A lonely sail in the vast sea-room,
I have put out for the port of gloom.

The voyage is far on the trackless tide,
The watch is long, and the seas are wide.

The headlands blue in the sinking day
Kiss me a hand on the outward way.

The fading gulls, as they dip and veer,
Lift me a voice that is good to hear.

The great winds come, and the heaving sea,
The restless mother, is calling me.

The cry of her heart is lone and wild,
Searching the night for her wandered child.

Beautiful, weariless mother of mine,
In the drift of doom I am here, I am thine.

Beyond the fathom of hope or fear,
From bourn to bourn of the dusk I steer,

Swept on in the wake of the stars, in the stream
Of a roving tide, from dream to dream.

Bliss Carman