Persevere

South Leith Church bell tolls out the parting day,

The summer sun still lingers in the west;

The trams, and motors throng the busy way

And nothing living seems to think of rest.

I wander to the docks, and to the pier,

To shut out this restless throng of life.

Here various craft, their easy courses steer,

And peaceful lie the distant hills of Fife.

How oft the scene is changed in life’s short span,

How many deeds performed, we would repent,

Of the Eternal Mind, it is a plan,

That man with nothing here should be content?

Nor heat, nor cold nor age, nor bouyons youth,

Are ever – while they last – the wished-for goal.

For rich and poor, in northern climes or south,

A hungering void, remains within the soul.

In youthful days, now many seasons fled Where southern seas in little wavelets break

On coral strand of isle, with bounties spread,

Within a peaceful, reef–imprisoned lake.

Here nature gives whatever man may need,

Bright sun to warm, and water cool to lave,

And midnight skies, sprinkled with astral seed,

And moon reflected in the passive wave.

Here rest content, and bounteous nature greet,

This is your dreamed of paradise – confess;

Where glistening brown-skinned Aeyah’s naked feet

Treads beside yours, in wanton idleness.

Not here – is peace, beneath this peaceful sky,

Not here is rest for man, where all the rest

Man is a worker, and would gladly buy

Blest active toil, and think him doubly blest.

This earth is not a homestead - ready made.

‘Tis but a haven to the voyager lent

Mere temporary matter, which will fade

When served the purpose its Creator meant.

This world is ours to perfect and improve,

And working thus, ourselves improve the while. 

There is no joy for those who do not move

Nor strive to make the toil lighter by their smile.

Do thou the work which thy hands finds to do.

Thy home, thy neighbour needs the, look around!

Wrest thou from nature secrets ever new,

And leave this crude world better than ‘twas found.

Here then, thy goal, thou seeker after peace,

Herein thy peace and satisfaction lies

To taste content, thy labours may not cease

Till the “well  done” shall waft thee to the skies.

J.G.

(From Andrew Grant’s collection of poems from the Leith Observer 1914 -1920)