Grandma by Lydia Hartle Kilpack

This poem appeared in the Legacy Newsletter for Daughters of Utah Pioneers, Spring 2007.  

Could I leave home and Mother

And sail to a distant shore?

Could I, after losing loved ones, 

Say I was more blessed than before?

Could I give up all I had worked for

To help others on their way?

Do I appreciate the comforts 

That are mine to enjoy today?

Grandma, you could do these things

And do them gladly too

Because your faith in God was strong

And to that faith were true.

If I'm worthy then to meet you

I'll be glad to take your hand

And give my heart-felt love to you

Within that better land.

The Harp of Zion

Book Review: **The Harp of Zion

This is the first book of poetry published by the Church.  It was published in England, by the European Mission in 1853.  The poems were written by John Lyon.  It was published to support the Perpetual Emigration Fund. The book of poetry can be accessed on Google Books. http://books.google.com/books?id=ErgUAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=theharp+of+zion&source=bl&ots=FMOu6qyxIq&sig=z_wareIzGLEQVy2H9l2OiEGQwcg&hl=en&ei=uEY9TNTSDIiCsQPinpifCQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=3&ved=0CBoQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q&f=false
Thomas Edgar Lyon Jr. wrote an interesting article about the book in BYU Studies 27:1987 "Publishing a Book of Mormon Poetry: The Harp of Zion".
  http://byustudies.byu.edu/PDFLibrary/27.1Lyon%20f9ef2f49-2669-439f-8f18-407351cf305b.pdf
The book was to assist the PEF by selling for more than the cost of printing.  Eventually all the volumes were sold, but only after many were sent to Utah.  It took some time for the Church to recoup its investment.

A couple deserve mention here.  One of these is a poem with regards to the Perpetual Emigration Fund, carrying that name.  I encourages people to donate:

The Perpetual Emigrating Fund.

Come on, ye rich, with all your gifted store;

Give to the poor, and God will give you more!

Your feeling hearts, responsive to His call,

Will find His love and blessing best of all:

Yea, tenfold int’rest on the things you have,

And more than all your charities e’er gave!                 

Why should the rich not help the lab’ring poor?

Both are compell’d to know at mercy’s door!

As well the river scorn the stream and brook

From which it all its swelling greatness took;

Or the great sea retain her liquid store,

Nor give one drop to quench the parched shore;

As wealth withheld accumulated toil,

And say to Poverty,--Starve on the while!

Let richer Saints pour in their glitt’ring gold,

‘Twill pave your way to Zion’s mountain fold!

Ten thousand hearts, with prayerful ardour, seek

The means to live, yet mourn from week to week,

Who could be blest through your beneficence,

To go where labour gains a recompense,

Oh, then! Let love your names in sums record

What you will do for Zion, and the Lord!

Ye poor who labour, learn with pure delight,

How much in value was the widow’s mite!

How farthings multiplied to pence make pounds,

And pounds, to hundreds, thousands—have no bounds!

Till ever Saint reliev’d, and sinner stunned,

Will shout,--LOOK HERE! At this Perpetual Fund!

The author does not have a lot of gathering poems as you would expect, but there are some.   These are a couple examples:

Strike the Lyre

Poor outcasts we, still forced to flee,

By mad sectarians driven,

Condemned, despised, robbed, and reviled,

Without an insult given.

For many years we’ve sown in tears,

Yet, dauntless we’ll remain!

With Ephraim blest, we soon shall rest

So strike the Lyre again, again,

So strike the lyre again.

Song of Zion  (chorus)

Far away from vain strife

There’s a land in the West,

Where our friends live the best,

‘Tis the Valley of Life!

I want to quote a couple more poems I found enjoyable.  One dwells upon helping the poor, but also hits the theme that one needs to develop the means in order to accomplish this:

Practical Religion

With diligence we’ll still pursue

Those acts of grace and mercy due

To toil worn, lab’ring man!

We’ll help the helpless, and secure

The means of life to bless the poor,

And help them all we can.

Cholera was a big killer of the time, not only in England but around the globe.  Poor sanitation conditions were part of the cause.  Cholera was also a culprit along the Pioneer Trail:

Cholera

What wailing’s this I hear, at home abroad?

A strange foreboding of calamity,

Which all men dread, and few can understand:

At which the vulgar stare, and more profane

Would love to jest it out of countenance.

Yet, still it comes with stealthy, murd’rous step;

The grave and gay, alike before it fall;

The learned seem baffled at its dark approach,

And, as an antidote, propose what might

Have been a sure preventative to some,

If timely given!  But common charity

Must see its haggard victim breed disease;

And when its influence spreads, retire afraid

At what their sins have made! And say ‘tis DEATH!

"A Flower Bloomed" to my Grandmother Mary Jane Ashton by Orrin D. Wardle

“ A Flower Bloomed”

To my Grandmother –

Mary Ashton Wardle

By Orrin D. Wardle

______________________________

The flowers bloomed

With colors bright

That verdant spring of fifty-six

 ‘Round Stockport town,

Down Cheshire way,

On hills,

In Vales,

In England’s realm.

The rains of March,

With fog and cold,

Had nourished growth

And brought the green

That dressed the hills

And filled the vales

Throughout the land

In

April,

May.

Beyond the town,

Brim full of glee,

Roamed

Little girls

In play

And search to see,

Enjoy,

The land’s display.

Four girls there were:

One

Our

Mary.

Who were those girls?

The Ashton Girls.

They’re William’s girls

And Sarah Ann’s;

Of yeoman stock who worked

In mills

To earn

Their bread

In poverty.

A NEW LIFE

Wilford Woodruff

And

Brigham Young

Years ‘fore

Had come

To that good land

To teach the plan,

The word of Christ,

Of Gospel lost,

To earth restored.

The parents heard;

The word they b’lived;

The Ashtons

Joined

The Church of Christ.

In forty-one,

They were baptized;

Then thought

Of Zi’n

Across the sea.

When

Mary came

In fifty-one

The thought held firm,

“We’d go there now

If

Funds we had.”

They

Labored

On Selves to sustain

While

Waiting long.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 2

From fifty-one

To

Fifty-six,

She grew,

And played,

And learned,

And Worked

As little girls in England did

In age of

Queen Victoria.

She went to church

In cottage small.

She’d listened

To the preachers

Tell

Of  Joseph Smith,

Moroni too

Who’d brought

The book

From days of old.

She’d talked with friends

‘Bout Jesus Christ,

And questions

Asked her parents dear,

Why

She

On earth had come

To live.

She’d

Come to b’lieve

What Mormons know!

While daddy

In the mills did work,

They saved

A pence,

A farthing here,

But

Realized

They’d never get cash funds enough

To pay

Their fare.

Their

Miracle

Did

Then occur!

The leaders

Told about a fund –

Perpetual

Immigration

Fund –

For

Worthy saints

of Ashton mold.

Why

Did they come?

We

Can surmise they thought

Some

Of a better life:

More free to be what they would be,

To have a job,

To own a home.

Or

Was it faith

In Zion

Mew?

They

Truly b’lived the Mormon book;

They

Wanted place among the Saints:

They

Pondered brief,

Then

Said,

“Let’s go!”

Meanwhile

The girls danced down the lanes

With skipping feet

And pumping hearts.

A hope

A new

Came to their house

As fresh new green bathed

All the land.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 3

The flowers

Bloomed

That verdant spring

Of fifty-six

Excited girls chose

What to go

And

What to leave,

While

Green

The hills and vales

Become.

To gold

They gave but little thought.

The girls

More thought,

‘Mid grass and shade,

Of ships

And trains

And Indians,

Of buffalo

And

Desert lands.

Would they be

Safe?

With daddy,

Yes!

No fear;

He’d

Surely

Care for them.

Their souls

Were full of sheer delight:

We’re

Going

To-

America!”

Goodbye!

Goodbye!

The fond Farewells

To friends and home,

To relatives,

With tears

But firmed

In faith that they now had

In

Gospel true.

If friends they’d leave;

New friends they’d have.

If home was left;

If birthplace left;

New birth had come.

They’d

Leave the old;

They’d

Find the new.

For

They’d been

Taught.

Missionaries had taught and told

With certainty

How desert

Would, from rim to rim,

Be filled

And make

The roses bloom.

And

Thus

That May

Of fifty-six,

As flowers bloomed

‘Round Stockport town,

The Ashtons

Left their loved ones deer

To seek

New life

In Zion land.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 4

At Liverpool,

They found

Their ship

Whose Master Reed in record wrote,

“A man and wife,

Each thirty-three,

And children

Four

By

P. E. Fund.”

“Horizon”

Ship for Boston bound,

Six hundred saints,

Two hundred more,

Were being led by Priesthood

Called to organize

And see them through.

Great storms

They had

With boisterous waves,

But sun

Came out

And girls played on,

Chased

‘Round the deck

And through the ropes

As Captain yelled

Then smiled and bore.

CAME SADNESS!

Elizabeth,

Her sister dear,

Her living doll,

Did die

At sea,

When

Only two,

And then

Was slipped beneath the waves,

To play

No more.

“Oh,

Father dear,

In Heav’n Above

Why

Took you her

In life so new?

A babe

In arms

Was all we knew.”

And

Anguish

Filled

The hearts of all.

The ship sailed on,

Five weeks passed by,

Until

They made the Boston port.

By train

They went,

Through settled lands,

To end of tracks:

I’wa city.

There

Wagons were

To haul them on.

With

Meager wealth,

Uncertainties,

But

Hope alive,

They fin’ly came to Council Bluffs,

The

Gath’ring

Point.

The plan was set.

They

All

Would walk a thousand miles

Across the plains

And through the hills.

Their meager wealth

And food supplies

In handcarts haul.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 5

The handcart train,

With wheels

So frail

And box so small,

Set out

Too

Late;

The season spent,

Yet

Without choice,

They set out

West

Along the

Platte.

The men did

Pull;

The women

Pushed:

While children

Small

Did trudge along.

In sandy spots,

On stubborn hills,

Young men

Would help,

With shoulders

Push.

Yes,

He

Was there

Now twenty-one.

He’d crossed the sea,

Now

Walked the plains with Martin group,

Firth company:

An

Isaac

Strong

Of Wardle line.

Then

Mary

Small

Was only four.

Thus,

If he saw,

If her he knew,

She could have been

But nothing more than little girl

Upon the plains.

AND TRAGEDY!

They’d gone not far.

They yet

Were on Nebraska plain

When mother said,

“My time has come.”

Their

Hearts

Did

Break!

The baby died.

Their mother died!

Out on the plains,

Where winds did roar

And

Wild life ran,

They

Dug a grave,

A shallow trench,

And placed

Therein

The ones they loved

To wait Christ’s call.

Saints

Gathered round

Condolence grave,

“She’s now with God.”

And “You’ll make out.”

The handcarts rolled

And tears

Did stream down Mary’s cheeks

As on she trudged

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 6

“Oh

Mother dear,

Why

Did you die?

The plain’s so broad

The trail’s so long:

Who’ll

Wash our clothes

And meals prepare;

Who’ll

Keep us safe

With

Ev’ning prayer?”

FOLLOWED BY HEARTBREAK:

Then

William

Felt

His loneliness.

In tears,

distraught,

His reason broke.

A desp’rate man,

He fled

The train,

Went back

To home

Across the sea.

“Oh,

Father dear,

Why

Did you go?

The home

We seek’s still

Far away.

Who’ll

Pull our cart;

Who’ll

Build our fire:

Who’ll

Tell us right

When we’re not sure?”

“Who’ll take them in?”

“They’re three lone girls.”

“Who’ll pull their cart?”

Saints

Took them in –

Sarah

Betsy,

And Mary too

Were taken in.

Soon

Mountains rose before their view.

The days of fall

Rushed

Quickly past

And

Winter’s blast

Came

Far too soon to cloak the land

With

Cold

And

Snow.

At

Old South Pass

Their

Movement

Stopped:

Crude shelters built

Gave little help.

They’d left so late that

They’d left so late that

They now stalled in drifts of snow

On sagebrush hills.

“Be not afraid,”

Some bravely said,

“We,

Brigham know;

He’ll send us food.”

But days passed on

And food ran short:

First one,

Then more,

Succumbed to death.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 7

The girls did watch

And shuddered

Hard

As shallow graves were gug about.

Unmarked,

The saints

Went

To their rest

As prayers

Went up,

“Lord,

Save us yet.”

THEN – ANOTHER LOST!

E’en

Betsy

Froze

Out on those hills.

She left but two:

Sarah Ellen was but seven

And Mary five;

Two girls

Alone

In winter cold

No

Flowers

Bloomed

Upon those hills,

And

Wintry blasts

Benumbed their hands;

But,

Deep

Within each little soul,

Each

Softly prayed,

“god, with us be.”

As Mary

Looked across the land,

Through drifting snow

With eyes near froze,

She saw out there

But

Gray of plains with gath’ring white

On hills of brown.

She looked about

And

Realized

The desert rose was far away,

For all she saw

Was

Barren land of sagebrush gray

And

Alkali.

The wagons

Came

That Brigham sent.

The little girls

Were

‘Mong the first

To taste

Of food

That nourished them.

Then

Saviors

Took them

To their goal.

Bedraggled

Girls

To Zion came,

Their parents

Gone,

Bewildered

Full.

What

Would they do?

Would they go?

Would e’er again

The

Flowers bloom

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 8

But saints

Are saints.

They’ll try

Do right.

So they did care

And

Took them in:

But life was harsh

Scant time for care;

They

Oft’ were used

Much more

Than loved.

Thus

Mary lone

Passed through the years

As sisters two

Went sep’rate ways.

No mother dear

To bless at night;

No father’s hug

To hold her

Safe.

The little girl

Still

Hoped and dreamed

“Til

By sixteen

She’d found a role as mother’s aid

In Isaac’s home

To care,

Not bear,

His children there.

Was this the man,

The Handsome youth,

On ship she’d seen

As little girl,

Who

Pushed their cart when help required?

He was the one

Of Wardle name

Their clothes,

Their beds,

The dishes too;

She  cared for them;

She cared for them;

She struggled on.

The garden corn

Oft’ felt her hoe

As dawn to dusk

She

Labored through.

From charity,

Affection came,

And turned to love –

To fill

The need of lonely girl

With

Saddened heart,

Who’s

Lived alone

With people ‘round

The place

To work

‘Came place

To wed.

For Isaac asked –

She heard him say –

“ You’ll

Mary me;

Then here

You’ll live as one of us,

Love

Al around.

She was

His wife,

His second wife,

By nuptials

Joined and fully blessed

Through

Pow’r of God

By joint consent. Sealed

At the Church Endowment House.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 9

Fall colors passed.

The spring green came.

She found

Her place within their love.

She walked the lane,

His hand in hers,

Displayed

Her love

To Isaac dear.

One day

She knew

That she would have one of her own

To have his name.

Her joy was full

For now

She knew that Isaac’s true

She’d always be.

The winter blast’s

Ne’ver cooled

Their love.

No flowers bloomed

With colors bright,

But

Fields of white

Bespoke to her the purity

She’d

Give

Her child.

She

Sensed the joy

Her arms

Would hold.

Her eyes would spark

Then

Turn demure

As Isaac

Said.

“You’ll teach him well

His God

To love

Good works to do.”

She planned

The clothes for baby wear;

She thought

Of names

He well might bear.

He’d

Carry on the Ashton line

E’en though

He’d have a Wardle name.

Through passing months

She dreamed

And planned a life

That soon more full would be.

No more alone!

She’d hold him near –

Her blood -

Her child –

The

One

She’d

Rear.

The

Flowers

Bloomed

In April month of sixty-nine:

Bright buttercups

And

Indian paints.

The desert lands

And Mary’s heart

Came all a-glow.

THEN FINAL BLOW:

The baby lived;

The mother died!

When

At the gates of of happiness,

She left this world.

She’d

See no more the flowers bloom

When

Springtime

Came.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 10

What

Was her thought

In final breath

As life did ebb,

What

Did she think?

“From toil I’ free!”

Or could it be,

“My happiness

Denied to me.”

Might

She

Have

Screamed in anguished mind

As life drained out?

“Oh,

Wicked death,

Thou

Me

Hast stung

Just when my dawn first breaks

With rays

Of happiness.”

Dear God above,

Why

Did she die before her time?

She’d just

Begun her life to live.

Hard times

And grief

She’d put behind.

Her joy’d just come.

Then

She was gone!

She

Lived no more.

Her child was here,

But she’d not raise the William

Named for father lost.

She’ll never have

Her joy in life.

We mortals

Cannot understand

Why

Took You her in early life.

She’d lived

Without,

Been numbed

With grief;

Then

Took you her

Of joy deprived.

We’ll never know

In

Mortal life;

Though

Faith we’ll have

With hope alive;

But,

If she knows –

I b’lieve she does –

She’s

Seen the line

Through William come.

Three girls,

Eight boys,

With

Ten full grown

Grandchildren

Come to live their lives

And many more

Will be

Her seed throughout

The generations

Yet.

Bishops,

Clerks, Patriarch,

Presidents some

And couns’lors too

Teacher,

Workers

In Priesthood groups

As well as in

Auxiliaries.

“A Flower Bloomed,” p. 11

Missionaries

Her seed became

To teach,

Expound the Gospel full

Within the States,

In land afar,

As faith

Most kept

With Mary’s b’lief.

They all

Trace back

Through William lone,

The only one

Born

To that girl.

Mary Ashton

Bore him alone

Then went her way

To dwell above.

She

Waits the day,

Not far away,

When

All who b’lieve

And

True obey

Will

Gather ‘round

With fam’lies dear

To taste

With her

Eternal life

If

She came back

And talked to us,

Might not

She say

About that day in sixty-nine?

“I’d lived my life;

I’d had my teast;

My son was born;”

“ I

Briefly

Came on earth to live

I

Hoped

And

Dreamed;

I suffered much;

But,

Ne’ver forget,

Although

I died

And quietly lie in death’s repose.

“My flower bloomed,

And

Through its seed

Spread o’er the land –

And will spread more.

Yes, yes:

Yes, Yes:

My flower bloomed

That

April day

In sixty-nine.”

A

Flower

Bloomed

.

.

.

_________________________________

Completed on September 4, 1979

_________________________________

Mary Ashton Wardle was born in Stock-port, Cheshire, England, on 13 Jul 1851. She came to America on the ship “Horizon” and crossed the plains with the Martin Handcart Company in 1856. Her son William was born 5 Apr 1869. Mary died in South Jordan, Utah on 5 Apr 1869.

Isaac Wardle History: Introduction

Introduction

“Did His Faith or Hope Ever Dim?”

Look at this stump and tell me what you see; It is a simple reminder of what is in you and me.

A young man passed this way a very long time ago, And chopped down its tree when it was covered with snow.

But before his journey reached this place, he dreamed of a better way to live, So he worked hard and prepared for the greatest gift he would ever give.

For a place called Zion he left his homeland and family; The only way was by handcart and step by step to the Valley.

He must have been strong; he faithfully pulled more than his share. After many miles, more was added to his already burden to bear.

His compassion for a young man whose journey was sure to end, In the bed a handcart, he was carried by a true friend.

But his valiant spirit and strength would be tested once more, Broken wheels, falling snow, and death lingering at every door.

I wonder, at those moments, ...Did his faith or hope ever dim? Did he know that we were watching from above and praying for him?

And now, this incredible journey had brought him to this tree, His great courage to go on should be a guide to you and me.

He used all the strength his ravaged body could give, So that others could find comfort as they struggled just to live.

Starved of body, and of spirit, and frozen to the core; He could think only of his Savior and for him what He bore.

He would have been justified to lay his life down in the snow, But his great legacy of love and sacrifice, we would never know.

Just as we have been blessed, WE must teach our posterity, And may this stump be OUR symbol as we build our family tree. (Robison)

Isaac John Wardle lived a hard life, and so it stands to reason that he would have been a hardened man. However, a picture of him taken in his older years, with his two surviving wives. Shows him laid back, not hard at all. (See picture end of chapter and chapter 15.)

Isaac’s bishop would write to him while he was on his mission, and contradict the notion that Isaac was hard. “Isaac, I miss you in our Councils, our labors, and as a brother neighbor and a friend. But neither I nor your family would recall you, but we pray for you. God bless you. You will return safe. When I penned your name above, and these five lines above, the tears drop; and I am unable to see clear. I feel for one of the Brethren that has been a great help to me in the Branch and in the Ward.” (Bills)

Isaac had every right to be hard. He was born into poverty, a working-class family in England. At age seven he was put to work, and by age nine was working in the coal mines. He continued in this industry through most of his youth. He immigrated as a young man to Utah, with the Martin Handcart Company, which is also known as the “frozen handcart company.” On this trip he was called upon to dig graves for those who had passed away. He pulled in his handcart, Langley Bailey who was sick. This journey, in his life was “...a symbol of faith and dedication.” (The Mormon Pioneer Trail)

He served with the Valley Boys of the Nauvoo Legion, helping to defend Salt Lake Valley against Johnston’s Army. He helped to found the community of South Jordan. He was a sheep farmer. He was a polygamist, and when the federal government decided to pursue polygamists as criminals, he was persecuted and sought by them, and one time arrested. He fulfilled a mission to his native England, and received an honorable release. He returned home early due to health considerations.

The pictures we have of Isaac, contradict his hardness, and show him as a family man, a church man. He was the father of 15, by three different wives. He was devoted to his family; such that he would leave his community, before leaving his wives.

President Hinckley expressed, “It is good to look to the past to gain appreciation for the present and perspective for the future. It is good to look upon the virtues of those who have gone before, to gain strength for whatever lies ahead.” (Hinckley 2)

Annually, usually in late July, saints in local congregations take up the song honoring their pioneer ancestors:

They, the Builders of the Nation,

1. They, the builders of the nation, Blazing trails along the way; Stepping-stones for generations Were their deeds of ev’ry day. Building new and firm foundations, Pushing on the wild frontier, Forging onward, ever onward, Blessed, honored Pioneer!

2. Service ever was their watch cry; Love became their guiding star; Courage, their unfailing beacon, Radiating near and far.

Ev’ry day some burden lifted, Ev’ry day some heart to cheer, Ev’ry day some hope the brighter, Blessed, honored Pioneer!

3. As an ensign to the nation, They unfurled the flag of truth, Pillar, guide, and inspiration To the hosts of waiting youth.
Honor, praise, and veneration To the founders we revere! List our song of adoration, Blessed, honored Pioneer! (Hymns #36 Text: Ida R. Alldredge)

To Mormons, the pioneer trek is a symbol of faith. “Close to the heart of Mormondom, as close as the beehive symbol of labor and cohesiveness that decorates the great seal of Utah, is the stylized memory of the trail. For every early Saint, crossing the plains to Zion in the Valleys of the Mountains was not merely a journey but a rite of passage, the final, devoted, enduring act that brought one into the Kingdom. ...The shared experience of the trail was a bond that reinforced the bonds of the faith; and to successive generations who did not personally experience it, it has continued to have sanctity as legend and myth. (Stegner 1)

At the dedicatory prayer for the plaque in Martin’s Cove President Hinckley prayed:

Father, we are so grateful for their faith, their faith in Thee and in Thy Beloved Son, their faith in the Prophet Joseph Smith and Thy work which was restored through him. They left their native land, England, to find refuge where they could worship according to their conscience with their associates in the Salt Lake Valley. Great was their suffering and terrible their tragedy. (Riverton, Hinckley dedicatory prayer)

This history will try to portray, in some modest way, Isaac’s life, and the circumstances surrounding it. Isaac did not write a lot, but we do have a few of his words. He wrote a couple brief histories, and several letters. Also a few histories were written about him. Some of these histories were written by people who knew him, and heard him tell his story. A few of Isaac’s experiences were noted in newspapers; but for the most part, his was a quiet life, a devoted life. He devoted his life to his church and to his family.

Perhaps his faith can help us today in our struggles. We don’t have to pull a handcart. We don’t have to escape federal marshals. We don’t have to face an army of two thousand men. But we do face trials. Neal A. Maxwell said, “Though we have rightly applauded our ancestors for their spiritual achievements (and do not and must not discount them now), those of us who prevail today will have done no small thing. The special spirits who have been reserved to live in this time of challenges and who overcome will one day be praised for their stamina by those who pulled handcarts.” (Maxwell) My goal in putting together this history is so we can take faith from those who have gone before, particularly of Grandfather Isaac, and use that faith to help us in our struggles day to day.

Isaac with Martha on his right and Sophia on his left; Atheamer in back and Cora, Charles’ daughter on his far left 

Poem, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "The Cry of the Children"

The Cry Of The Children

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers--- And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; The young birds are chirping in the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west--- But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!--- They are weeping in the playtime of the others In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?--- The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago--- The old tree is leafless in the forest--- The old year is ending in the frost--- The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest--- The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers In our happy Fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy--- "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;" "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold,--- And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. "True," say the young children, "it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year---the grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her--- Was no room for any work in the close clay: From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries!--- Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes--- And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime! It is good when it happens," say the children, "That we die before our time." Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city--- Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do--- Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty--- Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! "For oh," say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap--- If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping--- We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground--- Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. "For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,--- Their wind comes in our faces,--- Till our hearts turn,---our head, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places--- Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling--- Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall--- Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling--- All are turning, all the day, and we with all.--- And, all day, the iron wheels are droning; And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop! be silent for to-day!' " Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth--- Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals--- Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, os under you, O wheels!--- Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now, tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray--- So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more? "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm,--- 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. 'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.' "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children,---"Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving--- We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving--- And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you; They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun: They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its calm--- Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,--- Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,--- Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly No dear remembrance keep,--- Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly: Let them weep! let them weep! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity;--- "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath!" (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

I wanted to post this poem written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, because it seems to reflect Isaac's experience, starting at age 7.  It was written to raise awareness of child labor, and its price on the laborers.  I have taken the liberty to underline a few parts which reflect the histories written of Isaac. When he would come home dirty and tired his mother would serve him his dinner, and there he would fall asleep at the table as he ate his dinner, then to arise early the next day to go about the same routine.  

He must have hated the morning.  I cannot think or working in such conditions.  I myself have an issue with enclosed spaces, and to think of Isaac in such a tight spot, with barely any light if any, as a young child mining a trap door, and as an older child pushing a heavy load of coal towards the surface.  I know I could not have done it.

If you would like further reading on this topic, see Isaac Wardle History Chapter 2 in this blog. 

Isaac Wardle Family Reunion Pictures

Chow time

 

 At the museum in South Jordan

Cemetery South Jordan

 The old homestead 1300 West to the river,
almost across from the temple

Book Review: Story of the Mormon Pioneers,W. Cleon Skousen

This is a little book published by the 223rd Quorum of Seventy, San Fernando Stake in 1947.  It deals primarily with the 1847 trek of the first Mormon Company to the Salt Lake Valley.  There are a couple of things that stood out to me from this book.  One is the dedicatory poem at the beginning of the book:
Dedicated
TO THOSE PIONEERS WHO DIED ON THE PLAINS
AND WERE BURIED IN LONELY GRAVES
ALONG THE TRAIL

Lay him down tenderly under the willows;
Dampen the warm brown earth with your tears;
Then turn your face again to the prairie,
Harden your heart to the lonely years.

We must relinquish him to this wide darkness,
Push toward the goal again, smiling and brave;
The willows will guard him silent and weeping,
No one will know that they shelter his grave.

Lay him down quietly under the willows,
Lay him down gently, gently, and then
Run away quickly, softly, on tiptoe--
We cannot come back to the willows again.

     by Lisbeth Wallis, Improvement Era, July 1943

I think this poem says a lot.  Over the years, 60-80,000 pioneers crossed the plains making there way to Utah.  Of those 6000 were left in graves, mostly unmarked, along the way.
The other quote that caught my eye from this book is a quote from Brigham Young, which more explains why the Mormons moved so far away from everyone else, resulting in such a long and dangerous trek.  "We wish strangers to understand that we did not come here out of choice, but because we were obliged to go somewhere and this was the best place we could find.  It was impossible for any person to live here unless he labored hard and battled and fought against the elements, but it was a first-rate place to raise Latter Day Saints, and we shall be blessed in living here, and shall make it like the Garden of Eden"

This explains a lot to me why people were so willing to put there selves through such risk, and hardship.  They must have known that they would not all make it to Salt Lake.  They sang it along the way, "And should we Die."  I am grateful for people who chose to endure despite the obstacles.