The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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To America
O Black and Unknown Bards
O Southland
To Horace Bumstead
The Color Sergeant
The Black Mammy
Father, Father Abraham
Brothers
Fragment
The White Witch
Mother Night
The Young Warrior
The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face
From the Spanish of Placido
From the Spanish
From the German of Uhland
Before a Painting
I Hear the Stars Still Singing
Girl of Fifteen
The Suicide
Down by the Carib Sea
I. Sunrise in the Tropics
II. Los Cigarillos
III. Teestay
IV. The Lottery Girl
V. The Dancing Girl
VI. Sunset in the Tropics
The Greatest of These Is War
A Mid-Day Dreamer
The Temptress
Ghosts of the Old Year
The Ghost of Deacon Brown
Lazy
Omar
Deep in the Quiet Wood
Voluptas
The Word of an Engineer
Life
Sleep
Prayer at Sunrise
The Gift to Sing
Morning, Noon and Night
Her Eyes Twin Pools
The Awakening
Beauty That Is Never Old
Venus in a Garden
Vashti
The Reward
Sence You Went Away
Ma Lady’s Lips Am Like de Honey
Tunk
Nobody’s Lookin’ but de Owl an’ de Moon
You’s Sweet to Yo’ Mammy Jes de Same
A Plantation Bacchanal
July in Georgy
A Banjo Song
Answer to Prayer
Dat Gal o’ Mine
The Seasons
’Possum Song
Brer Rabbit, You’se de Cutes’ of ’Em All
An Explanation
De Little Pickaninny’s Gone to Sleep
The Rivals
Of the hundred millions who make up the population of the United States ten millions come from a stock ethnically alien to the other ninety millions. They are not descended from ancestors who came here voluntarily, in the spirit of adventure to better themselves or in the spirit of devotion to make sure of freedom to worship God in their own way. They are the grandchildren of men and women brought here against their wills to serve as slaves. It is only half-a-century since they received their freedom and since they were at last permitted to own themselves. They are now American citizens, with the rights and the duties of other American citizens; and they know no language, no literature and no law other than those of their fellow citizens of Anglo-Saxon ancestry.
When we take stock of ourselves these ten millions cannot be left out of account. Yet they are not as we are; they stand apart, more or less; they have their own distinct characteristics. It behooves us to understand them as best we can and to discover what manner of people they are. And we are justified in inquiring how far they have revealed themselves, their racial characteristics, their abiding traits, their longing aspirations,—how far have they disclosed these in one or another of the several arts. They have had their poets, their painters, their composers, and yet most of these have ignored their racial opportunity and have worked in imitation and in emulation of their white predecessors and contemporaries, content to handle again the traditional themes. The most important and the most significant contributions they have made to art are in music,—first in the plaintive beauty of the so-called “Negro spirituals”—and, secondly, in the syncopated melody of so-called “ragtime” which has now taken the whole world captive.
In poetry, especially in the lyric, wherein the soul is free to find full expression for its innermost emotions, their attempts have been, for the most part, divisible into two classes. In the first of these may be grouped the verses in which the lyrist put forth sentiments common to all mankind and in no wise specifically those of his own race; and from the days of Phyllis Wheatley to the present the most of the poems written by men who were not wholly white are indistinguishable from the poems written by men who were wholly white. Whatever their merits might be, these verses cast little or no light upon the deeper racial sentiments of the people to whom the poets themselves belonged. But in the lyrics to be grouped in the second of these classes there was a racial quality. This contained the dialect verses in which there was an avowed purpose of recapturing the color, the flavor, the movement of life in “the quarters,” in the cotton field and in the canebrake. Even in this effort, white authors had led the way; Irvin Russell and Joel Chandler Harris had made the path straight for Paul Laurence Dunbar, with his lilting lyrics, often infused with the pathos of a down-trodden folk.
In the following pages Mr. James Weldon Johnson conforms to both of these traditions. He gathers together a group of lyrics, delicate in workmanship, fragrant with sentiment, and phrased in pure and unexceptionable English. Then he has another group of dialect verses, racy of the soil, pungent in flavor, swinging in rhythm and adroit in rhyme. But where he shows himself a pioneer is the half-dozen larger and bolder poems, of a loftier strain, in which he has been nobly successful in expressing the higher aspirations of his own people. It is in uttering this cry for recognition, for sympathy, for understanding, and above all, for justice, that Mr. Johnson is most original and most powerful. In the superb and soaring stanzas
Brander Matthews.
Columbia University in the City of New York.
FIFTY YEARS
1863-1913
O brothers mine, to-day we
stand
Where half a century
sweeps our ken,
Since God, through Lincoln’s
ready hand,
Struck off our
bonds and made us men.
Just fifty years—a
winter’s day—
As runs the history
of a race;
Yet, as we look back o’er
the way,
How distant seems
our starting place!
Look farther back! Three
centuries!
To where a naked,
shivering score,
Snatched from their haunts
across the seas,
Stood, wild-eyed,
on Virginia’s shore.
Far, far the way that we have
trod,
From heathen kraals
and jungle dens,
To freedmen, freemen, sons
of God,
Americans and
Citizens.
A part of His unknown design,
We’ve lived
within a mighty age;
And we have helped to write
a line
On history’s
most wondrous page.
A few black bondmen strewn
along
The borders of
our eastern coast,
Now grown a race, ten million
strong,
An upward, onward
marching host.
Then let us here erect a stone,
To mark the place,
to mark the time;
A witness to God’s mercies
shown,
A pledge to hold
this day sublime.
And let that stone an altar
be,
Whereon thanksgivings
we may lay,
Where we, in deep humility,
For faith and
strength renewed may pray.
With open hearts ask from
above
New zeal, new
courage and new pow’rs,
That we may grow more worthy
of
This country and
this land of ours.
For never let the thought
arise
That we are here
on sufferance bare;
Outcasts, asylumed ’neath
these skies,
And aliens without
part or share.
This land is ours by right
of birth,
This land is ours
by right of toil;
We helped to turn its virgin
earth,
Our sweat is in
its fruitful soil.
Where once the tangled forest
stood,—
Where flourished
once rank weed and thorn,—
Behold the path-traced, peaceful
wood,
The cotton white,
the yellow corn.
To gain these fruits that
have been earned,
To hold these
fields that have been won,
Our arms have strained, our
backs have burned,
Bent bare beneath
a ruthless sun.
That Banner which is now the
type
Of victory on
field and flood—
Remember, its first crimson
stripe
Was dyed by Attucks’
willing blood.
And never yet has come the
cry—
When that fair
flag has been assailed—
For men to do, for men to
die,
That have we faltered
or have failed.
We’ve helped to bear
it, rent and torn,
Through many a
hot-breath’d battle breeze;
Held in our hands, it has
been borne
And planted far
across the seas.
And never yet—O
haughty Land,
Let us, at least,
for this be praised—
Has one black, treason-guided
hand
Ever against that
flag been raised.
Then should we speak but servile
words,
Or shall we hang
our heads in shame?
Stand back of new-come foreign
hordes,
And fear our heritage
to claim?
No! stand erect and without
fear,
And for our foes
let this suffice—
We’ve bought a rightful
sonship here,
And we have more
than paid the price.
And yet, my brothers, well
I know
The tethered feet,
the pinioned wings,
The spirit bowed beneath the
blow,
The heart grown
faint from wounds and stings;
The staggering force of brutish
might,
That strikes and
leaves us stunned and daezd;
The long, vain waiting through
the night
To hear some voice
for justice raised.
Full well I know the hour
when hope
Sinks dead, and
’round us everywhere
Hangs stifling darkness, and
we grope
With hands uplifted
in despair.
Courage! Look out, beyond,
and see
The far horizon’s
beckoning span!
Faith in your God-known destiny!
We are a part
of some great plan.
Because the tongues of Garrison
And Phillips now
are cold in death,
Think you their work can be
undone?
Or quenched the
fires lit by their breath?
Think you that John Brown’s
spirit stops?
That Lovejoy was
but idly slain?
Or do you think those precious
drops
From Lincoln’s
heart were shed in vain?
That for which millions prayed
and sighed,
That for which
tens of thousands fought,
For which so many freely died,
God cannot let
it come to naught.
How would you have us, as
we are?
Or sinking ’neath the
load we bear?
Our eyes fixed forward on
a star?
Or gazing empty at despair?
Rising or falling? Men
or things?
With dragging pace or footsteps
fleet?
Strong, willing sinews in
your wings?
Or tightening chains about
your feet?
O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS
O black and unknown bards
of long ago,
How came your lips to touch
the sacred fire?
How, in your darkness, did
you come to know
The power and beauty of the
minstrel’s lyre?
Who first from midst his bonds
lifted his eyes?
Who first from out the still
watch, lone and long,
Feeling the ancient faith
of prophets rise
Within his dark-kept soul,
burst into song?
Heart of what slave poured
out such melody
As “Steal away to Jesus”?
On its strains
His spirit must have nightly
floated free,
Though still about his hands
he felt his chains.
Who heard great “Jordan
roll”? Whose starward eye
Saw chariot “swing low”?
And who was he
That breathed that comforting,
melodic sigh,
“Nobody knows de trouble
I see”?
What merely living clod, what
captive thing,
Could up toward God through
all its darkness grope,
And find within its deadened
heart to sing
These songs of sorrow, love,
and faith, and hope?
How did it catch that subtle
undertone,
That note in music heard not
with the ears?
How sound the elusive reed
so seldom blown,
Which stirs the soul or melts
the heart to tears.
Not that great German master
in his dream
Of harmonies that thundered
amongst the stars
At the creation, ever heard
a theme
Nobler than “Go down,
Moses.” Mark its bars,
How like a mighty trumpet-call
they stir
The blood. Such are the
notes that men have sung
Going to valorous deeds; such
tones there were
That helped make history when
Time was young.
There is a wide, wide wonder
in it all,
That from degraded rest and
servile toil
The fiery spirit of the seer
should call
These simple children of the
sun and soil.
O black slave singers, gone,
forgot, unfamed,
You—you alone,
of all the long, long line
Of those who’ve sung
untaught, unknown, unnamed,
Have stretched out upward,
seeking the divine.
You sang not deeds of heroes
or of kings;
No chant of bloody war, no
exulting pean
Of arms-won triumphs; but
your humble strings
You touched in chord with
music empyrean.
You sang far better than you
knew; the songs
That for your listeners’
hungry hearts sufficed
Still live,—but
more than this to you belongs:
You sang a race from wood
and stone to Christ.
O Southland! O Southland!
Have you not heard
the call,
The trumpet blown, the word
made known
To the nations,
one and all?
The watchword, the hope-word,
Salvation’s
present plan?
A gospel new, for all—for
you:
Man shall be saved
by man.
O Southland! O Southland!
Do you not hear
to-day
The mighty beat of onward
feet,
And know you not
their way?
’Tis forward, ’tis
upward,
On to the fair
white arch
Of Freedom’s dome, and
there is room
For each man who
would march.
O Southland, fair Southland!
Then why do you
still cling
To an idle age and a musty
page,
To a dead and
useless thing?
’Tis springtime!
’Tis work-time!
The world is young
again!
And God’s above, and
God is love,
And men are only
men.
O Southland! my Southland!
O birthland! do
not shirk
The toilsome task, nor respite
ask,
But gird you for
the work.
Remember, remember
That weakness
stalks in pride;
That he is strong who helps
along
The faint one
at his side.
To Horace Bumstead
Have you been sore discouraged
in the fight,
And even sometimes
weighted by the thought
That those with
whom and those for whom you fought
Lagged far behind, or dared
but faintly smite?
And that the opposing forces
in their might
Of blind inertia
rendered as for naught
All that throughout
the long years had been wrought,
And powerless each blow for
Truth and Right?
If so, take new and greater
courage then,
And think no more
withouten help you stand;
For
sure as God on His eternal throne
Sits, mindful of the sinful
deeds of men,
—The awful Sword
of Justice in His hand,—
You
shall not, no, you shall not, fight alone.
(On an Incident at the Battle of San Juan Hill)
Under a burning tropic sun,
With comrades around him lying,
A trooper of the sable Tenth
Lay wounded, bleeding, dying.
First in the charge up the
fort-crowned hill,
His company’s guidon
bearing,
He had rushed where the leaden
hail fell fast,
Not death nor danger fearing.
He fell in the front where
the fight grew fierce,
Still faithful in life’s
last labor;
Black though his skin, yet
his heart as true
As the steel of his blood-stained
saber.
And while the battle around
him rolled,
Like the roar of a sullen
breaker,
He closed his eyes on the
bloody scene,
And presented arms to his
Maker.
There he lay, without honor
or rank,
But, still, in a grim-like
beauty;
Despised of men for his humble
race,
Yet true, in death, to his
duty.
O whitened head entwined in
turban gay,
O kind black face, O crude,
but tender hand,
O foster-mother in whose arms
there lay
The race whose sons are masters
of the land!
It was thine arms that sheltered
in their fold,
It was thine eyes that followed
through the length
Of infant days these sons.
In times of old
It was thy breast that nourished
them to strength.
So often hast thou to thy
bosom pressed
The golden head, the face
and brow of snow;
So often has it ’gainst
thy broad, dark breast
Lain, set off like a quickened
cameo.
Thou simple soul, as cuddling
down that babe
With thy sweet croon, so plaintive
and so wild,
Came ne’er the thought
to thee, swift like a stab,
That it some day might crush
thine own black child?
FATHER, FATHER ABRAHAM
(On the Anniversary of Lincoln’s Birth)
Father, Father Abraham,
To-day look on
us from above;
On us, the offspring of thy
faith,
The children of
thy Christ-like love.
For that which we have humbly
wrought,
Give us to-day
thy kindly smile;
Wherein we’ve failed
or fallen short,
Bear with us,
Father, yet awhile.
Father, Father Abraham,
To-day we lift
our hearts to thee,
Filled with the thought of
what great price
Was paid, that
we might ransomed be.
To-day we consecrate ourselves
Anew in hand and
heart and brain,
To send this judgment down
the years:
The ransom was
not paid in vain.
See! There he stands;
not brave, but with an air
Of sullen stupor. Mark
him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man?
Look in his eye!
No light is there; none, save
the glint that shines
In the now glaring, and now
shifting orbs
Of some wild animal caught
in the hunter’s trap.
How
came this beast in human shape and form?
Speak, man!—We
call you man because you wear
His shape—How are
you thus? Are you not from
That docile, child-like, tender-hearted
race
Which we have known three
centuries? Not from
That more than faithful race
which through three wars
Fed our dear wives and nursed
our helpless babes
Without a single breach of
trust? Speak out!
I am, and am not.
Then who, why are you?
I
am a thing not new, I am as old
As human nature. I am
that which lurks,
Ready to spring whenever a
bar is loosed;
The ancient trait which fights
incessantly
Against restraint, balks at
the upward climb;
The weight forever seeking
to obey
The law of downward pull;—and
I am more:
The bitter fruit am I of planted
seed;
The resultant, the inevitable
end
Of evil forces and the powers
of wrong.
Lessons
in degradation, taught and learned,
The memories of cruel sights
and deeds,
The pent-up bitterness, the
unspent hate
Filtered through fifteen generations
have
Sprung up and found in me
sporadic life.
In me the muttered curse of
dying men,
On me the stain of conquered
women, and
Consuming me the fearful fires
of lust,
Lit long ago, by other hands
than mine.
In me the down-crushed spirit,
the hurled-back prayers
Of wretches now long dead,—their
dire bequests.—
In me the echo of the stifled
cry
Of children for their bartered
mothers’ breasts.
I
claim no race, no race claims me; I am
No more than human dregs;
degenerate;
The monstrous offspring of
the monster, Sin;
I am—just what
I am.... The race that fed
Your wives and nursed your
babes would do the same
To-day, but I—
Enough,
the brute must die!
Quick! Chain him to that
oak! It will resist
The fire much longer than
this slender pine.
Now bring the fuel! Pile
it ’round him! Wait!
Pile not so fast or high!
or we shall lose
The agony and terror in his
face.
And now the torch! Good
fuel that! the flames
Already leap head-high.
Ha! hear that shriek!
And there’s another!
wilder than the first.
Fetch water! Water!
Pour a little on
The fire, lest it should burn
too fast. Hold so!
Now let it slowly blaze again.
See there!
He squirms! He groans!
His eyes bulge wildly out,
Searching around in vain appeal
for help!
Another shriek, the last!
Watch how the flesh
Grows crisp and hangs till,
turned to ash, it sifts
Down through the coils of
chain that hold erect
The ghastly frame against
the bark-scorched tree.
Stop!
to each man no more than one man’s share.
You take that bone, and you
this tooth; the chain—
Let us divide its links; this
skull, of course,
In fair division, to the leader
comes.
And
now his fiendish crime has been avenged;
Let us back to our wives and
children.—Say,
What did he mean by those
last muttered words,
“Brothers in spirit,
brothers in deed are we”?
FRAGMENT
The hand of Fate cannot be
stayed,
The course of Fate cannot
be steered,
By all the gods that man has
made,
Nor all the devils he has
feared,
Not by the prayers that might
be prayed
In all the temples he has
reared.
See! In your very midst
there dwell
Ten thousand thousand blacks,
a wedge
Forged in the furnaces of
hell,
And sharpened to a cruel edge
By wrong and by injustice
fell,
And driven by hatred as a
sledge.
A wedge so slender at the
start—
Just twenty slaves in shackles
bound—
And yet, which split the land
apart
With shrieks of war and battle
sound,
Which pierced the nation’s
very heart,
And still lies cankering in
the wound.
Not all the glory of your
pride,
Preserved in story and in
song,
Can from the judging future
hide,
Through all the coming ages
long,
That though you bravely fought
and died,
You fought and died for what
was wrong.
’Tis fixed—for
them that violate
The eternal laws, naught shall
avail
Till they their error expiate;
Nor shall their unborn children
fail
To pay the full required weight
Into God’s great, unerring
scale.
Think not repentance can redeem,
That sin his wages can withdraw;
No, think as well to change
the scheme
Of worlds that move in reverent
awe;
Forgiveness is an idle dream,
God is not love, no, God is
law.
O, brothers mine, take care!
Take care!
The great white witch rides
out to-night,
Trust not your prowess nor
your strength;
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is
a snare,
And in her smile there is
a blight.
The great white witch you
have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine,
forsooth,
Like nursery children you
have looked
For ancient hag and snaggled
tooth;
But no, not so; the witch
appears
In all the glowing charms
of youth.
Her lips are like carnations
red,
Her face like new-born lilies
fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters
blue,
She moves with subtle grace
and air,
And all about her head there
floats
The golden glory of her hair.
But though she always thus
appears
In form of youth and mood
of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her
birth;
The child of throbbing Life
is she,
Twin sister to the greedy
earth.
And back behind those smiling
lips,
And down within those laughing
eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring
sighs,
The shadow of the panther
lurks,
The spirit of the vampire
lies.
For I have seen the great
white witch,
And she has led me to her
lair,
And I have kissed her red,
red lips
And cruel face so white and
fair;
Around me she has twined her
arms,
And bound me with her yellow
hair.
I felt those red lips burn
and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those
eyes
As the needle trembles to
the pole;
And did not care although
I felt
The strength go ebbing from
my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong
young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud
and gay,
And in your voices she has
caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the
earth;
And she has marked you for
her prey.
She feels the old Antaean
strength
In you, the great dynamic
beat
Of primal passions, and she
sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty,
fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care!
Take care!
The great white witch rides
out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine,
beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is
a snare,
And in her smile there is
a blight.
MOTHER NIGHT
Eternities before the first-born
day,
Or ere the first
sun fledged his wings of flame,
Calm Night, the
everlasting and the same,
A brooding mother over chaos
lay.
And whirling suns shall blaze
and then decay,
Shall run their
fiery courses and then claim
The haven of the
darkness whence they came;
Back to Nirvanic peace shall
grope their way.
So when my feeble sun of life
burns out,
And sounded is
the hour for my long sleep,
I shall,
full weary of the feverish light,
Welcome the darkness without
fear or doubt,
And heavy-lidded,
I shall softly creep
Into the
quiet bosom of the Night.
Mother, shed no mournful tears,
But gird me on my sword;
And give no utterance to thy
fears,
But bless me with thy word.
The lines are drawn!
The fight is on!
A cause is to be won!
Mother, look not so white
and wan;
Give Godspeed to thy son.
Now let thine eyes my way
pursue
Where’er my footsteps
fare;
And when they lead beyond
thy view,
Send after me a prayer.
But pray not to defend from
harm,
Nor danger to dispel;
Pray, rather, that with steadfast
arm
I fight the battle well.
Pray, mother of mine, that
I always keep
My heart and purpose strong,
My sword unsullied and ready
to leap
Unsheathed against the wrong.
THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE
The glory of the day was in
her face,
The beauty of the night was
in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness,
the grace
Of Morning blushing in the
early skies.
And in her voice, the calling
of the dove;
Like music of a sweet, melodious
part.
And in her smile, the breaking
light of love;
And all the gentle virtues
in her heart.
And now the glorious day,
the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their
mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded
sight
Are one with all the dead,
since she is gone.
(From the Spanish of Placido)
Enough of love! Let break
its every hold!
Ended my youthful
folly! for I know
That, like the
dazzling, glister-shedding snow,
Celia, thou art beautiful,
but cold.
I do not find in thee that
warmth which glows,
Which, all these
dreary days, my heart has sought,
That warmth without
which love is lifeless, naught
More than a painted fruit,
a waxen rose.
Such love as thine, scarce
can it bear love’s name,
Deaf to the pleading
notes of his sweet lyre,
A frank, impulsive heart I
wish to claim,
A heart that blindly
follows its desire.
I wish to embrace a woman
full of flame,
I want to kiss
a woman made of fire.
Twenty years go by on noiseless
feet,
He returns, and once again
they meet,
She exclaims, “Good
heavens! and is that he?”
He mutters, “My God!
and that is she!”
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND
Three students once tarried
over the Rhine,
And into Frau Wirthin’s
turned to dine.
“Say, hostess, have
you good beer and wine?
And where is that pretty daughter
of thine?”
“My beer and wine is
fresh and clear.
My daughter lies on her funeral
bier.”
They softly tipped into the
room;
She lay there in the silent
gloom.
The first the white cloth
gently raised,
And tearfully upon her gazed.
“If thou wert alive,
O, lovely maid,
My heart at thy feet would
to-day be laid!”
The second covered her face
again,
And turned away with grief
and pain.
“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white
bier!
And I have loved thee so many
a year.”
The third drew back again
the veil,
And kissed the lips so cold
and pale.
“I’ve loved thee
always, I love thee to-day,
And will love thee, yes, forever
and aye!”
I knew not who had wrought
with skill so fine
What I beheld;
nor by what laws of art
He had created
life and love and heart
On canvas, from mere color,
curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no
move or sign;
Not with the crowd,
but reverently apart;
Nor felt the power
my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that
face divine.
And over me the sense of beauty
fell,
As music over
a raptured listener to
The
deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on one who kneels, his
beads to tell,
There falls the
aureate glory filtered through
The
windows in some old cathedral dim.
I HEAR THE STARS STILL SINGING
I hear the stars still singing
To the beautiful, silent night,
As they speed with noiseless
winging
Their ever westward flight.
I hear the waves still falling
On the stretch of lonely shore,
But the sound of a sweet voice
calling
I shall hear, alas! no more.
Girl of fifteen,
I see you each morning from
my window
As you pass on your way to
school.
I do more than see, I watch
you.
I furtively draw the curtain
aside.
And my heart leaps through
my eyes
And follows you down the street;
Leaving me behind, half-hid
And wholly ashamed.
What holds me back,
Half-hid behind the curtains
and wholly ashamed,
But my forty years beyond
your fifteen?
Girl of fifteen, as you pass
There passes, too, a lightning
flash of time
In which you lift those forty
summers off my head,
And take those forty winters
out of my heart.
THE SUICIDE
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World,
You have punched me over the
heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the cup from
my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger
of body and soul.
You look at me now and think,
“He is still strong,
There ought to be twenty more
years of good punching there.
At the end of that time he
will be old and broken,
Not able to strike back,
But cringing and crying for
leave
To live a little longer.”
Those twenty, pitiful, extra
years
Would please you more than
the fifty past,
Would they not, Old World?
Well, I hold them up before
your greedy eyes,
And snatch them away as I
laugh in your face,
Ha! Ha!
Bang—!
Sunrise in the Tropics
Sol, Sol, mighty lord of the
tropic zone,
Here I wait with the trembling
stars
To see thee once more take
thy throne.
There the patient palm tree
watching
Waits to say, “Good
morn” to thee,
And a throb of expectation
Pulses through the earth and
me.
Now, o’er nature falls
a hush,
Look! the East is all a-blush;
And a growing crimson crest
Dims the late stars in the
west;
Now, a flood of golden light
Sweeps across the silver night,
Swift the pale moon fades
away
Before the light-girt King
of Day,
See! the miracle is done!
Once more behold! The
Sun!
Los Cigarillos
This is the land of the dark-eyed
gente,
Of the dolce far niente,
Where we dream away
Both the night and day,
At night-time in sleep our
dreams we invoke,
Our dreams come by day through
the redolent smoke,
As it lazily curls,
And slowly unfurls
From our lips,
And the tips
Of our fragrant cigarillos.
For life in the tropics is
only a joke,
So we pass it in dreams, and
we pass it in smoke,
Smoke—smoke—smoke.
Tropical constitutions
Call for occasional revolutions;
But after that’s through,
Why there’s nothing
to do
But smoke—smoke;
For life in the tropics is
only a joke,
So we pass it in dreams, and
we pass it in smoke,
Smoke—smoke—smoke.
Teestay
Of tropic sensations, the
worst
Is, sin duda, the tropical
thirst.
When it starts in your throat
and constantly grows,
Till you feel that it reaches
down to your toes,
When your mouth tastes like
fur
And your tongue turns to dust,
There’s but one thing
to do,
And do it you must,
Drink teestay.
Teestay, a drink with a history, A delicious, delectable mystery, “Cinco centavos el vaso, senor,” If you take one, you will surely want more.
Teestay, teestay, The national drink on a feast day; How it coolingly tickles, As downward it trickles, Teestay, teestay.
And you wish, as you take
it down at a quaff,
That your neck was constructed
a la giraffe.
Teestay, teestay.
The Lottery Girl
“Lottery, lottery,
Take a chance at the lottery?
Take a ticket,
Or, better, take two;
Who knows what the future
May hold for you?
Lottery, lottery,
Take a chance at the lottery?”
Oh, limpid-eyed girl,
I would take every chance,
If only the prize
Were a love-flashing glance
From your fathomless eyes.
“Lottery, lottery,
Try your luck at the lottery?
Consider the size
Of the capital prize,
And take tickets
For the lottery.
Tickets, senor?
Tickets, senor?
Take a chance at the lottery?”
Oh, crimson-lipped girl,
With the magical smile,
I would count that the gamble
Were well worth the while,
Not a chance would I miss,
If only the prize
Were a honey-bee kiss
Gathered in sips
From those full-ripened lips,
And a love-flashing glance
From your eyes.
The Dancing Girl
Do you know what it is to
dance?
Perhaps, you do know, in a
fashion;
But by dancing I mean,
Not what’s generally
seen,
But dancing of fire and passion,
Of fire and delirious passion.
With a dusky-haired senorita,
Her dark, misty eyes near
your own,
And her scarlet-red mouth,
Like a rose of the south,
The reddest that ever was
grown,
So close that you catch
Her quick-panting breath
As across your own face it
is blown,
With a sigh, and a moan.
Ah! that is dancing,
As here by the Carib it’s
known.
Now, whirling and twirling
Like furies we go;
Now, soft and caressing
And sinuously slow;
With an undulating motion,
Like waves on a breeze-kissed
ocean:—
And the scarlet-red mouth
Is nearer your own,
And the dark, misty eyes
Still softer have grown.
Ah! that is dancing, that
is loving,
As here by the Carib they’re
known.
Sunset in the Tropics
A silver flash from the sinking
sun,
Then a shot of crimson across
the sky
That, bursting, lets a thousand
colors fly
And riot among the clouds;
they run,
Deepening in purple, flaming
in gold,
Changing, and opening fold
after fold,
Then fading through all of
the tints of the rose into gray,
Till, taking quick fright
at the coming night,
They rush out down the west,
In hurried quest
Of the fleeing day.
Now above where the tardiest
color flares a moment yet,
One point of light, now two,
now three are set
To form the starry stairs,—
And, in her fire-fly crown,
Queen Night, on velvet slippered
feet, comes softly down.
Around the council-board of
Hell, with Satan at their head,
The Three Great Scourges of
humanity sat.
Gaunt Famine, with hollow
cheek and voice, arose and spoke,—
“O, Prince, I have stalked
the earth,
And my victims by ten thousands
I have slain,
I have smitten old and young.
Mouths of the helpless old
moaning for bread, I have filled with dust;
And I have laughed to see
a crying babe tug at the shriveling breast
Of its mother, dead and cold.
I have heard the cries and
prayers of men go up to a tearless sky,
And fall back upon an earth
of ashes;
But, heedless, I have gone
on with my work.
’Tis thus, O, Prince,
that I have scourged mankind.”
And Satan nodded his head.
Pale Pestilence, with stenchful
breath, then spoke and said,—
“Great Prince, my brother,
Famine, attacks the poor.
He is most terrible against
the helpless and the old.
But I have made a charnel-house
of the mightiest cities of men.
When I strike, neither their
stores of gold or of grain avail.
With a breath I lay low their
strongest, and wither up their fairest.
I come upon them without warning,
lancing invisible death.
From me they flee with eyes
and mouths distended;
I poison the air for which
they gasp, and I strike them down fleeing.
’Tis thus, great Prince,
that I have scourged mankind.”
And Satan nodded his head.
Then the red monster, War,
rose up and spoke,—
His blood-shot eyes glared
’round him, and his thundering voice
Echoed through the murky vaults
of Hell.—
“O, mighty Prince, my
brothers, Famine and Pestilence,
Have slain their thousands
and ten thousands,—true;
But the greater their victories
have been,
The more have they wakened
in Man’s breast
The God-like attributes of
sympathy, of brotherhood and love
And made of him a searcher
after wisdom.
But I arouse in Man the demon
and the brute,
I plant black hatred in his
heart and red revenge.
From the summit of fifty thousand
years of upward climb
I haul him down to the level
of the start, back to the wolf.
I give him claws.
I set his teeth into his brother’s
throat.
I make him drunk with his
brother’s blood.
And I laugh ho! ho! while
he destroys himself.
O, mighty Prince, not only
do I slay,
But I draw Man hellward.”
And Satan smiled, stretched
out his hand, and said,—
“O War, of all the scourges
of humanity, I crown you chief.”
And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.
A MID-DAY DREAMER
I love to sit alone, and dream,
And dream, and dream;
In fancy’s boat to softly
glide
Along some stream
Where fairy palaces of gold
And crystal bright
Stand all along the glistening
shore:
A wondrous sight.
My craft is built of ivory,
With silver oars,
The sails are spun of golden
threads,
And priceless stores
Of precious gems adorn its
prow,
And ’round its mast
An hundred silken cords are
set
To hold it fast.
My galley-slaves are sprightly
elves
Who, as they row,
And as their shining oars
they swing
Them to and fro,
Keep time to music wafted
on
The scented air,
Made by the mermaids as they
comb
Their golden hair.
And I the while lie idly back,
And dream, and dream,
And let them row me where
they will
Adown the stream.
Old Devil, when you come with
horns and tail,
With diabolic grin and crafty
leer;
I say, such bogey-man devices
wholly fail
To waken in my heart a single
fear.
But when you wear a form I
know so well,
A form so human, yet so near
divine;
’Tis then I fall beneath
the magic of your spell,
’Tis then I know the
vantage is not mine.
Ah! when you take your horns
from off your head,
And soft and fragrant hair
is in their place;
I must admit I fear the tangled
path I tread
When that dear head is laid
against my face.
And at what time you change
your baleful eyes
For stars that melt into the
gloom of night,
All of my courage, my dear
fellow, quickly flies;
I know my chance is slim to
win the fight.
And when, instead of charging
down to wreck
Me on a red-hot pitchfork
in your hand,
You throw a pair of slender
arms about my neck,
I dare not trust the ground
on which I stand.
Whene’er in place of
using patent wile,
Or trying to frighten me with
horrid grin,
You tempt me with two crimson
lips curved in a smile;
Old Devil, I must really own,
you win.
GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR
The snow has ceased its fluttering
flight,
The wind sunk to a whisper
light,
An ominous stillness fills
the night,
A pause—a
hush.
At last, a sound that breaks
the spell,
Loud, clanging mouthings of
a bell,
That through the silence peal
and swell,
And roll, and
rush.
What does this brazen tongue
declare,
That falling on the midnight
air
Brings to my heart a sense
of care
Akin to fright?
’Tis telling that the
year is dead,
The New Year come, the Old
Year fled,
Another leaf before me spread
On which to write.
It tells the deeds that were
not done,
It tells of races never run,
Of victories that were not
won,
Barriers unleaped.
It tells of many a squandered
day,
Of slighted gems and treasured
clay,
Of precious stores not laid
away,
Of fields unreaped.
And so the years go swiftly
by,
Each, coming, brings ambitions
high,
And each, departing, leaves
a sigh
Linked to the
past.
Large resolutions, little
deeds;
Thus, filled with aims unreached,
life speeds
Until the blotted record reads,
“Failure!”
at last.
In a backwoods town
Lived Deacon Brown,
And he was a miser old;
He would trust no bank,
So he dug, and sank
In the ground a box of gold,
Down deep in the ground a
box of gold.
He hid his gold,
As has been told,
He remembered that he did
it;
But sad to say,
On the very next day,
He forgot just where he hid
it:
To find his gold he tried
and tried
Till he grew faint and sick,
and died.
Then on each dark and gloomy
night
A form in phosphorescent white,
A genuine hair-raising sight,
Would wander through the town.
And as it slowly roamed around,
With a spade it dug each foot
of ground;
So the folks about
Said there was no doubt
’Twas the ghost of Deacon
Brown.
Around the church
This Ghost would search,
And whenever it would see
The passers-by
Take wings and fly
It would laugh in ghostly
glee,
Hee, hee!—it would
laugh in ghostly glee.
And so the town
Went quickly down,
For they said that it was
haunted;
And doors and gates,
So the story states,
Bore a notice, “Tenants
wanted.”
And the town is now for let,
But the ghost is digging yet.
“LAZY”
Some men enjoy the constant
strife
Of days with work and worry
rife,
But that is not my dream of
life:
I think such men
are crazy.
For me, a life with worries
few,
A job of nothing much to do,
Just pelf enough to see me
through:
I fear that I
am lazy.
On winter mornings cold and
drear,
When six o’clock alarms
I hear,
’Tis then I love to
shift my ear,
And hug my downy
pillows.
When in the shade it’s
ninety-three,
No job in town looks good
to me,
I’d rather loaf down
by the sea,
And watch the
foaming billows.
Some people think the world’s
a school,
Where labor is the only rule;
But I’ll not make myself
a mule,
And don’t
you ever doubt it.
I know that work may have
its use,
But still I feel that’s
no excuse
For turning it into abuse;
What do you
think about it?
Let others fume and sweat
and boil,
And scratch and dig for golden
spoil,
And live the life
of work and toil,
Their lives to labor giving.
But what is gold when life
is sped,
And life is short, as has
been said,
And we are such a long time
dead,
I’ll spend
my life in living.
Old Omar, jolly sceptic, it
may be
That, after all, you found
the magic key
To life and all its mystery,
and I
Must own you have almost persuaded
me.
DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD
Are you bowed down in heart?
Do you but hear the clashing
discords and the din of life?
Then come away, come to the
peaceful wood,
Here bathe your soul in silence.
Listen! Now,
From out the palpitating solitude
Do you not catch, yet faint,
elusive strains?
They are above, around, within
you, everywhere.
Silently listen! Clear,
and still more clear, they come.
They bubble up in rippling
notes, and swell in singing tones.
Now let your soul run the
whole gamut of the wondrous scale
Until, responsive to the tonic
chord,
It touches the diapason of
God’s grand cathedral organ,
Filling earth for you with
heavenly peace
And holy harmonies.
To chase a never-reached mirage
Across the hot, white sand,
And choke and die, while gazing
on
Its green and watered strand.
THE WORD OF AN ENGINEER
“She’s built of
steel
From deck to keel,
And bolted strong and tight;
In scorn she’ll sail
The fiercest gale,
And pierce the darkest night.
“The builder’s
art
Has proved each part
Throughout her breadth and
length;
Deep in the hulk,
Of her mighty bulk,
Ten thousand Titans’
strength.”
The tempest howls,
The Ice Wolf prowls,
The winds they shift and veer,
But calm I sleep,
And faith I keep
In the word of an engineer.
Along the trail
Of the slender rail
The train, like a nightmare,
flies
And dashes on
Through the black-mouthed
yawn
Where the cavernous tunnel
lies.
Over the ridge,
Across the bridge,
Swung twixt the sky and hell,
On an iron thread
Spun from the head
Of the man in a draughtsman’s
cell.
And so we ride Over land and tide, Without a thought of fear— Man never had The faith in God That he has in an engineer!
Out of the infinite sea of
eternity
To climb, and for an instant
stand
Upon an island speck of time.
From the impassible peace
of the darkness
To wake, and blink at the
garish light
Through one short hour of
fretfulness.
SLEEP
O Sleep, thou kindest minister
to man,
Silent distiller
of the balm of rest,
How wonderful thy power, when
naught else can,
To soothe the
torn and sorrow-laden breast!
When bleeding hearts no comforter
can find,
When burdened
souls droop under weight of woe,
When thought is torture to
the troubled mind,
When grief-relieving
tears refuse to flow;
’Tis then thou comest
on soft-beating wings,
And sweet oblivion’s
peace from them is shed;
But ah, the old pain that
the waking brings!
That lives again
so soon as thou art fled!
Man, why should thought of
death cause thee to weep;
Since death be but an endless,
dreamless sleep?
O mighty, powerful, dark-dispelling
sun,
Now thou art risen, and thy
day begun.
How shrink the shrouding mists
before thy face,
As up thou spring’st
to thy diurnal race!
How darkness chases darkness
to the west,
As shades of light on light
rise radiant from thy crest!
For thee, great source of
strength, emblem of might,
In hours of darkest gloom
there is no night.
Thou shinest on though clouds
hide thee from sight,
And through each break thou
sendest down thy light.
O greater Maker of this Thy
great sun,
Give me the strength this
one day’s race to run,
Fill me with light, fill me
with sun-like strength,
Fill me with joy to rob the
day its length.
Light from within, light that
will outward shine,
Strength to make strong some
weaker heart than mine,
Joy to make glad each soul
that feels its touch;
Great Father of the sun, I
ask this much.
THE GIFT TO SING
Sometimes the mist overhangs
my path,
And blackening clouds about
me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful
day—
I softly sing.
And if the way grows darker
still,
Shadowed by Sorrow’s
somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with
a note,
And sing, and
sing.
I brood not over the broken
past,
Nor dread whatever time may
bring;
No nights are dark, no days
are long,
While in my heart there swells
a song,
And I can sing.
When morning shows her first
faint flush,
I think of the tender blush
That crept so gently to your
cheek
When first my love I dared
to speak;
How, in your glance, a dawning
ray
Gave promise of love’s
perfect day.
When, in the ardent breath
of noon,
The roses with passion swoon;
There steals upon me from
the air
The scent that lurked within
your hair;
I touch your hand, I clasp
your form—
Again your lips are close
and warm.
When comes the night with
beauteous skies,
I think of your tear-dimmed
eyes,
Their mute entreaty that I
stay,
Although your lips sent me
away;
And then falls memory’s
bitter blight,
And dark—so dark
becomes the night.
HER EYES TWIN POOLS
Her eyes, twin pools of mystic
light,
The blend of star-sheen and
black night;
O’er which, to sound
their glamouring haze,
A man might bend, and vainly
gaze.
Her eyes, twin pools so dark
and deep,
In which life’s ancient
mysteries sleep;
Wherein, to seek the quested
goal,
A man might plunge, and lose
his soul.
I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely
way,
Close by a path none ever
chose,
And there I lingered day by
day.
Beneath the sunshine and the
show’r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by
hour,
And storing it within my heart,
Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and
grew.
I dreamed that you were a
bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge
to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened
song.
You brushed my petals with
a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a
start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of
my heart;
And then I knew
That I had waited there for
you.
BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD
When buffeted and beaten by
life’s storms,
When by the bitter cares of
life oppressed,
I want no surer haven than
your arms,
I want no sweeter heaven than
your breast.
When over my life’s
way there falls the blight
Of sunless days, and nights
of starless skies;
Enough for me, the calm and
steadfast light
That softly shines within
your loving eyes.
The world, for me, and all
the world can hold
Is circled by your arms; for
me there lies,
Within the lights and shadows
of your eyes,
The only beauty that is never
old.
’Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her
purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered
garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white
and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.
Snow-white roses, blood-red
roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson
rose.
White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained
their hue
From the hearts that for love
had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.
VASHTI
I sometimes take you in my
dreams to a far-off land I used to know,
Back in the ages long ago;
a land of palms and languid streams.
A land, by night, of jeweled
skies, by day, of shores that glistened bright,
Within whose arms, outstretched
and white, a sapphire sea lay crescent-wise.
Where twilight fell like silver
floss, where rose the golden moon half-hid
Behind a shadowy pyramid;
a land beneath the Southern Cross.
And there the days dreamed
in their flight, each one a poem chanted through,
Which at its close was merged
into the muted music of the night.
And you were a princess in
those days. And I—I was your serving
lad.
But who ever served with heart
so glad, or lived so for a word of praise?
And if that word you chanced
to speak, how all my senses swayed and reeled,
Till low beside your feet
I kneeled, with happiness o’erwrought and weak.
If, when your golden cup I
bore, you deigned to lower your eyes to mine,
Eyes cold, yet fervid, like
the wine, I knew not how to wish for more.
I trembled at the thought
to dare to gaze upon, to scrutinize
The deep-sea mystery of your
eyes, the sun-lit splendor of your hair.
To let my timid glances rest
upon you long enough to note
How fair and slender was your
throat, how white the promise of your breast.
But though I did not dare
to chance a lingering look, an open gaze
Upon your beauty’s blinding
rays, I ventured many a stolen glance.
I fancy, too, (but could not
state what trick of mind the fancy caused)
At times your eyes upon me
paused, and marked my figure lithe and straight.
Once when my eyes met yours
it seemed that in your cheek, despite your pride,
A flush arose and swiftly
died; or was it something that I dreamed?
Within your radiance like
the star of morning, there I stood and served,
Close by, unheeded, unobserved.
You were so near, and, yet, so far.
Ah! just to stretch my hand
and touch the musky sandals on your feet!—
My breaking heart! of rapture
sweet it never could have held so much.
Oh, beauty-haunted memory!
Your face so proud, your eyes so calm,
Your body like a slim young
palm, and sinuous as a willow tree.
Caught up beneath your slender
arms, and girdled ’round your supple waist,
A robe of curious silk that
graced, but only scarce concealed your charms.
A golden band about your head,
a crimson jewel at your throat
Which, when the sunlight on
it smote, turned to a living heart and bled.
But, oh, that mystic bleeding
stone, that work of Nature’s magic art,
Which mimicked so a wounded
heart, could never bleed as did my own!
Now after ages long and sad,
in this stern land we meet anew;
No more a princess proud are
you, and I—I am no serving lad.
And yet, dividing us, I meet
a wider gulf than that which stood
Between a princess of the
blood and him who served low at her feet.
No greater earthly boon than
this I crave,
That those who some day gather
’round my grave,
In place of tears, may whisper
of me then,
“He sang a song that
reached the hearts of men.”
JINGLES & CROONS
Seems lak to me de stars don’t
shine so bright,
Seems lak to me de sun done
loss his light,
Seems lak to me der’s
nothin’ goin’ right,
Sence
you went away.
Seems lak to me de sky ain’t
half so blue,
Seems lak to me dat ev’ything
wants you,
Seems lak to me I don’t
know what to do,
Sence
you went away.
Seems lak to me dat ev’ything
is wrong,
Seems lak to me de day’s
jes twice as long,
Seems lak to me de bird’s
forgot his song,
Sence
you went away.
Seems lak to me I jes can’t
he’p but sigh,
Seems lak to me ma th’oat
keeps gittin’ dry,
Seems lak to me a tear stays
in ma eye,
Sence
you went away.
MA LADY’S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY
(Negro Love Song)
Breeze a-sighin’ and
a-blowin’,
Southern summer night.
Stars a-gleamin’ and
a-glowin’,
Moon jes shinin’ right.
Strollin’, like all
lovers do,
Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;
Honey on her lips to waste;
’Speck I’m gwine
to steal a taste.
Oh, ma lady’s
lips am like de honey,
Ma lady’s
lips am like de rose;
An’ I’m
jes like de little bee a-buzzin’
‘Round de
flower wha’ de nectah grows.
Ma lady’s
lips dey smile so temptin’,
Ma lady’s
teeth so white dey shine,
Oh, ma lady’s
lips so tantalizin’,
Ma lady’s
lips so close to mine.
Bird a-whistlin’ and
a-swayin’
In de live-oak tree;
Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,
“Kiss dat gal fo’
me.”
Look heah, Mister Mockin’
Bird,
Gwine to take you at yo’
word;
If I meets ma Waterloo,
Gwine to blame it all on you.
Oh, ma lady’s
lips am like de honey,
Ma lady’s
lips am like de rose;
An’ I’m
jes like de little bee a-buzzin’
‘Round de
flower wha’ de nectah grows.
Ma lady’s
lips dey smile so temptin’,
Ma lady’s
teeth so white dey shine,
Oh, ma lady’s
lips so tantalizin’,
Ma lady’s
lips so close to mine.
Honey in de rose, I spose,
is
Put der fo’ de bee;
Honey on her lips, I knows,
is
Put der jes fo’ me.
Seen a sparkle in her eye,
Heard her heave a little sigh;
Felt her kinder squeeze ma
han’,
‘Nuff to make me understan’.
(A Lecture on Modern Education)
Look heah, Tunk!—Now,
ain’t dis awful! T’ought I sont you
off to school.
Don’t you know dat you
is growin’ up to be a reg’lah fool?
Whah’s dem books dat
I’s done bought you? Look heah, boy, you
tell me quick,
Whah’s dat Webster blue-back
spellah an’ dat bran’ new ’rifmatic?
W’ile I’m t’inkin’
you is lahnin’ in de school, why bless ma soul!
You off in de woods a-playin’.
Can’t you do like you is tole?
Boy, I tell you, it’s
jes scan’lous d’way dat you is goin’
on.
An’ you sholy go’n
be sorry, jes as true as you is bo’n.
Heah I’m tryin’
hard to raise you as a credit to dis race,
An’ you tryin’
heap much harder fu’ to come up in disgrace.
Dese de days w’en men
don’t git up to de top by hooks an’ crooks;
Tell you now, dey’s
got to git der standin’ on a pile o’ books.
W’en you sees a darkey
goin’ to de fiel’ as soon as light,
Followin’ a mule across
it f’om de mawnin’ tel de night,
Wukin’ all his life
fu’ vittles, hoein’ ’tween de cott’n
rows,
W’en he knocks off ole
an’ tiah’d, ownin’ nut’n but
his clo’es,
You kin put it down to ignunce,
aftah all what’s done an’ said,
You kin bet dat dat same darkey
ain’t got nut’n in his head.
Ain’t you seed dem w’ite
men set’n in der awfice? Don’t you
know
Dey goes der ‘bout nine
each mawnin? Bless yo’ soul, dey’s
out by fo’.
Dey jes does a little writin’;
does dat by some easy means;
Gals jes set an’ play
piannah on dem printin’ press muchines.
Chile, dem men knows how to
figgah, how to use dat little pen,
An’ dey knows dat blue-back
spellah f’om beginnin’ to de en’.
Dat’s de ’fect
of education; dat’s de t’ing what’s
gwine to rule;
Git dem books, you lazy rascal!
Git back to yo’ place in school!
(A Negro Serenade)
De river is a-glistenin’
in de moonlight,
De owl is set’n high
up in de tree;
De little stars am twinklin’
wid a sof’ light,
De night seems only jes fu’
you an’ me.
Thoo de trees de breezes am
a-sighin’,
Breathin’ out a sort
o’ lover’s croon,
Der’s nobody lookin’
or a-spyin’,
Nobody but de owl an’
de moon.
Nobody’s lookin’
but de owl an’ de moon,
An’ de night is balmy;
fu’ de month is June;
Come den, Honey, won’t
you? Come to meet me soon,
Wile nobody’s lookin’
but de owl an’ de moon.
I feel so kinder lonely all
de daytime,
It seems I raly don’t
know what to do;
I jes keep sort a-longin’
fu’ de night-time,
’Cause den I know dat
I can be wid you.
An’ de thought jes sets
my brain a-swayin’,
An’ my heart a-beatin’
to a tune;
Come, de owl won’t tell
w’at we’s a-sayin’,
An’ cose you know we
kin trus’ de moon.
(Lullaby)
Shet yo’ eyes, ma little
pickaninny, go to sleep
Mammy’s watchin’
by you all de w’ile;
Daddy is a-wukin’ down
in de cott’n fiel’,
Wukin’ fu’ his
little honey child.
An’ yo’ mammy’s
heart is jes a-brimmin’ full o’ lub
Fu’ you f’om yo’
head down to yo’ feet;
Oh, no mattah w’at some
othah folks may t’ink o’ you,
To yo’ mammy’s
heart you’s mighty sweet.
You’s sweet to yo’
mammy jes de same;
Dat’s why she calls
you Honey fu’ yo’ name.
Yo’ face is black, dat’s
true,
An’ yo’ hair is
woolly, too,
But, you’s sweet to
yo’ mammy jes de same.
Up der in de big house w’ere
dey lib so rich an’ gran’
Dey’s got chillen dat
dey lubs, I s’pose;
Chillen dat is purty, oh,
but dey can’t lub dem mo’
Dan yo’ mammy lubs you,
heaben knows!
Dey may t’ink you’s
homely, an’ yo’ clo’es dey may be
po’,
But yo’ shinin’
eyes, dey hol’s a light
Dat, my Honey, w’en
you opens dem so big an’ roun’,
Makes you lubly in yo’
mammy’s sight.
W’en ole Mister Sun
gits tiah’d a-hangin’
High up in de sky;
W’en der ain’t
no thunder and light’nin’ a-bangin’,
An’ de crap’s
done all laid by;
W’en yo’ bones
ain’t achin’ wid de rheumatics,
Den yo’ ride de mule
to town,
Git a great big jug o’
de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink
her down—
Jes
lay away ole Trouble,
An’
dry up all yo’ tears;
Yo’
pleasure sho’ to double
An’
you bound to lose yo’ keers.
Jes
lay away ole Sorrer
High
upon de shelf;
And
never mind to-morrer,
’Twill
take care of itself.
W’en ole Mister Age
begins a-stealin’
Thoo yo’ back an’
knees,
W’en yo’ bones
an’ jints lose der limber feelin’,
An’ am stiff’nin’
by degrees;
Now der’s jes one way
to feel young and spry,
W’en you heah dem banjos
soun’
Git a great big swig o’
de ole corn juice,
An’ w’en you drink
her down—
Jes
lay away ole Trouble,
An’
dry up all yo’ tears;
Yo’
pleasure sho’ to double
An’
you bound to lose yo’ keers.
Jes
lay away ole Sorrer
High
upon de shelf;
And
never mind to-morrer,
’Twill
take care of itself.
JULY IN GEORGY
I’m back down in ole
Georgy w’ere de sun is shinin’ hot,
W’ere de cawn it is
a-tasslin’, gittin’ ready fu’ de
pot;
W’ere de cott’n
is a-openin’ an’ a-w’itenin’
in de sun,
An’ de ripenin’
o’ de sugah-cane is mighty nigh begun.
An’ de locus’
is a-singin’ f’om eveh bush an’ tree,
An’ you kin heah de
hummin’ o’ de noisy bumblebee;
An’ de mule he stan’s
a-dreamin’ an’ a-dreamin’ in de lot,
An’ de sun it is a-shinin’
mighty hot, hot, hot.
But evehbody is a-restin’,
fu’ de craps is all laid by,
An’ time fu’ de
camp-meetin’ is a-drawin’ purty nigh;
An’ we’s put away
de ploughshare, an’ we’s done hung up de
spade,
An’ we’s eatin’
watermelon, an’ a-layin’ in de shade.
W’en de banjos wuz a-ringin’,
An’ de darkies wuz a-singin’,
Oh, wuzen dem de good times
sho!
All de ole folks would be
chattin’,
An’ de pickaninnies
pattin’,
As dey heah’d de feet
a-shufflin’ ‘cross de flo’.
An’ how we’d dance,
an’ how we’d sing!
Dance tel de day done break.
An’ how dem banjos dey
would ring,
An’ de cabin flo’
would shake!
Come along, come along,
Come along, come along,
Don’t you heah dem banjos
a-ringin’?
Gib a song, gib a song,
Gib a song, gib a song,
Git yo’ feet fixed up
fu’ a-wingin’.
W’ile de banjos dey
go plunka, plunka, plunk,
We’ll dance tel de ole
flo’ shake;
W’ile de feet keep a-goin’
chooka, chooka, chook,
We’ll dance tel de day
done break.
ANSWER TO PRAYER
Der ain’t no use in
sayin’ de Lawd won’t answer prah;
If you knows how to ax Him,
I knows He’s bound to heah.
De trouble is, some people
don’t ax de proper way,
Den w’en dey git’s
no answer dey doubts de use to pray.
You got to use egzac’ly
de ‘spressions an’ de words
To show dat ‘tween yo’
faith an’ works, you ’pends on works two-thirds.
Now, one time I remember—jes
how long I won’t say—
I thought I’d like a
turkey to eat on Chris’mus day.
Fu’ weeks I dreamed
‘bout turkeys, a-struttin’ in der pride;
But seed no way to get one—widout
de Lawd pervide.
An’ so I went to prayin’,
I pray’d wid all my might;
“Lawd, sen’ to
me a turkey.” I pray’d bofe day an’
night.
“Lawd, sen’ to
me a turkey, a big one if you please.”
I ‘clar to heaben I
pray’d so much I mos’ wore out ma knees.
I pray’d dat prah so
often, I pray’d dat prah so long,
Yet didn’t git no turkey,
I know’d ’twas sump’n wrong.
So on de night ’fore
Chris’mus w’en I got down to pray,
“Lawd, sen’ me
to a turkey,” I had de sense to say.
“Lawd, sen’ me
to a turkey.” I know dat prah was right,
An’ it was sholy answer’d;
I got de bird dat night.
Skin as black an’ jes
as sof’ as a velvet dress,
Teeth as white as ivory—well
dey is I guess.
Eyes dat’s jes as big
an’ bright as de evenin’ star;
An’ dat hol’ some
sort o’ light lublier by far.
Hair don’t hang ’way
down her back; plaited up in rows;
Wid de two en’s dat’s
behin’ tied wid ribben bows.
Han’s dat raly wuz’n
made fu’ hard work, I’m sho’;
Got a little bit o’
foot; weahs a numbah fo’.
You jes oughtah see dat gal
Sunday’s w’en she goes
To de Baptis’ meetin’
house, dressed in her bes’ clo’es.
W’en she puts her w’ite
dress on an’ othah things so fine;
Now, Su’, don’t
you know I’m proud o’ dat gal o’
mine.
THE SEASONS
W’en de leaves begin
to fall,
An’ de fros’ is
on de ground,
An’ de ‘simmons
is a-ripenin’ on de tree;
W’en I heah de dinner
call,
An’ de chillen gadder
’round,
’Tis den de ‘possum
is de meat fu’ me.
W’en de wintertime am
pas’
An’ de spring is come
at las’,
W’en de good ole summer
sun begins to shine;
Oh! my thoughts den tek a
turn,
An’ my heart begins
to yearn
Fo’ dat watermelon growin’
on de vine.
Now, de yeah will sholy bring
‘Round a season fu’
us all,
Ev’y one kin pick his
season f’om de res’;
But de melon in de spring,
An’ de ’possum
in de fall,
Mek it hard to tell which
time o’ year am bes’.
(A Warning)
‘Simmons ripenin’
in de fall,
You better run,
Brudder ’Possum, run!
Mockin’ bird commence
to call,
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
Run some whar an’ hide!
Ole moon am sinkin’
Down behin’ de tree.
Ole Eph am thinkin’
An’ chuckelin’
wid glee.
Ole Tige am blinkin’
An’ frisky as kin be,
Yo’ chances, Brudder
’Possum,
Look mighty slim to me.
Run, run, run, I tell you,
Run, Brudder ’Possum,
run!
Run, run, run, I tell you,
Ole Eph’s got a gun.
Pickaninnies grinnin’
Waitin’ fu’ to
see de fun.
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
Run, Brudder ’Possum,
run!
Brudder ’Possum take
a tip;
You better run,
Brudder ’Possum, run!
‘Tain’t no use
in actin’ flip,
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
Run some whar an’ hide.
Dey’s gwine to houn’
you
All along de line,
W’en dey done foun’
you,
Den what’s de use in
sighin’?
Wid taters roun’ you.
You sholy would tase fine—
So listen, Brudder ’Possum,
You better be a-flyin’.
Run, run, run, I tell you,
Run, Brudder ’Possum,
run!
Run, run, run, I tell you,
Ole Eph’s got a gun.
Pickaninnies grinnin’
Waitin’ fu’ to
see de fun.
You better run, Brudder ’Possum,
git out de way!
Run, Brudder ’Possum,
run!
Once der was a meetin’
in de wilderness,
All de critters of creation
dey was dar;
Brer Rabbit, Brer ’Possum,
Brer Wolf, Brer Fox,
King Lion, Mister Terrapin,
Mister B’ar.
De question fu’ discussion
was, “Who is de bigges’ man?”
Dey ’pinted ole Jedge
Owl to decide;
He polished up his spectacles
an’ put ’em on his nose,
An’ to the question
slowly he replied:
“Brer Wolf am mighty
cunnin’,
Brer Fox am mighty sly,
Brer Terrapin an’ ’Possum—kinder
small;
Brer Lion’s mighty vicious,
Brer B’ar he’s
sorter ’spicious,
Brer Rabbit, you’s de
cutes’ of ’em all.”
Dis caused a great confusion
’mongst de animals,
Ev’y critter claimed
dat he had won de prize;
Dey ‘sputed an’
dey arg’ed, dey growled an’ dey roared,
Den putty soon de dus’
begin to rise.
Brer Rabbit he jes’
stood aside an’ urged ’em on to fight.
Brer Lion he mos’ tore
Brer B’ar in two;
W’en dey was all so
tiahd dat dey couldn’t catch der bref
Brer Rabbit he jes’
grabbed de prize an’ flew.
Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin’,
Brer Fox am mighty sly,
Brer Terrapin an’ Possum—kinder
small;
Brer Lion’s mighty vicious,
Brer B’ar he’s
sorter ’spicious,
Brer Rabbit, you’s de
cutes’ of ’em all.
AN EXPLANATION
Look heah! ’Splain
to me de reason
Why you said to Squire Lee,
Der wuz twelve ole chicken
thieves
In dis heah town, includin’
me.
Ef he tole you dat, my brudder,
He said sump’n dat warn’t
true;
W’at I said wuz dis,
dat der wuz
Twelve, widout includin’
you.
Oh!...!—
Cuddle down, ma honey, in
yo’ bed,
Go to sleep an’ res’
yo’ little head,
Been a-kind o’ ailin’
all de day?
Didn’t have no sperit
fu’ to play?
Never min’; to-morrer,
w’en you wek,
Daddy’s gwine to ride
you on his bek,
‘Roun’ an’
roun’ de cabin flo’ so fas’—
Der! He’s closed
his little eyes at las’.
De little pickaninny’s
gone to sleep,
Cuddled in his trundle bed
so tiny,
De little pickaninny’s
gone to sleep,
Closed his little eyes so
bright an’ shiny.
Hush! an’ w’en
you walk across de flo’
Step across it very sof’
an’ slow.
De shadders all aroun’
begin to creep,
De little pickaninny’s
gone to sleep.
Mandy, w’at’s
de matter wid dat chile?
Keeps a-sighin’ ev’y
little w’ile;
Seems to me I heayhd him sorter
groan,
Lord! his little han’s
am col’ as stone!
W’at’s dat far-off
light dat’s in his eyes?
Dat’s a light dey’s
borrow’d f’om de skies;
Fol’ his little han’s
across his breas’,
Let de little pickaninny res’.
THE RIVALS
Look heah! Is I evah
tole you ’bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah?
Well heah’s how de thing wuz done.
Lize, you know, wuz mighty
purty—dat’s been forty yeahs ago—
’N ’cos to look
at her dis minit, you might’n spose dat it wuz
so.
She wuz jes de greates’
’traction in de county, ‘n bless de lam’!
Eveh darkey wuz a-co’tin,
but it lay ‘twix me an’ Sam.
You know Sam. We both
wuz wukin’ on de ole John Tompkin’s place.
‘N evehbody wuz a-watchin’
t’see who’s gwine to win de race.
Hee! hee! hee! Now you
mus’ raley ‘scuse me fu’ dis snickering,
But I jes can’t he’p
f’om laffin’ eveh time I tells dis thing.
Ez I wuz a-sayin’, me
an’ Sam wuked daily side by side,
He a-studyin’, me a-studyin’,
how to win Lize fu’ a bride.
Well, de race was kinder equal,
Lize wuz sorter on de fence;
Sam he had de mostes dollars,
an’ I had de mostes sense.
Things dey run along ‘bout
eben tel der come Big Meetin’ day;
Sam den thought, to win Miss
Liza, he had foun’ de shoest way.
An’ you talk about big
meetin’s! None been like it ’fore
nor sence;
Der wuz sich a crowd o’
people dat we had to put up tents.
Der wuz preachers f’om
de Eas’, an’ ‘der wuz preachers f’om
de Wes’;
Folks had kilt mos’
eveh chicken, an’ wuz fattenin’ up de res’.
Gals had all got new w’ite
dresses, an’ bought ribbens fu’ der hair,
Fixin’ fu’ de
openin’ Sunday, prayin’ dat de day’d
be fair.
Dat de Reveren’ Jasper
Jones of Mount Moriah, it wuz ’low’d,
Wuz to preach de openin’
sermon; so you know der wuz a crowd.
Fu’ dat man wuz sho
a preacher; had a voice jes like a bull;
So der ain’t no use
in sayin’ dat de meetin’ house wuz full.
Folks wuz der f’om Big
Pine Hollow, some come ’way f’om Muddy
Creek,
Some come jes to stay fu’
Sunday, but de crowd stay’d thoo de week.
Some come ridin’ in
top-buggies wid de w’eels all painted red,
Pulled by mules dat run like
rabbits, each one tryin’ to git ahead.
Othah po’rer folks come
drivin’ mules dat leaned up ‘ginst de shaf’,
Hitched to broke-down, creaky
wagons dat looked like dey’d drap in half.
But de bigges’ crowd
come walkin’, wid der new shoes on der backs;
’Scuse wuz dat dey couldn’t
weah em ‘cause de heels wuz full o’ tacks.
Fact is, it’s a job
for Job, a-trudgin’ in de sun an’ heat,
Down a long an’ dusty
clay road wid yo’ shoes packed full o’
feet.
‘Cose dey stopt an’
put dem shoes on w’en dey got mos’ to de
do’;
Den dey had to grin an’
bear it; dat tuk good religion sho.
But I mos’ forgot ma
story,—well at las’ dat Sunday came
And it seemed dat evehbody,
blin’ an’ deef, an’ halt an’
lame,
Wuz out in de grove a-waitin’
fu’ de meetin’ to begin;
Ef dat crowd had got converted
‘twould a been de end o’ sin.
Lize wuz der in all her glory,
purty ez a big sunflowah,
I kin ’member how she
looked jes same ez ’twuz dis ve’y houah.
But to make ma story shorter,
w’ile we wuz a-waitin’ der,
Down de road we spied a cloud
o’ dus’ dat filled up all de air.
An’ ez we kep’
on a-lookin’, out f’om ’mongst dat
ve’y cloud,
Sam, on Marse John’s
big mule, Caesar, rode right slam up in de crowd.
You jes oughtah seed dat darkey,
’clar I like tah loss ma bref;
Fu’ to use a common
’spression, he wuz ’bout nigh dressed to
def.
He had slipped to town dat
Sat’day, didn’t let nobody know,
An’ had car’yd
all his cash an’ lef it in de dry goods sto’.
He had on a bran’ new
suit o’ sto’-bought clo’es, a high
plug hat;
He looked ‘zactly like
a gen’man, tain’t no use d’nyin’
dat.
W’en he got down off
dat mule an’ bowed to Liza I could see
How she looked at him so ‘dmirin’,
an’ jes kinder glanced at me.
Den I know’d to win
dat gal, I sho would need some othah means
‘Sides a-hangin’
‘round big meetin’ in a suit o’ homespun
jeans.
W’en dey blow’d
de ho’n fu’ preachin’, an’
de crowd all went inside,
I jes felt ez doh I’d
like tah go off in de woods an’ hide.
So I stay’d outside
de meetin’, set’n underneat’ de trees,
Seemed to me I sot der ages,
wid ma elbows on ma knees.
W’en dey sung dat hymn,
“Nobody knows de trouble dat I see,”
Seem’d to me dat dey
wuz singin’ eveh word o’ it fu’ me.
Jes how long I might ha’
sot der, actin’ like a cussed fool,
I don’t know, but it
jes happen’d dat I look’d an’ saw
Sam’s mule.
An’ de thought come
slowly tricklin’ thoo ma brain right der an’
den,
Dat, perhaps, wid some persuasion,
I could make dat mule ma fren’.
An’ I jes kep’
on a-thinkin’, an’ I kep’ a-lookin’
‘roun’,
Tel I spied two great big
san’ spurs right close by me on de groun’.
Well, I took dem spurs an’
put em underneat’ o’ Caesar’s saddle,
So dey’d press down
in his backbone soon ez Sam had got a-straddle.
‘Twuz a pretty ticklish
job, an’ jes ez soon ez it wuz done,
I went back w’ere I
wuz set’n fu’ to wait an’ see de
fun.
Purty soon heah come de people,
jes a-swa’min’ out de do’,
Talkin’ ’bout
de “pow’ful sermon”—“nevah
heah’d de likes befo’.”
How de “monahs fell
convicted” jes de same ez lumps o’ lead,
How dat some wuz still a-layin’
same es if dey’d been struck dead.
An’ to rectly heah come
Liza, Sam a-strollin’ by her side,
An’ it seem’d
to me dat darky’s smile wuz ’bout twelve
inches wide.
Look to me like he had swelled
up to ’bout twice his natchul size,
An’ I heah’d him
say, “I’d like to be yo’ ’scort
to-night, Miss Lize.”
Den he made a bow jes like
he’s gwine to make a speech in school,
An’ walk’d jes
ez proud ez Marse John over to untie his mule,
W’en Sam’s foot
fust touched de stirrup he know’d der wuz sump’n
wrong;
‘Cuz de mule begin to
tremble an’ to sorter side along.
Wen Sam raised his weight
to mount him, Caesar bristled up his ear,
W’en Sam sot down in
de saddle, den dat mule cummenced to rear.
An’ he reared an’
pitched an’ caper’d, only ez a mule kin
pitch,
Tel he flung Sam clean f’om
off him, landed him squar’ in a ditch.
Wen dat darky riz, well raly,
I felt kinder bad fu’ him;
He had bust dem cheap sto’
britches f’om de center to de rim.
All de plug hat dat wuz lef’
him wuz de brim aroun’ his neck,
Smear’d wid mud f’om
top to bottom, well, he wuz a sight, I ’speck.
Wuz de folks a-laffin’?
Well, su’, I jes sholy thought dey’d bus’;
Wuz Sam laffin’?
‘Twuz de fus’ time dat I evah heah’d
him cuss.
W’ile Sam slink’d
off thoo de backwoods I walk’d slowly home wid
Lize,
W’en I axed her jes
one question der wuz sump’n in her eyes
Made me know der wuz no need
o’ any answer bein’ said,
An’ I felt jes like
de whole world wuz a-spinnin’ ‘roun’
ma head.
So I said, “Lize, w’en
we marry, mus’ I weah some sto’-bought
clo’es?”
She says, “Jeans is
good enough fu’ any po’ folks, heaben knows!”
If homely virtues draw from me a tune In happy jingle or a half-sad croon; Or if the smoldering future should inspire My hand to strike the seer’s prophetic lyre; Or if injustice, brutishness and wrong Should make a blasting trumpet of my song; O God, give beauty and strength—truth to my words, Oh, may they fall like sweetly cadenced chords, Or burn like beacon fires from out the dark, Or speed like arrows, swift and sure, to the mark.