Gray are the pages of record,
    Dim are the volumes of eld;
  Else had old Delaware told us
    More that her history held. 
  Told us with pride in the story,
    Honest and noble and fine,
  More of the tale of my hero,
    Black Samson of Brandywine.

  Sing of your chiefs and your nobles,
    Saxon and Celt and Gaul,
  Breath of mine ever shall join you,
    Highly I honor them all. 
  Give to them all of their glory,
    But for this noble of mine,
  Lend him a tithe of your tribute,
    Black Samson of Brandywine.

  There in the heat of the battle,
    There in the stir of the fight,
  Loomed he, an ebony giant,
    Black as the pinions of night. 
  Swinging his scythe like a mower
    Over a field of grain,
  Needless the care of the gleaners,
    Where he had passed amain.

  Straight through the human harvest,
    Cutting a bloody swath,
  Woe to you, soldier of Briton! 
    Death is abroad in his path. 
  Flee from the scythe of the reaper,
    Flee while the moment is thine,
  None may with safety withstand him,
    Black Samson of Brandywine.

  Was he a freeman or bondman? 
    Was he a man or a thing? 
  What does it matter?  His brav’ry
    Renders him royal—­a king. 
  If he was only a chattel,
    Honor the ransom may pay
  Of the royal, the loyal black giant
    Who fought for his country that day.

  Noble and bright is the story,
    Worthy the touch of the lyre,
  Sculptor or poet should find it
    Full of the stuff to inspire. 
  Beat it in brass and in copper,
    Tell it in storied line,
  So that the world may remember
    Black Samson of Brandywine.

THE LOOKING-GLASS

  Dinah stan’ befo’ de glass,
    Lookin’ moughty neat,
  An’ huh purty shadder sass
    At huh haid an’ feet. 
  While she sasshay ‘roun’ an’ bow,
  Smilin’ den an’ poutin’ now,
  An’ de lookin’-glass, I ’low,
    Say:  “Now, ain’t she sweet?”

  All she do, de glass it see,
    Hit des see, no mo’,
  Seems to me, hit ought to be
    Drappin’ on de flo’. 
  She go w’en huh time git slack,
  Kissin’ han’s an’ smilin’ back,
  Lawsy, how my lips go smack,
    Watchin’ at de do’.

  Wisht I was huh lookin’-glass,
    Wen she kissed huh han’;
  Does you t’ink I ’d let it pass,
    Settin’ on de stan’? 
  No; I’d des’ fall down an’ break,
  Kin’ o’ glad ‘t uz fu’ huh sake;
  But de diffunce, dat whut make
    Lookin’-glass an’ man.

A MISTY DAY

  Heart of my heart, the day is chill,
  The mist hangs low o’er the wooded hill,
  The soft white mist and the heavy cloud
  The sun and the face of heaven shroud. 
  The birds are thick in the dripping trees,
  That drop their pearls to the beggar breeze;
  No songs are rife where songs are wont,
  Each singer crouches in his haunt.