Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told him: Work and Rise. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one told how some one said another did—one whom he had never seen nor known. Yet for that man's crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil. Hear us, O Heavenly Father!

Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever and forever! Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!

Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: What meaneth this? Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign! Keep not thou silence, O God!

Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing? Ah! Christ of all the Pities!

Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art still the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul's soul sit some soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.

But whisper—speak—call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path.

Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and without, the liar. Whither? To death? Amen! Welcome dark sleep!

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape. Selah!

In yonder East trembles a star. Vengeance is mine; I mill repay, saith the Lord!

Thy will, O Lord, be done! Kyrie Eleison!

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little children. We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

Our voices sink in silence and in night. Hear us, good Lord!

In night, O God of a godless land! Amen!

In silence, O Silent God. Selah!



George Marion McClellan

DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS

To dreamy languors and the violet mist Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale Of Summer promises and tender green, Of a new life and beauty yet unseen. The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, Where dying winds of March their branches swing, While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, A hand invisible leads on the Spring.

His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups, Where to the warm and passing southern winds, Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups. Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, The fields will spread with every brilliant hue. But high o'er all the early floral train, Where softness all the arching sky resumes, The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms.

A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH

What dost thou here, thou shining, sinless thing, With many colored hues and shapely wing? Why quit the open field and summer air To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer.

'Tis meet that we, who this great structure built, Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, For we this gilded edifice within Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin.

But thou art free from guilt as God on high; Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, And leave us here our secret woes to bear, Confessionals and agonies of prayer.

THE HILLS OF SEWANEE

Sewanee Hills of dear delight, Prompting my dreams that used to be, I know you are waiting me still to-night By the Unika Range of Tennessee.

The blinking stars in endless space, The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, To-night caress your wind-swept face, And fold you in a thousand dreams.

Your far outlines, less seen than felt, Which wind with hill propensities, In moonlight dreams I see you melt Away in vague immensities.

And, far away, I still can feel Your mystery that ever speaks Of vanished things, as shadows steal Across your breast and rugged peaks.

O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, And wait so patiently down there, Your peace takes hold upon my heart And makes its burden less to bear.

THE FEET OF JUDAS

Christ washed the feet of Judas! The dark and evil passions of his soul, His secret plot, and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.

Christ washed the feet of Judas! Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, His bargain with the priest, and more than this, In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.

Christ washed the feet of Judas! And so ineffable his love 'twas meet, That pity fill his great forgiving heart, And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.

Christ washed the feet of Judas! And thus a girded servant, self-abased, Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.

And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: Christ washed the feet of Judas.



William Stanley Braithwaite

SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE

Sandy Star and Willie Gee, Count 'em two, you make 'em three: Pluck the man and boy apart And you'll see into my heart.

SANDY STAR

I

Sculptured Worship

The zones of warmth around his heart, No alien airs had crossed; But he awoke one morn to feel The magic numbness of autumnal frost.

His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, And tangled emotions, vague and dim; And sacrificing what he loved He lost the dearest part of him.

In sculptured worship now he lives, His one desire a prisoned ache; If he can never melt again His very heart will break.

II

Laughing It Out

He had a whim and laughed it out Upon the exit of a chance; He floundered in a sea of doubt— If life was real—or just romance.

Sometimes upon his brow would come A little pucker of defiance; He totalled in a word the sum Of all man made of facts and science.

And then a hearty laugh would break, A reassuring shrug of shoulder; And we would from his fancy take A faith in death which made life bolder.

III

Exit

No, his exit by the gate Will not leave the wind ajar; He will go when it is late With a misty star.

One will call, he cannot see; One will call, he will not hear; He will take no company Nor a hope or fear.

We shall smile who loved him so— They who gave him hate will weep; But for us the winds will blow Pulsing through his sleep.

IV

The Way

He could not tell the way he came, Because his chart was lost: Yet all his way was paved with flame From the bourne he crossed.

He did not know the way to go, Because he had no map: He followed where the winds blow,— And the April sap.

He never knew upon his brow The secret that he bore,— And laughs away the mystery now The dark's at his door.

V

Onus Probandi

No more from out the sunset, No more across the foam, No more across the windy hills Will Sandy Star come home.

He went away to search it With a curse upon his tongue: And in his hand the staff of life, Made music as it swung.

I wonder if he found it, And knows the mystery now— Our Sandy Star who went away, With the secret on his brow.

DEL CASCAR

Del Cascar, Del Cascar, Stood upon a flaming star, Stood, and let his feet hang down Till in China the toes turned brown.

And he reached his fingers over The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, And caught a Mandarin at prayer, And tickled his nose in Orion's hair.

The sun went down through crimson bars, And left his blind face battered with stars— But the brown toes in China kept Hot the tears Del Cascar wept.

TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES

Turn me to my yellow leaves, I am better satisfied; There is something in me grieves— That was never born, and died. Let me be a scarlet flame On a windy autumn morn, I who never had a name, Nor from breathing image born. From the margin let me fall Where the farthest stars sink down, And the void consumes me,—all In nothingness to drown. Let me dream my dream entire, Withered as an autumn leaf— Let me have my vain desire, Vain—as it is brief.

IRONIC: LL.D.

There are no hollows any more Between the mountains; the prairie floor Is like a curtain with the drape Of the winds' invisible shape; And nowhere seen and nowhere heard The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird.

Now we're traveling, what holds back Arrival, in the very track Where the urge put forth; so we stay And move a thousand miles a day. Time's a Fancy ringing bells Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells!

SCINTILLA

I kissed a kiss in youth Upon a dead man's brow; And that was long ago,— And I'm a grown man now.

It's lain there in the dust, Thirty years and more;— My lips that set a light At a dead man's door.

SIC VITA

Heart free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder. Sun shine, moon shine, Stars, and winds a-blowing, All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing!

Mind free, step free, Days to follow after, Joys of life sold to me For the price of laughter. Girl's love, man's love, Love of work and duty, Just a will of God's to prove Beauty, beauty, beauty!

RHAPSODY

I am glad daylong for the gift of song, For time and change and sorrow; For the sunset wings and the world-end things Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. I am glad for my heart whose gates apart Are the entrance-place of wonders, Where dreams come in from the rush and din Like sheep from the rains and thunders.



George Reginald Margetson

STANZAS FROM THE FLEDGLING BARD AND THE POETRY SOCIETY

Part I

I'm out to find the new, the modern school, Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, To write the stuff the editors would buy; It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,— Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown And build up one instead decked with a new renown.

A thought is haunting me by night and day, And in some safe archive I seek to lay it; I have some startling thing I wish to say, And they can put me wise just how to say it. Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense.

Will some kind one direct me to that college Where every budding genius now is headed, The only source to gain poetic knowledge, Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded,— The factory where they shape new feet and meters That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters.

* * * * *

I hope I'll be an eligible student, E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,— A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance Who thinks that he can make the muses dance By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, To win some fool's applause and please his own desire.

Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect That I am not a true, a genuine poet; If in the poet's colors I am decked They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it. I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it, But be content to gaze with open mind; I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind.

* * * * *

Part II

I have a problem all alone to solve, A problem how to find the poetry club, It makes my sky piece like a top revolve, For fear that they might mark me for a snob. They'll call me poetry monger and then dub Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose, Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse.

Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, In which he sang of all his lovely dears, Called forth hot condemnation and cold look, From lesser mortals who were not his peers. They chided him for telling his affairs, Because they could not tell their own so well, They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell.

They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight, And all because he dared to tell the truth, Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,— A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; Because he blended human with divine, They branded him "the bard of women and of wine."

Of course I soak the booze once in a while, But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it; I love the girls, they win me with a smile, But no one knows, for I won't write about it. And so the fools may never think to doubt it, When I declare I am a moral man, As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan.

* * * * *

Every man has got a hobby, Every poet has some fault, Every sweet contains its bitter, Every fresh thing has its salt.

Every mountain has a valley, Every valley has a hill, Every ravine is a river, Every river is a rill.

Every fool has got some wisdom, Every wise man is a fool, Every scholar is a block-head, Every dunce has been to school.

Every bad man is a good man, Every fat man is not stout, Every good man is a bad man But 'tis hard to find him out.

Every strong man is a weak man, You may doubt it as you please, Every well man is a sick man, Every doctor has disease.



James Weldon Johnson

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.

SENCE YOU WENT AWAY

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 es 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.

THE CREATION

(A Negro Sermon)

And God stepped out on space, And He looked around and said, "I'm lonely— I'll make me a world."

And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said, "That's good!"

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, And God rolled the light around in His hands Until He made the sun; And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said, "That's good!"

Then God himself stepped down— And the sun was on His right hand, And the moon was on His left; The stars were clustered about His head, And the earth was under His feet. And God walked, and where He trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And He spat out the seven seas; He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand Over the sea and over the land, And He said, "Bring forth! Bring forth!" And quicker than God could drop His hand, Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said, "That's good!"

Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that He had made. He looked at His sun, And He looked at His moon, 'And He looked at His little stars; He looked on His world With all its living things, And God said, "I'm lonely still."

Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think; By a deep, wide river He sat down; With His head in His hands, God thought and thought, Till He thought, "I'll make me a man!"

Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled Him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

THE WHITE WITCH

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 snaggle-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.

O SOUTHLAND!

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.

BROTHERS

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"?

FIFTY YEARS (1863-1913)

On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.

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.

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 we have 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 dazed; 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.



John Wesley Holloway

MISS MELERLEE

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! Oh, you're pretty sight to see! Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face, An' willowy form chuck full o' grace— De sweetes' gal Ah evah see, An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! You're de berry gal fo' me! Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, An' silky arm so plump an' bare! Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes, An' de way Ah love you,—goodness knows! Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! Ah nevah seed yo' face befo' An' lakly won't again no mo'; But yo' sweet smile will follow me Cla'r into eternity! Farewell, Miss Melerlee!

CALLING THE DOCTOR

Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick! Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, Don't,—Ah'll die!

Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f; Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f; Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do, An' so Ah sent fo' you.

"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: Firs',—horhound drops an' catnip tea; Den rock candy soaked in rum, An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum; Next Ah tried was castor oil, An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil; Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood; But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. Den when home remedies seem to shirk, Dem pantry bottles was put to work:

Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, "Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," Ready Relief, an' A.B.C., An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z. An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, Dey nevah done no good at all.

Mah appetite begun to fail; 'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always said When yo' can't eat you're almost dead.

So Ah got scared an' sent for you.— Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, Don't,—Ah'll die!

THE CORN SONG

Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,— Lis'n to 'im now!— Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin', at his plow! In de early mornin', Thoo de hazy air, Loud an' clear, sweet an' strong Comes de music rare:

"O mah dovee, Who-ah! Do you love me? Who-ah! Who-ah!" An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; "Whoa! Har! Come'ere!"

Don't yo' love a co'n song? How it stirs yo' blood! Ever'body list'nin', In de neighborhood! Standin' in yo' front do' In de misty mo'n, Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin' in de co'n:

"O Miss Julie, Who-ah! Love me truly, Who-ah! Who-ah!" Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!"

O you jolly black boy, Yod'lin' in de co'n, Callin' to yo' dawlin', In de dewy mo'n, Love 'er, boy, forevah, Yodel ever' day; Only le' me lis'n, As yo' sing away:

"O mah dawlin'! Who-ah! Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! Who-ah!" Tu'n aroun' anothah row, Holler to yo' mule so: "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!"

BLACK MAMMIES

If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,— Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,— Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy.

You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, An' dey'll all be black an' homely,—'less de Virgin Mary's one.

Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'.

If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere.

She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down.

She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God!

She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word," Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd," If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out;

But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',— Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'!



Leslie Pinckney Hill

TUSKEGEE

Wherefore this busy labor without rest? Is it an idle dream to which we cling, Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best. By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, And so the thought is wedded to the thing; But what shall be the end, and what the test? Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see Not many steps ahead, but this we know— If all our toilsome building is in vain, Availing not to set our manhood free, If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, The South will wear eternally a stain.

CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE

Come home with me a little space And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer. These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design. Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you. We'll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree. Eleanor, leader of the fold, Hermione with heart of gold, Elaine with comprehending eyes, And two more yet of coddling size, Natalie pondering all that's said, And Mary with the cherub head— All these shall give you sweet content And care-destroying merriment, While one with true madonna grace Moves round the glowing fire-place Where father loves to muse aside And grandma sits in silent pride. And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pass the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake. Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King, Or hear great Milton's organ verse Or Plato's dialogue rehearse What Socrates with his last breath Sublimely said of life and death. These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere, And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart.

SUMMER MAGIC

So many cares to vex the day, So many fears to haunt the night, My heart was all but weaned away From every lure of old delight. Then summer came, announced by June, With beauty, miracle and mirth. She hung aloft the rounding moon, She poured her sunshine on the earth, She drove the sap and broke the bud, She set the crimson rose afire. She stirred again my sullen blood, And waked in me a new desire. Before my cottage door she spread The softest carpet nature weaves, And deftly arched above my head A canopy of shady leaves. Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, Her days were bowers rife with song, And many a scheme did she devise To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong. For on the hill or in the dell, Or where the brook went leaping by Or where the fields would surge and swell With golden wheat or bearded rye, I felt her heart against my own, I breathed the sweetness of her breath, Till all the cark of time had flown, And I was lord of life and death.

THE TEACHER

Lord, who am I to teach the way To little children day by day, So prone myself to go astray?

I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know How faint they flicker and how low The candles of my knowledge glow.

I teach them POWER to will and do, But only now to learn anew My own great weakness through and through.

I teach them LOVE for all mankind And all God's creatures, but I find My love comes lagging far behind.

Lord, if their guide I still must be, Oh let the little children see The teacher leaning hard on Thee.



Edward Smyth Jones

A SONG OF THANKS

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, For her coffers filled with their countless worth, For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, For the rippling streams which turn the mills, For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, For the songs of gladness on the gale,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, For the bounty which the rich soil yields, For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, For the sun which ripens the golden grains, For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine, For the tubers large and cotton white, For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, For the swan which floats near the river-banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, For the plum and the peach and the apple red, For the dear old press where the wine is tread, For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, For the game which hide in the shady nooks,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines, For the silver ores of a thousand fold, For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, For the river boat and the flying train, For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, For the peace and plenty together share, For the Hand which guides us from above, For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, For the blessed home with its children gay, For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!



Ray G. Dandridge

TIME TO DIE

Black brother, think you life so sweet That you would live at any price? Does mere existence balance with The weight of your great sacrifice? Or can it be you fear the grave Enough to live and die a slave? O Brother! be it better said, When you are gone and tears are shed, That your death was the stepping stone Your children's children cross'd upon. Men have died that men might live: Look every foeman in the eye! If necessary, your life give For something, ere in vain you die.

'ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD

(To R. V.P.)

Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, Truint Angel, wifout wings, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, Bekaze I foul de time an' key, Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head?

O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, Is sho a God gib natchel prize, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, Jes to roun' you out, complete, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, Knows yore evah A, B, C, Plum on down to X, Y, Z, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

De man doan know how much he miss, Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head!

I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, (By charm or craf'—doan mattah how) You stay jes lak you is right now, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

ZALKA PEETRUZA

(Who Was Christened Lucy Jane)

She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, With swaying arms and flying feet, 'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, Her all was dancing—save her face.

A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; A body, marshalled by the will, Kept dancing while a heart stood still:

And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, Looked over heads to empty air, As though they sought to find therein Redemption for a maiden sin.

'Twas thus, amid force driven grace, We found the lost look on her face; And then, to us, did it occur That, though we saw—we saw not her.

SPRIN' FEVAH

Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, Dough de task et han' is easy, An' de day am fair an' breezy, Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'.

Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, Kaze it jes won't be denied; Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; Doctahs fail to analyze it; So I yiel's (dough I despise it) To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'.

DE DRUM MAJAH

He's struttin' sho ernuff, Wearin' a lady's muff En' ways erpon his head, Red coat ob reddest red, Purtty white satin ves', Gole braid ercross de ches'; Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, Prancin' out dar in frunt, Leadin' his ban'.

Wen dat ah whistle blows, Each man behine him knows 'Zacklee whut he mus' do; You bet! he dues it, too. W'en dat brass stick he twirls, Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls Looks on wid longin' eyes, Dey simpley idolize Dat han'sum man.

Sweet fife an' piccalo, Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' Slide ho'n an' saxophones, Jazz syncopated tones, Snare drum an' lead cornet, Alto an' clarinet, Las', but not least, dar cum Cymbals an' big bass drum— O! whut a ban'!

Cose, we all undahstan' Each piece he'ps maik de ban', But dey all mus' be led, Sum one mus' be de head: No doubt, de centipede Has all de laigs he need, But take erway de head, Po' centipede am dead; So am de ban'.



Fenton Johnson

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

We are children of the sun, Rising sun! Weaving Southern destiny, Waiting for the mighty hour When our Shiloh shall appear With the flaming sword of right, With the steel of brotherhood, And emboss in crimson die Liberty! Fraternity!

We are the star-dust folk, Striving folk! Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; Seething passions wrought through wrongs, Led us where the moon rays dip In the night of dull despair, Showed us where the star gleams shine, And the mystic symbols glow— Liberty! Fraternity!

We have come through cloud and mist, Mighty men! Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, Reared for us a mystic throne In the splendor of the skies, That shall always be for us, Children of the Nazarene, Children who shall ever sing Liberty! Fraternity!

THE NEW DAY

From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was drowned by the happy shouting of the people. From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant from the throats of white-robed angels:

Blow your trumpets, little children! From the East and from the West, From the cities in the valley, From God's dwelling on the mountain, Blow your blast that Peace might know She is Queen of God's great army. With the crying blood of millions We have written deep her name In the Book of all the Ages; With the lilies in the valley, With the roses by the Mersey, With the golden flower of Jersey We have crowned her smooth young temples. Where her footsteps cease to falter Golden grain will greet the morning, Where her chariot descends Shall be broken down the altars Of the gods of dark disturbance. Nevermore shall men know suffering, Nevermore shall women wailing Shake to grief the God of Heaven. From the East and from the West, From the cities in the valley, From God's dwelling on the mountain, Little children, blow your trumpets!

From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I heard the music of the old slave songs. I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the crimson in my veins leapt furiously.

Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought In No Man's Land that peace might come again! Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave Red blood to save the freedom of the world! We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. So when the bugle blast had called us forth We went not like the surly brute of yore But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world The freedom that we never knew nor shared. These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down As Samson in the temple of the gods; Unloosen them and let us breathe the air That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself; And now we ask of thee our liberty, Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.

I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land.

TIRED

I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's civilization.

Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane.

I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike's barrels.

You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit.

You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon.

Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored.

Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars marked my destiny.

I am tired of civilization.

THE BANJO PLAYER

There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field. At the Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets in March; there is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.

But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour?

THE SCARLET WOMAN

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.

My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.

I had nothing, so I had to go to work.

All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.

Starvation danced with me.

So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.

Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.

Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.



R. Nathaniel Dett

THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE

Staccato! Staccato! Leggier agitato! In and out does the melody twist— Unique proposition Is this composition. (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) Now in the dominant Theme ringing prominent, Bass still repeating its one monotone, Double notes crying, Up keyboard go flying, The change to the minor comes in like a groan. Without a cessation A chaste modulation Hastens adown to subdominant key, Where melody mellow-like Singing so 'cello-like Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. Scarce is this finished When chords all diminished Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, A pedal-point wonder Rivaling thunder. Now all is mad agitation again. Like laughter jolly Begins the finale; Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end!



Georgia Douglas Johnson

THE HEART OF A WOMAN

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.

The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

YOUTH

The dew is on the grasses, dear, The blush is on the rose, And swift across our dial-youth, A shifting shadow goes.

The primrose moments, lush with bliss, Exhale and fade away, Life may renew the Autumn time, But nevermore the May!

LOST ILLUSIONS

Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, Why did I stray from their shelter and grow Into the sadness that follows—to know!

Impotent atom with desolate gaze Threading the tumult of hazardous ways— Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth!

I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME

I want to die while you love me, While yet you hold me fair, While laughter lies upon my lips And lights are in my hair.

I want to die while you love me, And bear to that still bed, Your kisses turbulent, unspent To warm me when I'm dead.

I want to die while you love me Oh, who would care to live Till love has nothing more to ask And nothing more to give!

I want to die while you love me And never, never see The glory of this perfect day Grow dim or cease to be.

WELT

Would I might mend the fabric of my youth That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, Would I might compromise awhile with truth Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.

For I would go a further while with you, And drain this cup so tantalant and fair Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew, Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair!

MY LITTLE DREAMS

I'm folding up my little dreams Within my heart to-night, And praying I may soon forget The torture of their sight.

For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow With fell relentless art— I'm folding up my little dreams To-night, within my heart!



Claude McKay

THE LYNCHING

His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. His father, by the crudest way of pain, Had bidden him to his bosom once again; The awful sin remained still unforgiven. All night a bright and solitary star (Perchance the one that ever guided him, Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view The ghastly body swaying in the sun: The women thronged to look, but never a one Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; And little lads, lynchers that were to be, Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.

IF WE MUST DIE

If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but—fighting back!

TO THE WHITE FIENDS

Think you I am not fiend and savage too? Think you I could not arm me with a gun And shoot down ten of you for every one Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? Be not deceived, for every deed you do I could match—out-match: am I not Africa's son, Black of that black land where black deeds are done?

But the Almighty from the darkness drew My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light Awhile to burn on the benighted earth, Thy dusky face I set among the white For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; Before the world is swallowed up in night, To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth!

THE HARLEM DANCER

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes Blown by black players upon a picnic day. She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, The light gauze hanging loose about her form; To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; But, looking at her falsely-smiling face I knew her self was not in that strange place.

HARLEM SHADOWS

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass Eager to heed desire's insistent call: Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street.

Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest, Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.

Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street.

AFTER THE WINTER

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, And against the morning's white The shivering birds beneath the eaves Have sheltered for the night, We'll turn our faces southward, love, Toward the summer isle Where bamboos spire the shafted grove And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill Where towers the cotton tree, And leaps the laughing crystal rill, And works the droning bee. And we will build a lonely nest Beside an open glade, And there forever will we rest, O love—O nut-brown maid!

SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

Too green the springing April grass, Too blue the silver speckled sky, For me to linger here, alas, While happy winds go laughing by, Wasting the golden hours indoors, Washing windows and scrubbing floors.

Too wonderful the April night, Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, The stars too gloriously bright, For me to spend the evening hours, When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.

THE TIRED WORKER

O whisper, O my soul!—the afternoon Is waning into evening—whisper soft! Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon From out its misty veil will swing aloft! Be patient, weary body, soon the night Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! Weary my veins, my brain, my life,—have pity! No! Once again the hard, the ugly city.

THE BARRIER

I must not gaze at them although Your eyes are dawning day; I must not watch you as you go Your sun-illumined way;

I hear but I must never heed The fascinating note, Which, fluting like a river-reed, Comes from your trembling throat;

I must not see upon your face Love's softly glowing spark; For there's the barrier of race, You're fair and I am dark.

TO O. E. A.

Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, And there's a sweet sob in it like rain—still rain in the night. Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold, Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the eucharis Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss, You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness, Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth, All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your birth: O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong, But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with flesh, Forever, life-long.

FLAME-HEART

So much have I forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years; I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; Forgotten is the special, startling season Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting, What time of year the ground doves brown the fields And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

I still recall the honey-fever grass, But I cannot bring back to mind just when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow bye road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments, when we played, All innocent of passion uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade: We were so happy, happy,—I remember Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.

TWO-AN'-SIX

Merry voices chatterin', Nimble feet dem patterin', Big an' little, faces gay, Happy day dis market day.

Sateday, de marnin' break, Soon, soon market-people wake; An' de light shine from de moon While dem boy, wid pantaloon Roll up ober dem knee-pan, 'Tep across de buccra lan' To de pastur whe' de harse Feed along wid de jackass, An' de mule cant' in de track Wid him tail up in him back, All de ketchin' to defy, No ca' how dem boy might try.

In de early marnin'-tide, When de cocks crow on de hill An' de stars are shinin' still, Mirrie by de fireside Hots de coffee for de lads Comin' ridin' on de pads T'rown across dem animul— Donkey, harse too, an' de mule, Which at last had come do'n cool. On de bit dem hol' dem full: Racin' ober pastur' lan', See dem comin' ebery man, Comin' fe de steamin' tea Ober hilly track an' lea.

Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road Trottin' wid him ushal load, Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane.

Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, Drivin' 'long de market way; Whole week grindin' sugar cane T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain, Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, He goes seekin' his reward, While he's thinkin' in him min' Of de dear ones lef behin', Of de loved though ailin' wife, Darlin' treasure of his life, An' de picknies, six in all, Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall: Seben lovin' ones in need, Seben hungry mouths fe feed; On deir wants he thinks alone, Neber dreamin' of his own, But gwin' on wid joyful face Till him re'ch de market-place.

Sugar bears no price to-day, Though it is de mont' o' May, When de time is hellish hot, An' de water cocoanut An' de cane bebridge is nice, Mix' up wid a lilly ice. Big an' little, great an' small, Afou yam is all de call; Sugar tup an' gill a quart, Yet de people hab de heart Wantin' brater top o' i', Want de sweatin' higgler fe Ram de pan an' pile i' up, Yet sell i' fe so-so tup.

Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, As de market is so bad; 'Pon him han' him res' him chin, Quietly sit do'n thinkin' Of de loved wife sick in bed, An' de children to be fed— What de laborers would say When dem know him couldn' pay; Also what about de mill Whe' him hire from ole Bill; So him think, an' think on so, Till him t'oughts no more could go.

Then he got up an' began Pickin' up him sugar-pan: In his ears rang t'rough de din "Only two-an'-six a tin'." What a tale he'd got to tell, How bad, bad de sugar sell! Tekin' out de lee amount, Him set do'n an' begin count All de time him min' deh doubt How expenses would pay out; Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, Sugar sell fe two-an'-six!

So he journeys on de way, Feelinl sad dis market day; No e'en buy a little cake To gi'e baby when she wake,— Passin' 'long de candy-shop 'Douten eben mek a stop To buy drops fe las'y son, For de lilly cash nea' done. So him re'ch him own a groun', An' de children scamper roun', Each one stretchin' out him han', Lookin' to de poor sad man.

Oh, how much he felt de blow, As he watched dem face fall low, When dem wait an' nuttin' came An' drew back deir han's wid shame! But de sick wife kissed his brow: "Sun, don't get down-hearted now; Ef we only pay expense We mus' wuk we common-sense, Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; We mus' try mek two ends meet Neber mind how hard be it. We won't mind de haul an' pull, While dem pickny belly full."

An' de shadow lef' him face, An' him felt an inward peace, As he blessed his better part For her sweet an' gentle heart: "Dear one o' my heart, my breat', Won't I lub you to de deat'? When my heart is weak an' sad, Who but you can mek it glad?"

So dey kissed an' kissed again, An' deir t'oughts were not on pain, But was 'way down in de sout' Where dey'd wedded in deir yout', In de marnin' of deir life Free from all de grief an' strife, Happy in de marnin' light, Never thinkin' of de night.

So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; An' de profit it could bring, A'ter all de business fix', Was a princely two-an'-six.



Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.

A PRAYER

As I lie in bed, Flat on my back; There passes across my ceiling An endless panorama of things— Quick steps of gay-voiced children, Adolescence in its wondering silences, Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, Old men gazing silently thru the twilight Into the beyond. O God, give me words to make my dream-children live.

AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?

Brother, come! And let us go unto our God. And when we stand before Him I shall say— "Lord, I do not hate, I am hated. I scourge no one, I am scourged. I covet no lands, My lands are coveted. I mock no peoples, My people are mocked." And, brother, what shall you say?

IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK?

Why do men smile when I speak, And call my speech The whimperings of a babe That cries but knows not what it wants? Is it because I am black?

Why do men sneer when I arise And stand in their councils, And look them eye to eye, And speak their tongue? Is it because I am black?

THE BAND OF GIDEON

The band of Gideon roam the sky, The howling wind is their war-cry, The thunder's roll is their trump's peal, And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

And men below rear temples high And mock their God with reasons why, And live in arrogance, sin and shame, And rape their souls for the world's good name. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

The band of Gideon roam the sky And view the earth with baleful eye; In holy wrath they scourge the land With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, And "Lord have mercy on my soul," Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, In agony searching for their God. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

And men repent and then forget That heavenly wrath they ever met, The band of Gideon yet will come And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

RAIN MUSIC

On the dusty earth-drum Beats the falling rain; Now a whispered murmur, Now a louder strain.

Slender, silvery drumsticks, On an ancient drum, Beat the mellow music Bidding life to come.

Chords of earth awakened, Notes of greening spring, Rise and fall triumphant Over every thing.

Slender, silvery drumsticks Beat the long tattoo— God, the Great Musician, Calling life anew.

SUPPLICATION

I am so tired and weary, So tired of the endless fight, So weary of waiting the dawn And finding endless night.

That I ask but rest and quiet— Rest for days that are gone, And quiet for the little space That I must journey on.



Roscoe C. Jamison

THE NEGRO SOLDIERS

These truly are the Brave, These men who cast aside Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide That moves away, to suffer and to die For Freedom—when their own is yet denied! O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified!

These truly are the Free, These souls that grandly rise Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, Who march to war with visions in their eyes Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, Aforetime, while they front the firing line. Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, That those who mock might find a better way!



Jessie Fauset

LA VIE C'EST LA VIE

On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park, And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk And chaffer in the grassy lane; And all the while I mark your voice Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give Her chance of heaven to take my place; To see the love-light in your eyes, The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word Can set my chilly blood afire; Fulfilment of his least behest Defines my life's desire.

But he will none of me, Nor I Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said The world is full of jests like these.— I wish that I were dead.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE

Oh little Christ, why do you sigh As you look down to-night On breathless France, on bleeding France, And all her dreadful plight? What bows your childish head so low? What turns your cheek so white?

Oh little Christ, why do you moan, What is it that you see In mourning France, in martyred France, And her great agony? Does she recall your own dark day, Your own Gethsemane?

Oh little Christ, why do you weep, Why flow your tears so sore For pleading France, for praying France, A suppliant at God's door? "God sweetened not my cup," you say, "Shall He for France do more?"

Oh little Christ, what can this mean, Why must this horror be For fainting France, for faithful France, And her sweet chivalry? "I bled to free all men," you say "France bleeds to keep men free."

Oh little, lovely Christ—you smile! What guerdon is in store For gallant France, for glorious France, And all her valiant corps? "Behold I live, and France, like me, Shall live for evermore."

DEAD FIRES

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. Better the wound forever seeking balm Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath Than passion's death!

ORIFLAMME

"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'"—Sojourner Truth.

I think I see her sitting bowed and black, Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet Still looking at the stars.

Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, Still visioning the stars!

OBLIVION

From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie In some deserted grave—I cannot tell you why, But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.

There lying I should taste with my dead breath The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state.

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless Oblivion—the shroud and envelope of happiness.



Anne Spencer

BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN

Garden of Shushan! After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind— Slave, send Vashti to her King!

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame The marbled towers of Shushan: So at each day's wane, two peers—the one in Heaven, the other on earth—welcome with their Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.

Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee Finding glory for mine head,—still, nearly shamed Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; Then—Sharon's Rose in my arms.

And I am hard to force the petals wide; And you are fast to suffer and be sad. Is any prophet come to teach a new thing Now in a more apt time? Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; How to the altar may not come to break and drink, Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit!

I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. No woman in all Persia sets out strange action To confuse Persia's lord— Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; I, thy King, so say!

AT THE CARNIVAL

Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, I desire a name for you, Nice, as a right glove fits; For you—who amid the malodorous Mechanics of this unlovely thing, Are darling of spirit and form. I know you—a glance, and what you are Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. My Limousine-Lady knows you, or Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. The bull-necked man knows you—this first time His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health And thinks not of his avocation. I came incuriously— Set on no diversion save that my mind Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds In the presence of a blind crowd. The color of life was gray. Everywhere the setting seemed right For my mood. Here the sausage and garlic booth Sent unholy incense skyward; There a quivering female-thing Gestured assignations, and lied To call it dancing; There, too, were games of chance With chances for none; But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free The gaze you send the crowd, As though you know the dearth of beauty In its sordid life. We need you—my Limousine-Lady, The bull-necked man and I. Seeing you here brave and water-clean, Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, I am swift to feel that what makes The plodder glad is good; and Whatever is good is God. The wonder is that you are here; I have seen the queer in queer places, But never before a heaven-fed Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! Little Diver, Destiny for you, Like as for me, is shod in silence; Years may seep into your soul The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!

THE WIFE-WOMAN

Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things From earth to star; Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and Over the border the bar. Though rank and fierce the mariner Sailing the seven seas, He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, Coaxing the Pleiades.

I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave. These seven links the Law compelled For the human chain— I cannot love them; and you, oh, Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!

A jungle there, a cave here, bred six And a million years, Sure and strong, mate for mate, such Love as culture fears; I gave you clear the oil and wine; You saved me your hob and hearth— See how even life may be ere the Sickle comes and leaves a swath.

But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share— So long but outlives a smile and A silken gown; Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, And you, glory-clad, reach down.

TRANSLATION

We trekked into a far country, My friend and I. Our deeper content was never spoken, But each knew all the other said. He told me how calm his soul was laid By the lack of anvil and strife. "The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note To please the harmony of this sweet silence." And when at the day's end We laid tired bodies 'gainst The loose warm sands, And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; When star after star came out To guard their lovers in oblivion— My soul so leapt that my evening prayer Stole my morning song!

DUNBAR

Ah, how poets sing and die! Make one song and Heaven takes it; Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I— Ah, how poets sing and die!



Alex Rogers

WHY ADAM SINNED

"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night 'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, 'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made Adam sin:

Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her knee An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him Things he ought to see. I knows down in my heart—he'd-a let dat apple be But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my.

He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin An' she'd a come an' tole him "Son, don' eat dat—dat's a sin."

But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her knee An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him Things he ought to see. I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my.

THE RAIN SONG

Bro. Simmons

"Walk right in Brother Wilson—how you feelin' today?"

Bro. Wilson

"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels dat way."

Bro. Simmons

"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's all you gent'men's been?",

Bro. White

"My health is good but my bus'ness slack."

Bro. Black

"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back."

Bro. Brown

"My ole 'ooman's sick, but I'se alright—"

Bro. Green

"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night—"

Bro. Simmons

"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!"

Bro. Turner

"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here—but here I is!"

Bro. Simmons

"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, Dare's nothin' to fear—my ole 'ooman's gone— My stars; da weather's pow'ful warm— I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm."

Bro. Brown

"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say— 'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain An' any time you sees 'em you kin look fuh rain: Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack An' da folks wid rheumatics—dare jints is on da rack—"

All

"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain.

"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain!

"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws 'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain!

"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, An' in his brown suit he is dressed, Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain!

"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, Dat am da time fuh rain.

"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', An' when you see him eatin'; he's eatin' grass: Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain!"

Refrain

"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, 'Tain't gwine tuh be no rain to-day, Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, An' you ain't seen no spiders fum dare cobwebs creep; Las' night da sun went bright to bed, An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her head; If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day."



Waverley Turner Carmichael

KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME

Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, Keep me, Jesus, keep me; Help me praise Thy Holy name, Keep me, Jesus, keep me. O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, O my good Lamb, Save me, Jesus, save me.

Hear me as I cry to Thee; Keep me, Jesus, keep me; May I that bright glory see; Keep me, Jesus, keep me. O my Lamb, my good Lamb, O my good Lamb, Keep me, Jesus, keep me.

WINTER IS COMING

De winter days are drawin' nigh An' by the fire I sets an' sigh; De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, Like it done in days of old.

De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', Fur summer days is been an' pas'; The air is blowin' mighty cold, Like it done in days of old.

De frost is fallin' on de gras' An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"— De air is blowin' mighty cold Like it done in days of old.



Alice Dunbar-Nelson

SONNET

I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,— Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.



Charles Bertram Johnson

A LITTLE CABIN

Des a little cabin Big ernuff fur two. Des awaitin', honey, Cozy fixt fur you; Down dah by de road, Not ve'y far from town, Waitin' fur de missis, When she's ready to come down.

Des a little cabin, An' er acre o' groun', Vines agrowin' on it, Fruit trees all aroun', Hollyhawks a-bloomin' In de gyahden plot— Honey, would you like to Own dat little spot?

Make dat little cabin Cheery, clean an' bright, With an' angel in it Like a ray of light? Make dat little palace Somethin' fine an' gran', Make it like an Eden, Fur a lonely man?

Des you listen, Honey, While I 'splain it all, How some lady's go'nter Boss dat little hall; Des you take my ban' Dat's de way it's writ, Des you take my heart, Dat's de deed to it.

NEGRO POETS

Full many lift and sing Their sweet imagining; Not yet the Lyric Seer, The one bard of the throng, With highest gift of song, Breaks on our sentient ear.

Not yet the gifted child, With notes enraptured, wild, That storm and throng the heart, To make his rage our own, Our hearts his lyric throne; Hard won by cosmic art.

I hear the sad refrain, Of slavery's sorrow-strain; The broken half-lispt speech Of freedom's twilit hour; The greater growing reach Of larger latent power.

Here and there a growing note Swells from a conscious throat; Thrilled with a message fraught The pregnant hour is near; We wait our Lyric Seer, By whom our wills are caught.

Who makes our cause and wrong The motif of his song; Who sings our racial good, Bestows us honor's place, The cosmic brotherhood Of genius—not of race.

Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, Of fame's immortal few Would still be deathless born; Frail Dunbar, black or white, In Fame's eternal light, Would shine a Star of Morn.

An unhorizoned range, Our hour of doubt and change, Gives song a nightless day, Whose pen with pregnant mirth Will give our longings birth, And point our souls the way?



Otto Leland Bohanan

THE DAWN'S AWAKE!

The Dawn's awake! A flash of smoldering flame and fire Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, The torch of gold is borne.

The Dawn's awake! The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. And music singing in the hills A paean of eternal spring Voices the new awakening.

The Dawn's awake! Whispers of pent-up harmonies, With the mingled fragrance of the trees; Faint snatches of half-forgotten song— Fathers! torn and numb,— The boon of light we craved, awaited long, Has come, has come!

THE WASHER-WOMAN

A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, And all day long the rub and scrub With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? In silence she rubbed... But her face I had seen, Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean.



Theodore Henry Shackelford

THE BIG BELL IN ZION

Come, children, hear the joyful sound, Ding, Dong, Ding. Go spread the glad news all around, Ding, Dong, Ding.

Chorus Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong, Ding.

I've been abused and tossed about, Ding, Dong, Ding. But glory to the Lamb, I shout! Ding, Dong, Ding.

My bruthah jus' sent word to me, Ding, Dong, Ding. That he'd done set his own self free. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ole massa said he could not go, Ding, Dong, Ding. But he's done reached Ohio sho'. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, Ding, Dong, Ding. Den I'll run away myself nex' week. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Chorus

Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong Ding.



Lucian B. Watkins

STAR OF ETHIOPIA

Out in the Night thou art the sun Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, The faith-high height whereon they see The glory of their Day To Be— The peace at last when all is done.

The night is dark but, one by one, Thy signals, ever and anon, Smile beacon answers to their plea, Out in the Night.

Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; Give them a hope to rest upon, A dream to dream eternally, The strength of men who would be free And win the battle race begun, Out in the Night!

TWO POINTS OF VIEW

From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, There on yon mountain-throne—that sun-gold crest!