Clara Ann Thompson, "A Garland of Poems" (1926) (full text)
BY
CLARA ANN THOMPSON
Author of “Songs from the Wayside,”
“What Mean this Bleating of the Sheep,”
“There Came Wise Men,” etc.
The Christopher Publishing House
Boston, U.S.A.
Copyright 1926
By The Christopher Publishing House
DEDICATION
Dedicated to my Brother
Garland Yancey Thompson
In Recognition of his unfailing Kindness
and Affection
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Uncle Rube on Church Quarrels
You’ll Have to Come Back to 'the Road
Dream Shadows
Be Sweet
Because We Know
The Prince of Peace
Showin’ Off
To Obey Is Better Than Sacrifice
Be True to the Best
Pap’s Advice
October
Life and Death
In Angel’s Guise
The Flirt
Hie Has Always Cared for Me
The New Schoolhouse
Conquest
He Has Bidden Me Go Forward
He Comes No More
Ingrates
Temptation
Our Soldiers
Our Heroes
Autumn-time
Communion Prayer
The Common Load
Goin’ to Foot It All the Way.
Easter 1919
A Reproof
Our Deceased Leader
I Have Lived for This Hour
Our Idols
There Game Wise Men
The Minor Key
The Christmas Choirs
Aunt Mandy’s Grandchildren
Spring’s Promise
The Settlement Worker’s Prayer
Consecration
Let Us Get Back to God
Faint Heart
The Mothers Dear
More Than Ninety Years
Raymond G. Dandridge
I Dream
But Here By His Side It Is Calm
Childhood and May
A Call to Service
Bereavement
What Mean This Bleating of the Sheep?
Our Side of the Race Problem.
The Bonds of Service
She Prayed
Sometime, Somewhere
Circumstantial Evidence
FOREWORD
I have always loved poetry, still my wish has been, to be not a poet, but a novelist. But it seems that the Muse had other plans for me and I have always found myself giving expression to my thoughts in verse. Thoughts that I have intended to express in long chapters of prose, I have expressed in just a few verses of poetry; and I sometimes tell my friends that the writing of poetry has been thrust upon me—I write it because I must—and in presenting this little volume to the public, I do it, not so much with the wish for popularity or fame, but with the satisfaction that I have obeyed the command of my somewhat despotic Muse.
I have endeavored to be sincere and fair in all the subjects treated, especially in those pertaining to my people, whom I love very dearly. So in this book and also in my first book, “Songs from the Wayside,” I have endeavored to present both sides of the subject, knowing that no problem can be truly solved in any other way.
A Garland of Poems
UNCLE RUBE ON CHURCH QUARRELS
Brethren, I’m jes’ plum’ disgusted
How de churches’ takin’ on;
’Clare I’s nevah seen mo’ fussin’
’Mong de churches since I’s bawn.
All a-squabblin’ an’ a-fightin’,
Some ’bout dis an’ some ’bout dat,
Ev’ry whaur you go to meetin’,
’Pears you run into a spat.
Baptist, Methodist an’ Christian,
Most nigh ev’ry church you name,
Done put on de Injun war paint,
An’ I say, it makes me shame;
Makes me shame to see ou’ churches
Stoopin’ down to sich disgrace;
Jes’ a laughin’ stock fah sinners,
An’ a scandal to de race.
Done forgot all ’bout their mission
Done forgot ’bout savin’ souls,
An’ a-settin’ good examples,
An’ a-teachin’ self control.
Yes! done laid aside de Bible
An’ gone pell-mell to de fray,
Usin’ all de tricks uv sinners
Makin’ things come out their way.
Jes’ won’t give no year to reason,
Heads as hawd as any rock,
Drivin’ ’way de earnest seekers,
An’ a-starvin’ uv de flock.
I say: Shame upon de churches,
Lettin’ Satan have sich sv xy,
When you know dat you kin whop him,
Ef you fight de propah way.
Fust, we’s bound to come together,
’Case one man can’t do it all,
An’ ef we don’t have no union.
Tell you what—we’s go’n’ to fall.
An’ we moist be mo’ in earnest
See dat ou’ own hawts is true,
Puttin’ down ou’ spite an’ envy,
Trustin’ God to help us through.
Ef you’s got a triflin’ preacher,
Who’s a-travelin’ Satan’s rout,
An’ has jined himself to sinners,
Rise an’ turn de roscal out.
Don’t be ’fraid to come agin him,
Callin’ him God’s chosen man;
Don’t you know ef God had called him,
He would give him grace to stan’?
Ef He helps de earnest layman.
To walk worthy in His cause,
Do you think He’d fail de preacher
Who’s a-try’n’ to keep His laws?
Even ef de Lo’d has called him,
An’ he falls into a sin,
Handle him; ef he is worthy,
He’ll survive de discipline.
Dat’s de way God taught de prophets,
All dem old time holy men,
Dat ef dey would bear His message,
Dey must keep their ga’ments clean.
We must drop ou’ foolish notions,
’Case we’s all got common sense,
An’ de Lo’d ain’t go’n’to ’scuse us,
On de plea uv ignerence.
Fah we promised Him we’d serve Him,
When from sin He set us free,
So we’s bound to fight de debil,
Make no diff’rence whaur he be.
Den, ef you has got a leader,
Who’s a earnest upright man,
I say, children gather ’round him
An’ hoi’ up dat preacher’s hands.
Fah dah’s folks will watch a preacher,
An’ ef he don’t show his heels,
Dey ain’t got no mo’ use fah him,
Dan ‘a wiagon wid five wheels’.
Fust to shout when he preach morals
’Most too high fah human reach,
But dey jes’ can’t stand him children,
Ef he practice what he preach.
Now ef you can’t drop sich membahs,
Keep dem undah good control,
(Seems dem ol’ wolves in sheep’s clothin’
Will git into every fold.)
An’ woe to de church my children,
Ef dey git de upper hand,
Fah God’s troops does sorry marchin’,
When dey’s led by Satan’s band.
'Taint de hollerin’ an’ de shoutin’,
Dat’s a-makin’ uv de saint,
Nor de prayin’ an’ de groanin’,
No my bredren, ’deed it ain’t!
’Tis de life dat you’s a-livin’,
Not de shout, de prayer, de groan—
Fah de Bible says, mjy bredren,
“By deir fruits dey shall be known.”
So it ain’t no use to holler,
’Tain’t no use to jump an’ shout,
Ef you ain’t a-livin’ holy,
Mind! “Your sins will find you out.”
An’ it is de churches’ duty,
When dese dawk deeds come to light,
To use all de powah God gives dem,
Tryin’ to set de matter right.
Dat’s de reason dat ou’ churches,
Often fall below de rnawk,
It’s because dey’re shieldin’ membahs,
When dey know their deeds is dawk.
An’ it is dem very membahs,
Who, when trouble comes along,
Well nigh tear de church to pieces,
Fightin’ always fah de wrong.
Now I know it ain’t so easy
Fah to do de things I say,
But de best we git my children,
Comes by struggle, not by play.
An’ you know dat right is mighty,
Faihde Lo’d is on dat side;
An’ de earnest undertakin’,
He is always dah to guide.
Now I'm go’n’ to set down children,
Won’t take no mo’ uv yo’ time,
Fah it seems dah’s no end to me,
When I’m talkin’ long dis line.
So I’ll jes’ say in conclusion,
Trust in God, an’ press right on!
Fah you’ll be here fightin’ children,
When ol’ Uncle Rube is gone.
YOU’LL HAVE TO COME BACK TO THE ROAD
You have left the straight highway of duty,
For the dark winding pathway of sin;
You have cast off the precepts of childhood,
For the doctrine of world hardened men;
And you wonder why peace has departed,
Why life seems a wearisome load.
You are lost in the forest of error.
You’ll have to come back to the road.
You have learned to speak lightly of goodness,
And say that religion’s a sham,
You find many faults with the Bible
And scoff at salvation’s great plan;
You say all the world is dishonest—
Ev’ry man at heart is a rogue;
And you wonder why life is so bitter;
You have wandered away from the road.
You laugh at the men and the women
Who have learned to make conscience their guide,
And you say that life is far sweeter
To those who drift with the tide,
Then you seek in the gay halls of pleasure,
The peace that has left your abode,
But you’ll ever seek vainly, my brother,
You’ll have to come back to the road.
You’ll have to come back to the precepts,
You learned in your childhood’s pure day;
Come back to the faith pure and simple,
Ere the world had lured you away;
Come back to the sweet sacred story
Of the Friend who bears ev’ry load;
Come back from the far distant country,
You’ll have to come back to the road.
DREAM SHADOWS
Sweet thoughts and vague dreams come to me,
As o’er the fields the soft winds blow;
The golden sun shines brilliantly,
The shifting shadows come and go.
And ah, those sweet elusive dreams,
Come ever drifting from afar,
As golden as the bright sunbeams.
As shifting as the shadows are.
I try to grasp them—all in vain;
They linger lightly in my mind,
Then like vague forms, are gone again,
Leaving a half-sweet pain behind.
Perchance they’re ghosts of childish dreams,
That filled my fancy long ago,
Ere yet I’d drifted down life’s stream,
To where the deeper waters flow.
Perchance they’re tones from spiritland,
So vague so far away, they seem
To me, who cannot understand,
But echoes of a childish dream.
Ah well, whatever they may be,
These vague sweet dreams that come and go,
I know they always come to me,
On days like this, when soft winds blow.
BE SWEET
A happy song sprite is coming my way,
And flooding the air with sweet melody;
He sings in my ears as I pass down the street:
“I bring you a message: Be sweet; be sweet.
“The message is old as the years are long;
And I bring it alike to the weak and the strong,
To the young and the old and to all whom I meet,
What e’er your condition—Be sweet; be sweet.
“The thoughts that are wicked I’d frighten away;
The words that are' bitter I never would say,
The tale that is spiteful I would not repeat,
Just heed you my message: Be sweet; be sweet.
“The pathway of life is oft dreary at best,
The sigh often stifles the smile and the jest;
Then cast not your hindrance to clog weary feet,
Be kindly and helpful; be sweet, be sweet.”
Still merrily singing, away flew the sprite,
And soon the bright vision was lost to my sight;
But his song still remains, and I ever repeat,
When life would grow bitter: Be sweet; be sweet.
BECAUSE WE KNOW
No matter how the cold winds blow,
How deep the snow drifts in the vales,
Down in our hearts we know, we know
Spring breezes follow wintry gales.
We know the flowers will come again,
And with their sweetness fill the air;
We know we’ll look across the plain,
And see the verdure everywhere.
And so we face the winter’s storm,
Its piercing winds, its sleet and snow,
With hearts where hope is burning warm,
Because we know; because wo know.
And thus it is when woes befall;
When to our lives the dark days come;
We know that God is over all,
That brightness ever follows gloom.
We know as sure as spring will come
To prove we did not hope in vain,
So sure a happy day, will dawn,
When joy shall triumph over pain.
So oft along the darksome way,
We walk with faces all aglow;
The star of hope shines steadily,
Because we know; because we know.
THE PRINCE OF PEACE
(Xmas, 1916)
The Prince of Peace! oh name most sweet and holy!
Dear name through which a dying world may live,
That sheds like blessings on the high and lowly,
The only name that endless life can give.
The Prince of Peace! oh theme of wondrous story,
Tale, that no mortal e’er can understand—
The Son of God, disrobed of all His glory,
Descends to earth, to die for sinful man.
The Prince of Peace! oh name so fitly given,
By men of old unto the Holy Child,
Who willingly forsook the joys of heaven,
That God and mankind might be reconciled.
Oh Prince of Peace, though war may rend the nation,
And cast its dreadful blight o’er all the land,
In thy own time, oh God of all creation,
Thou wilt subdue the creatures of thy hand.
Ah, they may rise in pride of power and station,
And strive to set at naught thy holy will.
But thou art king of ev’ry warring nation;
They must bow down when thou sayest:
“Peace; be still.”
And so today in praise we lift our voices,
Oh Prince of Peace, for love that ne’er shall cease;
While ev’ry soul that in thy love rejoices.
Sends up its prayer for universal peace.
“SHOWIN’ OFF”
Showin’ off! dat’s one fault children,
Dat’s a-harmin’ of de race;
An’ wuss thing—you’s like to find it
Lurkin’ in mos’ any place.
Find it ’mongst de older people,
And de youngsters dat you meet,
You kin see it in de churches,
In de homes, an’ on de street.
’Tain’t no use to try to stop it,
Seems it’s bound to have its way,
Spoutin’ round amongst ou’ people,
An’ its got a mighty sway.
Dah! it‘s gone into de pulpit;
See dat preacher?—Preachin’ fine!
Ev’rybody’s eye is on him,
An’ he shows a well trained mind.
But dat scamp is at his elbow,
Whisp’ring folly in his ear,
An’ dat man begins to holler,
Like he thinks de folks can’t hear;
Commence racin’ bout dat platform,
Like he don’t know whut he’s ’bout—
Done got puffed up wid attention—
Go’n’ to make some sistah shout.
An’ dem sistahs rise respondin’,
Makin’ sich a great to do,
’Case dey’re bound to show dat preacher
Dat dey’s got de spirit too.
Can’t say I don’t b’lieve in shoutin’,
’Case I b’long to dat 01’ School
An’ you know dat mos’ ol’ timers
Will stick up fah ol’ time rules.
But I mus’ be straight about it,
Speak de truth since I commence,
So, ef we will keep on shoutin’,
I say: Let us shout wid sense!
I don’t blame de younger people
Sometimes, when I see dem. scoff,
’Case mos’ all uv dis great shoutin’s
Nothin’ else but showin’ off.
Showin’ off! Great patience! Children,
Once I saw two cullud men,
Git to' quar’lin’ ’bout some trifle,
Half in fun when dey begin,
Till dey saw de folks wus watchin’,
Den deir wrath rose like a gale!
Nex’ dey took one to de dead house,
An’ de othah one to jail.
I come down de street a walkin’,
Feelin’ mighty good an’ spry,
See two well-dressed men a-talkin’,
One looks up an’ ketch my eye;
Den his voice is raised in laughtah,
Augerment, or mighty scoff,
An’ thinks I: Lawd help dat dawky,
He’s done gone to showin’ off.
Showin’ off has made good women,
Fill deir homes wid costly things
Pictures, furniture an’ cawpets,
Well nigh fine enough fur kings.
Den go straight into dat washtub,
Whaur dey labor night an’ day,
Till dey’s nigh worn to a shadah,
Giftin’ money ’nough to pay.
’Tain’t no use in talkin’ children,
I could go on fah a hou’
Till you’d git tired hear’n’ me fellin'
’Bout fool things I’s seen fo’ now—
Dawkies standin’ ’bout de sidewalks,
Showin’ off to passersby,
Till dey spile a good location;
Makin’ ’gainst both you an’ I.
’Case you know de unfair white folks—
Put us all into one boat:
“Won’t have dawkies livin’ ’round us!”
Yes, jes’ set us all afloat.
Well, I won’t go any furder,
Fah you all know whut I mean,
An’ mos’ all dese things I’m tellin’,
Ev’ry one uv you have seen.
Well, sometimes it sets me laughin’,
Den, it almost makes me cry:
People lookin’ o’er deir shoulders,
Tryin’ to ketch deir neighbor’s eye,
’Stid uv lookin’ whaur dey’s goin’;
Nex’ dey’s fell into de trough,
Children, do git down to bis’ness;
Quit dat tomfool showin’ off!
TO OBEY IS BETTER THAN SACRIFICE
Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken
than the fat of rams. 1 Samuel 15:22.
“To obey is better than sacrifice:”
Rang- clearly in his ears.
And knew he not when he turned away,
That in the after years,
With heart and soul grown sick of strife,
He would recall this day,
And learn the meaning of the words:
’Tis better to obey.
But he chose his way, and heeded not
His Master’s clear command;
To him, obedience seemed tame,
And sacrifice so grand.
He filled his life with mighty deeds,
And toiled without surcease,
He brought great gifts unto his Lord,
But sought in vain for peace.
And when death came, with silent tread,
To bear his life away,
His earnest prayer was: “Lord forgive;
’Tis better to obey.”
“To obey is better than sacrifice;”
Again the words ring clear,
And a woman heedless passes on,
Refusing now to bear.
Love’s sheltered path is offered her,
She firmly turns away—
“I’ll choose the path of sacrifice,
’Tis selfish to obey.”
“How can I hear the song of joy
And deem its music sweet,
While all around the suffering ones
Are sinking at my feet?
Ah no! Their bitter cries of pain
Would haunt me when I’d pray;
I’ll choose the path of sacrifice,
’Tis selfish to obey.”
She chose her path and heeded not
Another cry of pain,
Because it came from one with strength,
With power and worldly gain.
But after years had past away,
She saw that strong man fail,
Saw him his power and strength abuse,
Saw worldliness prevail,
She looked upon his blighted life,
And knew he’d failed to stand,
Because he lacked the saving touch,
Of woman’s helping hand.
And knew she then, why, years before,
The Master bade her stay;
And she too prays: “Dear Lord, forgive,
’Tis better to obey.”
However great the sacrifice,
The old words still ring true;
’Tis better far to do with might,
What God would have us do.
To take in faith the lot he gives.
What e’er false guides may say;
For whether it be joy or pain,
’Tis better to obey.
BE TRUE TO THE BEST
Be true to the good that is in you,
The strongest, the cleanest, the best;
Though now it be weak and deficient,
In time ’twill surmount all the rest.
Be true to the thought that is finest,
And give the good impulse your heed,
’Tis the noble thought and the impulse
That warms into life the good deed.
’Tis the patient, sincere cultivation
Of all that is pure in, the heart,
That chokes out the weeds of dissension,
And bids evil motives depart.
Seek ever the truest, the highest,
As knights on a Holy Quest;
For your life can ne’er be a failure,
If you’re always true to the best.
PAP’S ADVICE
I ain’t got no patience with you;
Biggest fool I ever saw;
Tell you, I wa’n’t no sich coward,
When I went to court your ma!
Jes’ because the gal refused you,
Fust time that you asked her hand,
You must go ’round here half crazy,
Brace up boy, an’ be a man!
Say your ma is vexed at Jessie,
Thinks she’s try’n’ to spile your life?
Did she say how oft I asked her,
’Fore she said she’d be my wife?
An’ ef I had got discouraged,
Failin’ then to do my pawt,
Left her to her woman’s notions,
‘Spec’ she’d broken both our hawts.
There’s a dozen different reasons
Why a gal will tell you “no”,
An’, I say, you jes’ be thankful,
’Long as ’tain’t another beau.
Sometimes it is only shyness,
Sometimes pride as like as not,
That sets up a mighty struggle,
When it finds that she is caught.
Then again she will refuse you,
’Cause she doesn’t know her mind,
While down in her hawt, unknowin’,
She's a-lovin’ all the time.
An’ ef you be mighty keerful,
You kin show her where she stands;
It’s your place to do the courtin’,
Brace up boy, an’ be a man!
An’ whatever be the reason,
Mind you what I say tonight:
Don’t you leave the field of battle,
Till you’re sure you’ve lost the fight.
For a good an’ noble woman,
One that makes a faithful wife,
Is well wuth a man’s best efforts,
You will find in after life.
Your ol’ pap knows all s' out it,
For he’s been all ’long there son,
An’ sometimes the hawdest fightin’
Comes jes’ ’fore the battle’s won.
OCTOBER
Beautiful, beautiful, golden mid autumn,
Infinitely sweet, and infinitely sad,
Tinged with a pathos that no soul can fathom,
Making us grave, and making us glad.
Flooding the earth with a rare, golden sunshine,
Filling the air with a mystical haze,
Stealing the odor from fruit tree and grape vine,
Wafting it out to sweeten the days.
Dyeing the trees with the hues of the rainbow,
Lading the barns with a bounteous store,
While the south winds sweep o’er the green meadows,
Merrily driving the bright leaves before.
Gladly we welcome thy mystical presence,
After the burden of summer’s fierce heat;
Gladly inhale we thy health-giving essence,
Lending new vigor to tired lagging feet.
Though in the sunlight there’s lurking a shadow,
While in our joy there’s a note that is sad,
Yet, willing captives, thy footsteps we follow,
Making us grave and making us glad.
Beautiful, mystical, golden mid autumn,
Whence comes the spell thou hast cast o’er the earth?
Whence comes thy power, oh magical season,
Blending so perfectly, sadness and mirth?
LIFE AND DEATH
Written in memory of Dr. Booker T. Washington, the
noted colored educator and lecturer.
We live, and how intense is life!
So full of stress, so full of strife,
So full of hopes, so full of fears,
Of joy and sorrow, smiles and tears;
And oh how fruitless is the quest,
Unless we’re striving for the best.
We die; and oh how sad is death!
How sad, when we relinquish breath,
When all life’s glory slips away,
And leaves us but a mass of clay.
How sad, and oh how dark the night,
Unless we’ve found eternal light!
This, of our brother we can say—
We meet to honor him. today,
Because he fought life’s battle well;
He stood where heaviest missiles fell.
Oft wounded in the crucial test,
Still, ever striving for the best.
Still striving, he has fallen now,
We’ve placed the laurel on his brow,
While in our hearts, we wonder why
God called this man so soon to die.
We wonder; oh, how blind are we!
His rugged path we could not see;
We only saw his wealth and fame,
His noble station, honored name.
We need not envy him his place,
Who seeks to lift a trodden race.
God knew how hard and well he’d fought,
The noble deeds his hands had wrought;
God heard the deep sighs of his breast,
He heard—and gave the warroir rest.
And shall we weep and say ’tis night,
When he has found eternal light?
IN ANGEL’S GUISE
Darkness abounds; what seemed at first
to be the voice of God,
Has proven but an empty sound
by wayward fancy made;
I walk alone; and though deep gloom
enshrouds my path,
I’m not afraid.
For this I know: though voices false
may whisper in my ear,
As on I go, and seek to lure my steps away
to paths unknown,
God will not let my feet go far astray,
He’ll keep His own.
I feel no fear; although His presence
now I can not feel,
I know He’s near, to guard and guide,
to give the strength I ask,
And when the devil comes in angel’s guise,
To lift his mask.
THE FLIRT
No indeedy! I’m not caring,
Let them hang around and pine,
If I didn’t break their fool hearts,
They would be a-breaking mine.
Men are mighty funny creatures,
Keep things on the highest shelves,
Then they’ll break their necks to get them,
Jumpin’ fit to kill themselves.
Keep things down where they can reach them.
And just see them pass them by!
Still a-lookin’ and a-jumpin’
For the things they know’s too high.
No indeedy! I ain’t caring!
Though they pine an’ fume an’ fret,
And just break their necks a-trying
None of them have won me yet.
HE HAS ALWAYS CARED FOR ME
No, my Lord has never failed me,
And how can I doubt him now?
Though the winds howl fiercely ’round me,
And the spray is on my brow,
Though the billows wildly raging,
Lash my ship far out to sea,
Naught I fear, and naught can harm me,
He has always cared for me.
Oft before, on life’s wide ocean,
Storms have tossed my ship at will,
But always, in His good season,
He has spoken: “Peace; be still”;
And I do not fear to trust Him,
Though full dark the way may be,
For I know, deep in my bosom,
He has always cared for me.
No, my Lord has never failed me;
In life’s darkest, saddest hour
He has made me feel His presence,
Feel His all-sustaining power,
And when joy has been my portion,
He has made mine eyes to see,
His kind hand in all my gladness,
He has always cared for me.
Then, can I with this assurance
Go in fear along life’s way,
Mindless that a Friend so faithful,
Guards my path from day to day?
No! my doubting sinks before it,
And my heart cries joyfully:
“Blessed Lord! I’ll ever trust Him,
He has always cared for me.”
THE NEW SCHOOLHQUSE
Mt. Healthy, Ohio
“We want a new schoolhouse” the wise neighbors said;
“A school on a modern plan;
A school that that our townsmen can point to with pride,
As one of the best in the land;
For the great hand of Progress is seen ev’rywhere;
And our dear old town must have her full share.
“Besides, they are crowded, the teachers all say;
The old building here is too small,
New scholars are coming in day after day,
We’ll have to accommodate all.”
So they talked and they planned and wise was their scheme,
But the new school house was still but a dream.
The architect came with his papers and plans,
And he laid before them his sheet,
That showed how the school should be inside and out,
And how it would look when complete.
When he’d finished, the building could almost be seen,
And yet the new schoolhouse was still but a dream.
And then came the workmen with muscular arms,
With strong and capable hands,
Who turned into substance the wise neighbors’ dream,
And the architects well ordered plans.
So today we behold, with faces abeam,
This beautiful building—this realized dream.
And as we assemble, with speeches and song,
To dedicate this, our new school,
We would say to the pupils: Be faithful; be strong;
Let honor and diligence rule.
And dream your bright dreams, for bright dreams are your due;
But remember 'tis work that makes them come true.
CONQUEST
The battle was fierce; he was worn and spent,
And beaten down in the fight,
But he faintly said, as he sank to the earth,
“I’ll die with my face to the light.”
“The goal that I sought, I never shall reach,
I feel the approach of night,
But I’ll die with my face towards the setting sun,
I’ll die with my face to the light.”
Bewildered he gazed on the golden crown,
That in heaven greeted his sight,
But the Father said: “He is conqueror
Who dies with his face to the light."
HE HAS BIDDEN ME GO FORWARD
He has bidden me go forward,
In a path I've never trod,
And I’m not afraid to venture,
Not afraid to trust my God.
For in all my years of service
He has been so true a guide,
That I dare tread any pathway,
When I know He’s at my side.
And since He bids me go forward,
Though I cannot see the way,
Yet I will not doubt nor falter,
But will trustingly obey.
For through darkness or through sunlight,
Through the cold or through the heat,
If o’er shadowed by His presence.
To obey His will is sweet.
HE COMES NO MORE
I am thinking tonight, as the old year dies,
Of one who has passed to the other shore;
And my heart is sad when I realize,
How true are the words: “They return more.”
For crowiding each other, the years rush by,
And we gather to watch them breathe their last;
But he never comes with his smiling eye,
To watch with us, as he did in the past.
And he never comes when we meet to sing
The songs that he loved so well to hear;
Nor e’en when the troubles and cares press in,
To lighten our hearts with his words of cheer.
And he never comes—But why should I start
The blood from that half-healed wound again?
For it’s God alone who can soothe the heart,
When its beating time to that sad refrain.
Oh, list! the bells are beginning to ring,
And my heart is filled with a vague unrest;
But I know whatever the year may bring,
Will come from the One who knows what is best.
INGRATES
They come to us with bleeding hearts,
And eyes by tears made wet;
We bind their wounds, we dry their tears,
They leave us,—and forget.
When grim ill-fortune comes their way,
We find them at our door.
We welcome them with outstretched hand,
And share with them our store.
And when our time of trial comes,
Our day of stress or pain,
It finds us knocking at their door,
We knock,—but knock in vain.
TEMPTATION
She read the story of a love most deep,
A love wherein all thoughts of self were lost;
A love that sowed and asked not: “Shall I reap?”
A love that never paused to count the cost.
And thoughtfully she laid the book aside,
The face of him who sought her for his bride
Came to her heart, and bitterly she cried:
If this is love, I feel no love for him
Then what is this that bids me make this choice?
I seem to hear amid the shadows dim
The calm insistent whisper of a voice
That bids me listen to his earnest plea,
But now a darksome doubt is haunting me,
If this is love, I know it can not be.
Is it because I know that he is good,
That people say his heart is pure as gold,
I’ve let my fancy wander as it would,
And lightly grasp the prize I may not hold?
And still the voice says: “Listen to his plea”
But oh I fear ’tis pride and vanity,
That bids me venture where I cannot see.
And love for love has been the age long cry
Of hearts that struggle through the maze of life,
And naught but love, pure love, can satisfy,
Can win the race, or triumph in the strife.
Then shall I listen to his earnest plea,
And give him naught but pride and vanity,
When he would give his best, his all to me?
And yet, ah me! that voice will not be still;
That voice that bids me listen to his plea;
Worn with the strife, I let it have its will,
And only pray, harm may not come to me.
The voice within is ever urging me,
His voice without is pleading constantly,
I fain would yield and ask not what it be.
Ah, as I’m yielding light breaks o’er my way,
I gladly rouse me from my troubled dream,
And see with eyes made clear by heaven’s day,
The surging dashing falls just down the stream.
And thankfully I steer my boat ashore,
1 know beyond a doubt, the strife is o’er;
I hear the Voice—the Tempter’s voice no more.
OUR SOLDIERS
Written on the occasion of the colored troops
leaving Cincinnati for Camp Sherman, to train
for the World War.
Today the din of Europe’s strife,
Is sounding at our very door;
No longer heard, with bated breath,
As echoes from a foreign shore.
No more the distant war alarms,
For at our door, they call to arms.
They call to arms—and our own boys
Must answer that grim call today;
Oh, how our fond hearts follow them,
As gallantly they march away
With steady tread and fearless eye,
To bravely do or bravely die.
We’ve prayed for others, kinsmen dear,
And others, friends who’ve marched away,
But there’s a new note in the prayer,
That rises to the throne today.
And Europe’s battle fields seem near,
Since those we love must soon be there.
Yet, fear we not for our brave boys,
Our colored troops that march away,
For ne’er yet has a swarthy son,
Disgraced the flag they bear today.
Forgetting wrongs When foes come in,
They never fail the call for men!
OUR HEROES
Written on the occasion of the return of the
colored troops to Cincinnati, Ohio from the World War.
We crowded on the pavements,
To see our boys march by;
Our soldier boys, with faces grave,
But vict’ry in their eyes.
They left a few short months ago,
For Europe’s battle din;
They left us, jolly laughing boys,
They came back grave faced men.
For theirs it was, to blaze the way,
On that dread field of blood;
They shrank not from the giant task,
But fearlessly they stood,
And held their ground like iron men,
And fought as demons fight,
Their foes were fiends for tyranny,
But they were fiends for right!
Ah no! those black boys knew no fear;
Knew no such word as “yield”;
The German troops in terror, fled
Before their deadly steel.
They blazed the way to victory;
We cheer till out of breath,
To see them marching, stalwart men
Back from that field of death.
Yes, back again with laurels won;
Our hearts are boating high;
We knew they’d fight as heroes fight,
And die as heroes die.
We knew that when they fought in France,
They’d gain an honored place,
For there they judge men by their deeds,
Regardless of their race.
The whole world knows the story now,
Then, will their homeland dare,
To still withhold the liberty,
They fought so well to share?
Now let us pause, with faces bowed,
While reverent silence reigns;
In mem’ry of those valiant boys,
Who came not back again.
AUTUMN-TIME
’Tis Autumn-time, ’tis autumn,
I know it by the trees,
I know it by the mystic haze.
That hangs above the leas.
I know it by the moaning winds,
And by the sobbing rain,
And all the multitude of signs,
That follow in her train.
The farmers, bringing in the corn;
The frost-nipped flower and vine
The children laden down with nuts;
All speak of autumn-time.
And oh, some days are golden,
And some are gray and sad,
So like our lives is autumn-time,
Mingled with grave and glad.
COMMUNION PRAYER
I feel oh, so unworthy, Lord,
To drink thy cup today,
But when thy dear voice bids me come,
I dare not stay away.
I’ve tried so hard to do thy will,
So hard to worthy be,
But oh, dear Lord I fail so oft,
When I would honor thee.
I know not why thou bidst me come,
Unless dear Lord it be
That thou wouldst prove thy mercy great,
And tender love to me.
So I receive with grateful heart,
Oh blessed Savior mine,
In memory of thy sacrifice,
This sacred bread and wine.
THE COMMON LOAD
Awed by the sight of earth’s o’erwhelming woe,
The ceaseless cry of suff’ring human kind,
I said: “Be still”; unto my troubled soul,
“Their weight of grief is greater far than thine.
“Thou art but weary with the common load;
The burden that all human hearts must bear;
Why press thou selfishly unto the Lord,
To pour into His ear thy petty care?”
I ceased my plaint, and plodded on my way,
But longer ever longer grew the road,
Until at last, worn out, I knew not why,
I sank half-fainting ’neath a nameless load.
And lying there, too weak to think or pray,
The scene in far Judea came to me,
When weary mothers brought their little ones
And pressed them babbling, to the Master’s knee.
And His disciples bade them stand aside:
“Why vex the Master wtih thy cares so small,”
But Jesus, knowing said: “Forbid them not.”
And blessed the little children one and all.
The vision vanished, but I understood;
And gladly leaned I on the gentle breast
Of Him who says to ev’ry weary one:
“Come unto me, and I will give thee rest.”
GOIN’ TO FOOT IT ALL THE WAY
(Aunt Betty Testifies)
Brothers an’ sisters, I’ve been trav’lin’
Many years on heaben’s road;
I ain’t lookin’ for no char’ot,
Ain’t a-frettin’ ’bout my load,
I ain't mindin’ my oP ga’ments
’Cause the dust has made them gray,
’Took my cross upon my shoulder,
Goin’ to foot it all the way.
I don’t ’spect to find all roses
While I’m trav’lin’ on this road,
’Cause I know that ev’ry Christian’s
Got to bear some sort of load;
Got to walk some paths of sorrow,—
Got to watch and fight and pray,
I done took my cross up brothers,
Goin’ to foot it all the way.
Jesus didn’t have no char’ot
When He went to Calvary,
With His cross upon His shoulder,
There to die for you and me.
Tho’ the burden was so heavy,
That He sank upon the way,
An’ good Simon had to help Him—
Goin’ to foot it all the way!
Yes indeed! I’m goin’ to foot it;
Be the journey short or long;
When I’m weak I’ll be a prayin’,
An’ a-singin’ when I’m strong;
An’ the Lo’d will bid me welcome,
When I reach eternal day,
Bless God! On my way to glory!
Goin’ to foot it all the way!
EASTER, 1919
Easter with skies transcendently bright,
Easter with hyacinths blooming;
Easter with message of hope and light,
Gladly we welcome thy coming.
War and disease have swept o’er the land,
Leaving it wounded and bleeding;
Come, for the world disconsolate stands,
Come with thy balm for its healing.
Millions see naught besides the white cross,
Where a brave soldier lies sleeping;
Millions bewail grim pestilence’s cost,
Come thou, and silence their weeping.
Tell the sad hearts that Christ conquered death,
Give them the message from heaven,
Incense more sweet than hyacinth’s breath—
Christ has thrown open the prison.
Come to the tomb in the garden today,
Where the great stone is now rolled away,
Then hear the angel triumphantly say:
“He is not here: he is risen.”
A REPROOF
You had no cause to speak that unkind word,
What matter if her faults to you were plain?
You saw her staggering ’neath her heavy load;
Why add your wormwood to her bitter pain?
You know her heart is always kind and true,
Whate’er her foibles or her faults may be;
You know when care or trouble comes to you,
She’s ever ready with her sympathy.
And all must need plead guilty to some fault,
Then why in face of grim Misfortune’s frown,
Make it a sword to stab a fellow-man?
’Tis never brave to strike when one is down.
OUR DECEASED LEADER
Written in memory of Herbert Moninger, A. M.
B. D. well known leader in Sunday School work,
Cin., Ohio, and read at memorial service.
We thought his work only half finished,
But God said: “His work is all done;”
And swinging ajar heaven’s portals,
Said: “Enter thou brave faithful one.
“Thou hast finished the work that I gave thee—
To shed a new light on my Word—
Well done thou good faithful servant,
Enter thou the joy of thy Lord!”
But we stood like sheep without shepherd,
Like men when their brave leader falls,
In the midst of a fierce raging battle,
When he answered his Master’s call.
And our hearts rose up in rebellion—
Why had the Lord called him to go,
While still his great work seemed unfinished
While still the world needed him so?
Then came, like a soft benediction.
The mem’ry of what he had taught,
And it soothed our hearts into silence,
With the healing balm that it brought.
He taught us God’s goodness and wisdom;
He taught us to bow to His will;
And though he is no longer with us,
We follow his teaching still.
And now that our God in His wisdom
Has taken our dear leader home,
We bow, though not understanding,
And whisper: “Thy will be done.”
“I HAVE LIVED FOR THIS HOUR”
Written in memory of Mrs. Mattie Sikes.
All worn out with sickness, and dying, she lay;
They watched with sad faces, her life ebb away;
“Is it well?” some one asked as she sank ’neath Death’s pow’r,
“Oh yes”, came the answer, “I have lived for this hour.”
“Long, long years ago I chose Him my guide,
Have striven through life to keep close to His side;
And now at the end, He is still my High Tower;
I’ve nothing to fear; I have lived for this hour.”
Ah blest life of service! she made Christ her king,
And then she lay dying, but Death had no sting,
A bright crown of splendor, and heaven her dower
Oh, ’tis well worth a lifetime to live for that hour!
OUR IDOLS
We set up idols in our hearts,
That hide our God from view,
And worship them so fervently,
Not knowing what we do.
We bring to them for sacrifice,
Our dearest hopes, our all—
Then wake to find them wood or stone;
God help us, when they fall!
THERE CAME WISE MEN
The world pressed hard; his faith was dim,
And he could not hear the Christmas hymn,
The angels sang o’er hills afar,
Where wond’ring awestruck shepherds were.
He could not go with the joyful men,
To the manger-crib in Bethlehem,
The world pressed hard; he’d lost the way,
And he could not find where the Christ-child lay.
The Christmas shoppers filled the street,
While happy children, close at his feet,
Gazed long, with eyes all wonder wide,
Through windows decked for Christmastide;
Their faces bright with a faith as deep,
As the men of old who watched the sheep;
And he sighed and said, as he went his way:
“The angels’ song is for such as they.”
“For such as they; not busy men
Who must meet the world’s dire stress and sin.
Who need must battle with giant might,
Or be trampled down in the bitter fight.”
And he sighed again as he pressed his way
Through shoppers, chatting merrily,
With parcels every shape and size,
And the Christmas gladness in their eyes.
Then he glimpsed in the throng, a face so drear,
That it seemed to blight the Christmas cheer;
And all day long, persistent, grim,
That gloomy sad face haunted him.
Till there came to his heart, an impulse strong,
To make the sad ones hear the song.
“What matter if no song I hear?
I can bring to others the Christmas cheer.”
And he followed where e’er that impulse led.
Through the crush and din he pressed ahead:
Where e’er there were deeds of love to do,
That impulse led—unerring, true.
And he unquestioning, followed on;
Then found at last, that his doubts were gone,
And the impulse strong that had led him afar,
Transformed into a radiant star.
He followed the star through the crush and din,
And lo! it led to Bethlehem;
To Bethlehem! Oh wondrous ray!
To the manger crib, where the Christ-child lay.
And he found as he knelt to worship there,
Where the angel chant late filled the air,
That shepherds knelt, but not alone,
There were Wise Men too at the manger throne.
THE MINOR KEY
“Oh for a song” the poet sighs,
“To stir men’s hearts and make them rise
To heights of nobleness!
A song whose clarion notes will ring,
Long after I have ceased to sing,
And heal life’s bitterness.
Alas! this is the fate for me:
To ever sing in a minor key.”
A thousand hearts echo the sigh,
Brave hearts that struggle on alone,
With aspirations pure and high,
With deeds forgotten or unknown.
They hear the proud world laud the great,
They watch the cheering crowds go by,
And bitterly lament their fate—
Oh foolish hearts, subdue that cry!
What matter if the world forgets,
Thy deeds to laud, thy tale to tell?
If God remembers, all is well;
With Him who sees not as we see,
No life is tuned to minor key.
THE CHRISTMAS CHOIRS
’Tis Christmas morn; and o’er the earth
The sound of music rings;
For Christ is born, and joyfully
The choir of angels sings.
To Bethlehem the shepherds come,
To find the infant king;
To Bethlehem the wise men come
Their praise and gifts to bring;
And back to heaven sweeps the choir,
That came His birth to sing.
’Tis Christmas morn; and o’er the earth
The sound of music rings;
For human hearts have caught the song,
And joyfully they sing.
The simple ones and wise ones come,
To worship Christ the king,
And e’en the little ones have come
Their infant praise to bring;
And over all, the human choir
Its joyful anthems sing.
AUNT MANDY’S GRANDCHILDREN
“Look here children! who’s this coming?
Why it’s old Aunt Mandy Payne,
With her basket and her bundle
And that big old-fashioned cane.
“Come right in! Give me your basket;
How’ve you been, you sweet old dear?”
“Oh I’ve had a sight uv trouble
Chile, since last time I wus here.”
“You don’t say! (Give me that bundle)
(Now you children run and play)
And w'hat were you saying Auntie?”
“Why Nell’s Jane has run away.”
“You don’t say so! What a pity!
Nell was careless with that girl;
Let her run down there to Turner’s;
Wouldn’t have done it for the world.”
“Well, Jane was Nell’s only gal child,
An’ she couldn’t say her “no”;
But it wusn’t ’cause Nell spilte her
Dat made dat chile take on so.
“Run away wid dat low dawky,
An’ she’s not yet turned sixteen;
Married to dat triflin’ rascal—
‘Who’d she marry?’ Turner’s ’Gene!
“Yes done run away an’ miarried,
An’ sich talk you never heard;
Turned to sassin’ me an’ Nellie,
No! we couldn’t say a word.
“Said ’she guessed she knew her bizness,
Mother Turner wus her friend,
She had been more sympathetic
Than we two had ever been.
“Umph! that jes‘ set Nellie crazy!
An’ it made me mighty sick,
But I seed as quick as lightnin’
Somepin’ else—the chile wus tricked!
“Yes indeed! dat’s wlhat’s de matter,
An’ I jes’ tol’ Nellie so;
Fust she tried to talk me out’it,
But at last she let me go.
“An’ I want to tell you honey”
(Here Aunt Mandy’s voice grew low)’
Dah’s a spell on all Nell’s children
Dat is whut I’d have you know!
“Fust ’twas Jim; he took to stealin’;
Den Bob took runnin’ roun’
Wid dem triflin’ low-life dawkies
Dat you find in ev’ry town.
“Now it’s Jennie—Nellie’s baby,
An’ I spec’ ’twill break her hawt;
Oh a spell is on dem children,
Kinder b’lieved it frum de stawt.
“An’ I jes’ ’bout know who done it;
I’m a-watching ev’ry sign;
An’ I’ll tell you all about it,
When I’ve satisfied my mind.”
Then, Aunt Mandy, nodding wisely,
Went ‘to see de chaps a while,’
And the younger woman watched her,
With a thoughtful, half-sad smile.
“Poor old fashioned, love blind granny!
Any one outside could see
How they humored all those children
What the consequence would be.
“So she thinks it’s conjuration;
Hard to change when one is old;
Well, if that will help her bear it,
Let her b’lieve it, dear old soul!”
SPRING’S PROMISE
The Spring returns, and all the land is beaming;
The birds come back from Southland’s sunny clime;
The earth with signs of waking life is teeming.
All move in harmony to nature’s time.
The grass is springing up in yonder meadow,
The trees are putting forth their tender leaves;
Across miy window flits a tiny shadow—
The birds are nesting ’neath the cottage eaves.
Where e’er I turn there’s hope and joy and gladness,
And life, new life, sweet springtime’s agelong sign.
And yet, for some there rings a note of sadness—
Spring comes with life, but leaves their dead behind.
Ah, well may come glad Easter at this season,
When waking life on hill and field and plain,
Wrings from sad hearts the cry of blind unreason
For those they know can never come again.
But Easter comes, proclaiming: “He is risen!”
“Come see the place where once thy Lord didst lay;
And know ye this: that when He broke His prison.
The stone from ev’ry tomb was rolled away!”
Oh blessed hope unto all sad hearts given!
And waking life on hill and field and plain,
Rings sweet with promise sent to us from heaven.
Look up! Rejoice! thy dead shall live again.
THE SETTLEMENT WORKER’S PRAYER
I pray for those about me here,
I strive to make them good and true,
And then my heart cries: “God help me”
For oh my Lord, I need thee too.
They bring their tales of woe to me;
They ask me Lord, what they shall do;
I bring them with their woes to thee,
And oh I bring my burdens too.
Dear Lord, I would not selfish be,
But thou knowest well my strength is small,
And oh thou knowest too dear Lord,
That should I falter, they might fall.
And so I earnest pray to thee.
That thou wouldst make them good and true;
And when thy blessing comes to them,
Oh, loving Savior, bless me too.
CONSECRATION
Oh God, whose wisdom, well I know
Can still this world’s unrest,
Set up thy kingdom in my heart;
I dare not pray for less.
How can I bid men call on thee,
To still their troubled souls
While aught but thy almighty pow’r
Within my heart controls?
I fain would tell men how thy pow’r
Has kept my hot heart still,
And thou canst do the same for them,
I know thou canst and will.
No strength of mine, nor intellect,
Have saved me from the fall,
So trusting in thy pow’r alone,
I consecrate my all.
Rule thou supreme within my heart,
Oh, God of righteousness!
That I may bring thy healing balm,
To others in distress.
LET US GET BACK TO GOD
Oh, men and women, high and low,
Who ev’ry path have trod,
And know not whither now to go,
Let us get back to God!
The world is full of dark unrest,
Of woe and strife and sin,
Of hearts, hard, bitter and distressed,
Worn out with problems grim.
And women wailing drearily,
And men with fury red,
Their hands o’erfilled with luxury,
And yet they cry for bread.
They see not blessings when they come;
They’re blinded by unrest;
Their lips to gratitude are dumb,
They know not happiness.
Dark Envy with his blighting train
Is sweeping through the land.
And peace and happiness lay slain
Beneath his blasting hand.
Men covet talent, wealth and fame,
And join in envy’s strife,
Neglecting gifts God gave to them,
To make a useful life.
They scorn the simple laws he gave,
To make the least sublime,
And so o’er earth there sweeps a wave
Of restlessness, and crime.
No pow’r on earth can stay this tide,
Or lift us from the clod,
No pow’r on earth nor ocean wide,
Let us get back to God!
The God Who e’er did sovereign hold,
Though earthly monarchs fell;
The God of Abraham of old,
The God of Israel.
The mighty God who ever leads
His hosts to victory,
And heals their wounds, supplies their needs,
Unless they disobey.
But ever since the world began,
When nations hold their sway,
Regardless of Jehovah’s plan,
He turns his face away.
He turns His face away and then—
Behold Confusion’s reign!
Of war and pestilence and sin,
Unrest, and greed for gain.
And nowhere find they happiness,
But ’neath His staff and rod,
With all our problems and unrest,
Let us get back to God!
FAINT HEART
You say you love the lady fair,
Your heart is full of woe;
I wonder if, oh craven heart,
You’ve ever told her so!
You blame her for her haughty pride,
And say she ought to know;
I blame you for your cowardice
If you’ve not told her so.
And even if she’s heard your sighs,
And thinks your love is true,
If you have never said a word,
What can the lady do?
Despite the many theories
And all the notions new,
The modest maid still waits, until
Her lover comes to woo.
So if you ask me for advice,
I say with ne’er a doubt,
That if your love is worth the name,
You’ll write or speak it out.
THE MOTHERS DEAR
The mothers dear: God bless them
The mothers young and fair;
The mothers dear: God bless them!
With silver in their hair.
The mothers dear: God bless them!
The mothers old and young,
Throughout all generations
Their praises will be sung.
The men of ev’ry station,
Wealth, poverty and fame,
When asked to judge the mother,
Their verdict is the same.
We hear from highest places
Familiar words, but true:
“I owe to my dear mother
The worthy deeds I do.”
We hear another saying:
Who trod the whirlwind’s track,
“My mother’s love and counsel
Found me and brought me back.”
And to their testimonies,
We gladly add our own:
That our own faithful mother
Was sweetest ever known.
And while with grateful homage
The mothers’ praise we sing,
Let’s breathe a prayer for that one
Who has no wedding ring.
MORE THlAN NINETY YEARS
On the ninety-first anniversary of Union
Baptist Church, Cincinnati, Ohio.
If they could be with us today,
As we review the work we’ve done,
I wonder, friends, what they would say,
Those veterans of ’31.
They wrought when hope was burning low
For men of color in this land;
Before God struck with mighty blow,
And slavery fell beneath his hand.
And still they wrought with courage strong,
This little band of freemen true,
And proved they, to the doubting throng,
What this down-trodden race could do.
They dared to do what colored men
Of weaker courage dared not do—
They strove to be intelligent,
And still unto their God be true.
God understood for What they strove
And stooped to cherish and protect:
For one of Satan’s strongest foes,
Is God-directed intellect.
So this church struggled on and grew,
Her battle e’er for God and right;
With aim still high and ideals true,
She stands today, a beacon light!
Yes all these years this church has stood;
Those early warriors are gone;
Yet all these years, the fight for good,
Has e’er been bravely carried on.
The years will pass, and still she’ll stand;
Though she has faults, yet she will win;
For ev’ry church, as ev’ry man,
Must battle with besetting sin.
’Tis trusting God that cleaves the way;
She’s trusted more than ninety years;
Were those old founders here today,
They would be smiling through their tears.
RAYMOND G. DANDRIDGE
Cincinnati’s Invalid Poet
An angel came to scatter gifts
Among earth’s restless throng,
And to this noble invalid,
He gave the gift of song.
So lying helpless, on his couch,
He sings from day to day,
Despite discouragement and pain
That press him constantly.
Too brave to beat with helpless wings
Against his prison bars—
God gave those helpless wings the strength
To soar among the stars.
For with his book of verse in hand,
We read it page by page,
And think: Birds sing t'heir sweetest songs
Oft times within a cage.
He fights his battle with a strength,
We scarce can understand;
Despite his helplessness and pain,
He’s every inch a man.
I DREAM
I dream, I dream;
I dream because it’s sweet to dream;
I know the dream will ne’er come true,
Another’s voice is calling you,
And you will answer “yes” some day,
And follow him where e’er he may.
And yet, I dream.
I dream, I dream;
I dream because hope is not dead;
It still lives on; I know not why;
For well I know some day ’twill die,
And I shall feel a stab of pain,
And know I can not dream again;
Till then, I dream.
BUT HERE BY HIS SIDE IT IS CALM
We press close, close to the Master,
And “Lead us Lord” we pray;
For out in the world the storm -beats hard,
And many are losing their way.
Out there is the boom of the thunder,
And the clouds are sweeping low;
The cries of the lost and the wounded,
As, staggering on, they go.
Out there with no guide for their footsteps,
For their bleeding hearts no balm,
Out there the storm rages fiercely,
But here by His side it is calm.
Out there where the fierce storm is raging,
Men sell their souls for gain;
And women forget they are women,
In the strife for things that are vain.
Out there are soldiers who follow
But ever afar from their Guide;
They know not the blessed communion,
Of those who keep close to his side.
'Tis there that we learn how His presence,
Can brighten the darkness of night,
Why he tells us his yoke is easy,
The burden He gives us is light.
CHILDHOOD AND MAY
Far, far adown the aisles of time,
The sprites are dancing merrily.
Their faces beam, their bright eyes shine,
But lo! tis but a memory.
A memory of childhood days,
When earth was full of sprites and fays.
They blightely walked the woodland ways;
Or scampered through the waving grass,
And peeping out, with cunning gaze,
Would watch the happy children pass.
So very near, yet out of sight;
Ah, cunning were those childhood sprites.
And bears were wise in those fair days,
They were not always rough and wild,
Oft times they’d take a child to raise,
And how we longed to be that child!
Ah happy thought! ambition rare,
To be reared by good Mother Bear.
And oh, the springtime of that day!
The season to our hearts most dear.
And springtime’s crown—the first of May,
The sweetest day in all the year.
May Day, with skies forever fair,
And scent of blossoms everywhere.
And how the birds sang in the trees!
Such songs ne’er now from bird throats rise
Such humming insects, buzzing bees,
Such gorgeous flowers and butterflies!
No wonder fairies, sprites and fays,
Roamed o’er the earth on those May Days.
We did not dance in childish glee,
Around the May pole on that day,
But happy as the birds were we,
And celebrated our own way.
May Day we cast our shoes aside.
And barefoot, trod the meadows wide.
Such races, such athletic feats!
Then, that our feet from weights were free.
Our field day program was complete,
And light of foot as deer were we.
While those who did not love such play,
Roamed through the woods the livelong day.
Ah, far adown the aisles of time,
The sprites are dancing merrily.
Their faces beam, their bright eyes shine,
They’re keepers of our memory!
Our memory of childhood time,
When earth was full of mirth and rhyme.
A CALL TO SERVICE
He bids me rise; he bids me go
To grapple with the mighty foe;
He bids me speak; he bids me stand,
I dare not counter his command,
For He’s my God, my king.
I go, though round my path the darts
Fall thick and fast—may pierce my heart;
I dare not falter in the fight,
He bids me stand— the God of Might,
And He’s my Lord, my king.
I go, though see I not the way,
I go; my task is to obey;
The mighty God who gave me breath,
’Tis His to give me life or death,
Mine to obey my King.
A voice above the roaring sea
Says naught of harm shall come to me,
And though sometimes my courage fails,
I know ’tis but the flesh that quails,
My soul says: “All is well.”
And so with all my strength I go,
To grapple with the mighty foe;
The foe that fain would crush my race;
I meet him boldly face to face;
I fear not his ferocity
For God is mightier than he,
And in his strength I’ll win.
BEREAVEMENT
The Angel of Death claims our loved ones;
He claims them again and again;
But we never get used to the partings,
And we never get used to the pain;
So our hearts are, heavy—so heavy
And our tears are falling like rain.
So dear to our hearts are our loved ones,
And each holds a place all his own;
A place that belongs to no other
We ever shall know, or have known,
And a place forever is vacant
When one from the circle has flown.
No wonder we weep when death calls them,
E’en though we know they’re at rest;
No wonder the Father bends closer
That we may lean on his breast;
For the hardest of all of life’s lessons
Is: learning His way is the best.
WHAT MEAN THIS BLEATING OF THE SHEEP?
And Samuel said, What meaneth then this
bleating of the sheep in mine ears, and the lowing
of the oxen which I hear?
1 Samuel 15:14.
America, proud freedom’s land,
Thy flag is trailing in the dust!
Where are thy boasted precepts grand,
Thy pledge of faith: “In God We Trust?”
Thou criest to the world’s oppressed,
Who stretch to thee appealing hands,
“Come hither, come! here end thy quest,
Thou’lt find a refuge in this land.”
“This land of love and liberty,
Far-famed in history and song;
Where Justice holds supremacy,
Where God is feared and faith is strong.”
Oh, cease thy boasting freedom’s land!
’Twere sweeter far to hear thee weep;
If thou hast heeded God’s command,
What mean this bleating of the sheep?
Thy founders fled, with hearts aflame
With freedom’s fire, across the waves;
Ere long, to them the Tempter came,
And offered them a band of slaves.
Alas! they failed, those founders proud,
And as they gained in freedom’s power,
There followed ever, like a cloud,
The shadow of that testing hour.
And when they stood, from England free,
A voice came from that shadow deep,
E’en while they shouted “Victory”,
“What mean this bleating of the sheep?”
For lo! they rose at Freedom’s call,
And rent their galling chains away,
But left the black man still a thrall,
Without a hope of Freedom’s day.
Arid so that warning shadow spread,
Until it covered all the land;
And civil war, the nation’s dread,
Clutched at its throat with bloody hands.
And brother strove with brother then,
Upon that awful field of blood,
Until the fettered African,
Before the world, a free man stood.
Alas! they did not loose his bands
Because they hated slavery.
But that their fair united land,
Might ever undivided be.
And so they broke the galling chains,
And bade the African go free;
But cast a stigma on his name,
That blighted all his liberty.
In this great Freedom’s land he saw
That other nations refuge found,
While prejudice’s cruel law
In chains of thralldom held him bound.
He saw the laws that make men free,
For him grow feeble from disuse;
And boasted Christian charity
Sink to oppression and abuse.
Again we hear the solemn words,
Forerunner of King Saul’s defeat—
“What mean this lowing of the herds,
What mean this bleating of the sheep?”
For more than fifty years have passed,
Since you declared the black man free,
And still your fetters hold him fast,
Bound in that other slavery.
You care not that he’s proved his worth,
You care not for his loyalty;
The land that gave the black man birth
Has proved his deadly enemy.
You block his pathway to success,
By force, deceit, and strategy;
And oft your brutal prejudice,
Finds outlet in the mob’s wild sway.
You cause’for mobs you’d glorify:
The black man’s crime ’gainst womanhood.
And while you flaunt the baleful lie,
You hound the women of his blood.
Yes, hound them till you bring them low,
Protected by your laws unjust;
Then call them vile names, when you know
They’re but the victims of your lust.
How dare you boast of chivalry,
And haste to shed the black man’s blood,
While you, like wolves, feast greedily
On unprotected womanhood?
You, lifting guilty hands to God,
Vow universal liberty;
While ’neath your feet, the trampled sod
Reeks with the blood of tyranny.
Your brother’s blood, though dark his face,
Shed by the fiendish mob’s decree;
His crime? A member of that race
You’ve held long years in slavery.
You dragged him, bleeding, through the streets.
To where you’d built a ghastly pyre;
You tortured him like savage beasts,
Then cast him, living, in the fire.
Your mothers with their babes were there,
To view that feast of fire and blood;
Your sisters, wives and sweethearts fair,
God pity such base womanhood!
Oh proud, vain women of the South,
You also have a work to do!
For jealous pride has sealed your mouths
Till you’ve become the victims too.
Too proud to own your sister’s wrongs,
Or say your men do aught amiss,
You languish in your broken homes,
Or join in revels such as this.
Yes, revels that should make you blush;
Instead, you lend a helping hand
To make your lauded Sunny South
The fest’ring plague spot of the land.
Arise! Arise! count not the cost!
Where is your boasted Southern fire?
That nation is forever lost
Whose women sink into the mire.
America, proud freedom’s land,
Your flag is trailing in the dust!
Where are your boasted precepts grand,
Your pledge of faith: “In God We Trust?”
Did you thus trust Almighty God,
The blacks would have their liberty;
Nor would you wait until His rod
Drives you again to set them free.
How dare you say you trust your God,
And keep your mob and Ku Klux Klan?
Did you thus trust Almighty God,
You’d scourge the monsters from the land!
Had you such faith, your Freedom’s vow,
You made to God, you’d dare to keep;
And He would not be asking now:
“What mean this bleating of the sheep?”
He asked that question years ago,
And well you know the price you paid;
Your streaming blood, your cries of woe,
A bitter lamentation made.
He speaks again; you’ll not obey;
You raise weak arms against his might,
But soon there’ll come a bitter day
When he will scourge you to the right.
E’en now your wards from foreign lands,
Are forging chains of Anarchy;
And while you chain the African,
They’ll bind you in their slavery.
You welcome knaves to liberty,
But scorn the loyal African;
You’ll learn the worth of loyalty,
When Anarchy invades the land.
Beware, America, the proud!
Thou’lt surely bitter harvest reap;
Once more there comes in accents loud:
“What mean this bleating of the sheep?”
Seek not like King Saul by device
An answer to that question deep;
Who said it was for sacrifice,
He spared the cattle and the sheep.
For God beheld his sinful heart,
And spoke the words of doom to S$ul;
Unless thou from this sin depart,
America, thou too, shalt fall!
OUR SIDE OF THE RACE PROBLEM
I come to you, my countrymen,
Come with and earnest plea,
I pray the God of Israel,
That you’ll lend ear to me.
For, like those murm’ring men of old,
You wander in distress;
You’ve left Egyptian slavery,
To find the wilderness.
You’ve left the land of Pharaoh,
And deem that you are free,
But lo! a hundred foes arise,
To claim your liberty.
I speak not of the barriers,
Your proud White brothers place,
I’m speaking of the deadly foes,
That rise in your own race.
Division, lust and slavishness,
Envy and jealousy.
Your disrespect for your own race,
And lack of charity.
The proud white man betrays your trust,
Your faith he never blunts.
Him you forgive a hundred times,
Your poor black brother—once.
You gladly see the white man rise
To wealth or to renown,
But when a black man fain would rise,
Your envy drags him down.
You care not for the pain you give,
Your motto seems to be:
“No colored man upon this earth
Shall be ahead of me.”
How can we rise if none excel?
Where will our leaders be?
Our envy and our selfishness
Destroy our unity.
We cannot be the Christian race
That we profess to be,
And lack the greatest grace of all,
The grace of charity.
’Tis easier to close our eyes
And soar in heavenly flight,
Than plod along life’s rugged way
And treat each other right.
But though we soar in rhapsody,
And view the realms above,
We’ll fail—and we shall always fail,
Until we learn to love.
You say more faith and joy and hope
Than any race have we;
The Bible says that these are naught,
Devoid of charity.
That charity that envieth not,
That’s patient, true and kind;
Sweet charity! the only grace
Our scattered race can bind.
Oh be not like the Pharisees,
Who other faiths abhorred,
And placed their faith above all men’s—
Then crucified their Lord.
You say that slav’ry’s blasting- curse
Still has you in its toils;
E’en though it be, yours is the task
To loose the serpent’s coils.
Despite the white man’s prejudice,
Despite his treachery,
You still will cast your race aside,
To give him loyalty.
The white man comes with lustful love,
A deadly serpent’s slime,
You deem it honor and romance,
When it but leads to crime.
You give the children of such love
A high and honored place;
You scorn the black man’s baseborn child,
And shrink from that disgrace.
While white men’s blood at any cost,
You count among your gains,
They hate your blood, and brand the man
With one drop in his veins.
Oh friends of mine, how can you rise
To power and liberty,
With such distorted slavish views
Of pride and chastity.
How can you rise? how can you rise
With such a weight as this?
You sanction by your self-disdain
The white man’s prejudice.
You would the white man’s equal be,
With strength his onslaughts meet.
Then ’stead of standing at his side,
You grovel at his feet.
What gain you by your servile mein,
Your meek and lowly place?
For when you kneel to shun his blows
He kicks you in the face.
Arise! Arise! stand on your feet,
For take this truth from me:
No nation e’er has yet been known
To crawl to liberty.
The law may give us equal rights,
The boon our nation craves,
But if we stand not on our feet,
We’re still the white man’s slaves.
God made all nations of one blood,
And we his servants be,
Then dare we cast his word aside,
And bow to man’s decree?
You call it by a gentler name,
And hope to ’scape the rod—
Wrong will be wrong and sin be sin,
As long as God is God.
Whenever God gives a command
He gives strength to obey,
’Tis only wlien our faith is weak,
We fail to find the way.
Then rise, ye men of pure black blood,
And mixed blood—brothers all,
Away with slavish vanities,
Arise at manhood’s call!
Your people, in the foeman’s toils,
Cry out for liberty,
Yours is the task, to rise like men,
And help them to be free.
Cast envy and intrigue aside;
Join in the nobler strife—
Help your divided race to rise
Into the broader life.
Yours is the task their rights to gain,
Their safety to secure,
And fight as other men have fought,
To keep your women pure.
Your women! oh ’tis God alone,
Knows what they’ve had to bear,
Of slavery’s curse, and aftermath
They’ve had a double share.
Your arms by slav’ry paralyzed,
Have proved a feeble stay,
In consequence, too oft, too oft
They’ve been the white man’s prey.
But when you learn to stand like men,
To cherish and protect.
To sympathize instead of blame,
You’ll win their deep respect.
’Tis only by the power of God,
That they have bravely stood,
And kept their courage and their faith,
Their strength and womanhood.
Your women! oh you need not fear,
That they will not be true,
For when you bravely lead the way,
They’ll gladly follow you.
And now be patient, friends of mine,
I have just one more plea,
God bids me speak, and oh my friends
I dare not silent be.
My plea to ministers of God:
You too must take your stand,
And teach your people what it means
To be a godly man.
If God has called you from the world,
His ministers to be,
Then walk before the world like men
Of strength and purity.
’Tis true that Satan often hurls
His sharpest darts your way,
But if you truly trust in God,
You need not be his prey.
God holds his children safe within
The hollow of his hand;
Then if he’s called you to his work,
He’ll give you grace to stand.
For shepherds cannot lead their flocks
The straight and narrow way,
While they themselves are wandering,
And going far astray.
Men wonder why so oft you fail,
When comes the crucial hour—
You sacrifice sincerity,
And godliness for power.
Led on by pride, you often make,
A lordship of your call,
When Christ has said: that he who leads
Must servant be of all.
Know you what meant he when he said:
Leaders must servants be?
He meant: They serve their fellowmen,
With Christ’s humility.
Humility that makes all tasks
However great or small,
A noble service for our God,
Who’s king and Lord of all.
And oh you ministers give heed,
Or God, who understands,
Will give the task He’s given you,
Into more faithful hands.
Lead on your flocks, oh men of God,
And this your watchword be:
All glory to the King of kings,
Who gives us victory.
Teach them to truly worship God,
Not idle dreamers be;
Help them to learn the law of love,
And live consistently.
Lead on! and may God give you strength
And courage to endure;
For if a fallen race would rise,
Her prophets must be pure.
THE BONDS OF SERVICE
We strain at the chains that bind us,
And struggle to be free;
We’d leave our burdens behind us,
And fly to liberty.
We’d cast off the things that fret us,
The trials hard to bear,
The many cares that beset us,
The duties ever near.
Yet, somewhere I’ve heard so truly,
The echo still remains,
That he who would live life nobly,
Is bound by a hundred claims.
And only those who are selfish
Can boast full liberty,
How noble the bonds of service!
Why struggle to be free?
SHE PRAYED
One morning in the long ago,
I stole in from my play,
But paused beside the open door
To hear my mother pray.
My mother who had lain so long,
Upon a bed of pain,
And knew full well that health and strength,
Would ne’er be hers again.
She prayed; I stood in childish awe
And listened to her prayer;
She prayed as only mothers pray,
She knew not I was there.
She prayed for her three little girls,
Such tiny maids were we;
I wondered vaguely at her fears,
Too young the path to see.
She prayed; awestruck, I listened there;
She told God all her fears,
As I stole back to play again.
That prayer was in my ears.
The memory of many things,
Slipped from my childish brain.
But oh, the mem’ry of that prayer,
Forever shall remain.
One little maiden stole away,
Ere two short years had gone,
And joined the mother whom she loved *
The others journeyed on.
And when I see how safe they’ve come,
Through all the changing years,
I whisper with a grateful heart:
“God heard my mother’s prayers.”
SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE
Sometime, somewhere in ev’ry life,
There comes the need of God;
We may not recognize the truth,
Or cast it off in pride of youth
Or manhood’s sophistry,
But there can be no substitute
When comes that need of God.
Along life’s beach what wrecks are strewn,
And ships have gone to ports unknown
Tossed by storms that prevail,
When man bows not his stubborn will,
Nor lets the Master say “Be still,”
To winds that toss and flail.
Sometime, somewhere, in ev’ry life
There comes the need of God;
Where e’er you be, whoe’er you are,
Your ship will have a broken spar,
Your life will bear imperfect fruit,
If seek you for a substitute,
When comes that need of God.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
Scot dashed into his sick wife’s room;
“What’s happened Dick?” she said.
Breathless, he flung a heavy sack
Beneath his sick wife’s bed.
He scarce had time to turn around,
For in two minutes more,
The farmers close upon his heels,
Were knocking at his door.
“Dick Scot, we’ve come to search your house!
’Bout caught you in the trick;
Come now, you needn’t say a word,
We’re goin’ to do it Dick!”
“Well, search de house den, ef you will,
An’ git thu wid it quick,
But don’t you dah to search dat room
Wha’ my po‘ wife lays sick.”
“Scot, you had chickens in that sack,
You know as well as I,
You bought your groceries yesterday,
We ain’t goin’ let you by.
“We count on searching ev’ry room,
For Jones here saw you run;
I’ll bet you’ve hid the chickens there”—
Scot sprang and seized his gun.
Then standing in the sick room door,
With blazing eyes, said Scot:
“De fust man steps across dis sill,
I shoots him on de spot!
“I know you’s got no ’spects fah me,
I know you, ev’ry one;
Ef I cain’t check you wid my words,
I’ll Check you wid my gun.
“01’ Dick Scot knows a thing er two;
You whitefolks ain’t de law;
You come hyar try’n to play wid me,
You’ll find de lion’s paw.
“Yes search de house! Yes search de house!
Who keers fur ol’ black Dick?
But don’t you dah to come in hyar,
Wha’ my po’ wife lays sick.”
The farmers searched the other rooms
And, grumbling, went away;
Scot packed his things that very night,
And moved to town next day.
He knew the alley where he’d go
The farmers never went,
So on the air, as he drove off,
A ringing laugh he sent.
“Shame on you Dick;” his sick wife said;
‘Well honey, whut’s de use,
Nigh all we git fum dese white folks
Is scoffin’ an’ abuse.”
No neighbors near, none saw him go;
And when three days had gone
They came—and found the house and yard,
With feathers overstrewn.