Egbert Martin (Leo), "The Negro Village" (1883)
The little village smiles a slow adieu
Unto our day lord dying in the west,
The brooding sky is of a chastened hue,
It is an hour of universal rest;
And humble cotters° throng the door
To interchange in quaintest lore
The superstitious tale with eager zest.
The artless children gambol in their play,
Spin round the giddy ring, or join in song,
Or haply wile the fleet-winged hours away
In rustic sports that please their noisy throng,
Outpouring their abundant might
In shouts of pleasure and delight
That hold the voice of echo loud and long.
Toil-wearied sires, in contemplation, view
Their playful offspring with excessive pride,
Give now a smile, an admonition due,
Or some contentive dispute eke [also] decide;
Directing here the busy game,
With words of praise, or whispered blame,
A temporary judge and lenient guide.
See how love’s filial dew steals o’er the face
Of yonder dusky mother — youthful wife —
And wreathes it with an indescribable grace,
Its simplest gift to every walk of life;
Her pleasant gaze divides its glee
’Tween husband fond and children free,
Joys at their joy, and sorrows at their strife.
And yet there are, who will in strength maintain,
The negro heart is foreign to all thought
Which breathes of hopeful love, affection’s reign,
Or nobler passions in the bosom wrought;
Such reason in a blind conceit,
Where prejudice and false pride meet,
Yea! man is man with all emotions fraught.
Their hearts can love with all the lavish strength,
Impetuous fervour of ungoverned will,
Running unbroken to its utmost length:
Passion’s frenzy, but pure love’s offspring still;
Unweaned by cold decorum’s laws,
Cleaving persistent to its cause,
Free and natural as the mountain rill.
Hard by a mutt’ring hag at ease reclines,
Like some poor stranded wreck, unfit for sea;
That, having played its part, no longer shines
In pride of strength, but rests all peacefully,
Worn with the toil and struggle past,
Serenely waiting death’s cold blast,
That soon will lay her form for ever by.
The children shun her withered face and mien,
Or if they gaze, stern awe directs the look;
For in those battered lineaments is seen
The mystic lore of superstition’s book;
Their untaught hearts accord to age,
The wisdom of some wizard sage,
Whose boundless power no mortal thing will brook.
While with just thought enough to know she lives,
The agèd grandam heeds nor old, nor young;
But ever and again some proverb gives
That in her youthful days was said or sung,
Repeating o’er and o’er the rune,
Until it grows a weary tune,
Like bells in monotonous cadence rung.
And soon some youth to music’s rapture leal°,
With deep accordion wakes a lively air,
In thrilling numbers of the sprightly reel,
Or quick fandango to the negro dear;
Nodding his woolly head in time,
As if in measure keeping rhyme,
Unto the tramping feet now here, now there
Wild with delight, the urchins prance and bound,
Now with a peacock’s stride strut to and fro;
Now in a circle hand in hand spin round,
Then up and down in wild disorder go,
With clapping hands and hearty mirth,
As if for them this care-fed earth
Knew not the bitter pangs of toil and woe.
O weighted hearts! be lightsome for a while;
O toiling hands! rest for one little hour;
O happy faces! wear your happiest smile;
O voices! laugh and shout with all your power;
Your hearts do bear opprobrium’s scorn;
Free heirs to toil, in error born;
Disdain, your birthright — Ignorance, your dower.
All ills to thee earth’s happier sons accord,
They paint thee ‘neath thy native vales and skies,
Dark, indolent, and one to be abhorred,
Unfeeling, thankless, savage, and unwise.
Perhaps there is a vein of truth,
But hadst thou guides unto thy youth,
How bright would beam the light that in thee lies!
E’en now the bard can point to one who stands
A fair ensample of the hidden worth
Concealed within your poor, downtrodden bands,
As diamonds hidden lie beneath the earth,
Awaiting but a hand to tear
The dross away, and leave it fair,
An ornament unto the home and hearth.
Yet let us trust the Gospel’s levelling breath,
And holy ray of charity supreme,
Will raise the negro from his night of death,
And light his heart with learning’s grateful beam;
Will teach him that his simple fears,
His dark beliefs, his mystic cares,
Are but the base delusions of a dream;
Will teach him to revere that gentler might
That seems to him effeminate and weak,
That noblest of all virtues is the right,
Which holds its greatest strength in being meek;
Like to the camel bending low,
Through poor humility to go
Unto the restful haven it would seek.
“I bear them record,” as the Apostle said,
Of worthy zeal, when brought into the road
Which leads from superstition’s folly spread,
Unto the home celestial of our God.
Their hearts are rivers flowing wide,
Awaiting but a kindly guide
To turn their course to wisdom’s fertile sod.
When Sunday’s stillness wraps the earth around
In that calm beauty local to the day;
When all is peace — and every harsher sound
To more congenial regions flies away;
When all the village seems asleep,
So quietly the hours creep
In slow procession to the twilight’s grey,
A humble preacher gathers those anear,
Just as they are without the pride of dress;
Invades each cranny for a bench or chair,
To make the pleaded difficulties less,
Gives forth some well known hymn of praise,
And invitation to the ways,
Being found wherein, the Lord will surely bless;
Then ‘neath a palm-tree’s overhanging boughs,
That graceful droop upon the silent wind,
In all the freedom which the scene allows,
The scanty number some meek station find,
While with a mien sedate and grave,
The preacher speaks God’s power to save
In simplest language from his simple mind;
He tells them of the awful deeds of sin,
And from his own past life some story takes,
O’er which he glows, with fervour from within,
That now a tear and now a deep sigh wakes,
As ever from the throng is heard
Some softly muttered, rueful word,
That half contrition, half regret partakes.
He warns against believing in the spell
Whose very name brings terror to each breast,
Dread Obeah, the foulest weed of hell,
The awful foe to pure, inspiring rest:
He tells them God’s omnific power
Will shield them from life’s dawning hour,
Until death claims the spirit for its guest.
It is not vain delusion to believe
Pure angels joy o’er such a work as this,
For earnest hearts which toil anew and grieve,
Hereafter is preserved the purer bliss;
The life which knows no end, no close,
The everlasting, blest repose,
No tears — no sorrows — nothing more amiss.
O holy joy — O purer life desired! —
Who would not brave the world’s poor scorn to be,
When flesh and spirit, head and heart grow tired,
Received into your bright eternity?
O life that earth can never give!
Upon thy praise I fain would live,
While thy fair light for evermore I see!
Anon! as darkness spreads her gloomy wing,
And deeper stillness clothes the welkin round,
While e’en the breezes scarcely seem to sing,
So low and mournful is the solemn sound,
The preacher kneels upon the sod,
And pours his simple prayer to God,
With trembling voice and earnestness profound:
Then, rising, bids his little flock adieu,
With leisured step pursues his homeward way;
Leaving behind a comfort warm and true,
As twilight beams outlive the parted day.
When night, as if to bless the hour,
Throws downward in a golden shower,
The distant light of stars in fair array.
Now like a bird the village nestles down,
Through open windows gleams each flick’ring light,
Athwart the air from some distant way is blown
The note of owls that roam the silent night,
While through the portals of the east,
The moon, like some devoted priest,
Arises, decked in gleaming robes of white.
Sleep! village, sleep! like yonder rising moon,
The “Son of Man” shall come in greater might.
Time groweth old, and life’s grey afternoon
Proclaims the coming shadow of its night.
But its unending morrow,
Will hold nor wrong nor sorrow,
Where hope and faith will change to love and light
From Leo's Poetical Works, 1883