James D. Corrothers, "Juny at the Gate" (1902)
By clambering vines of ivy now,
Once, as the sun sunk in the west,
A young girl stood with anxious brow.
A fair, dark girl from whose deep eyes
The love-light beamed so tenderly,
And dripped like moonbeams from the skies,
When summer skies from clouds are free.
Her soft curls clustered 'round her head,
And clasped her fair form tenderly;
And her full lips were ripe and red
As cherries on their native tree.
Beneath her feet a river flowed
Kissing its silent shores adieu;
Beyond, adown a dusky road,
She watched a dim form fade from view.
Her brother! he had kissed her cheek,
And whispered: "Wait down here for me.”
She pressed his hand, but did not speak,
And waited for him silently.
The gathering night frowned black and grim,
Like glaring eyes the red stars burned;
And still she waited there for him,
Who never, nevermore returned.
The wind moaned like a restless ghost,
The stream sobbed like a broken heart;
And still she lingered at her post,
With fluttering breast and lips apart.
Ah well would they who checked his pace,
In other days than slavery's reign,
Have loosed him, had they seen the face
Of Juny waiting him in vain.
But O! fell Slavery's cruel chain
Loosed not a captive that it bound;
But tightened at each cry of pain,
To goad its victim's rankling wound.
Moons waxed and waned--long years rolled on,
Long, cruel years of toil and pain
Seed-time and harvest-time had gone,
And yet he never came again.
And yet, with melancholy face,
And massy, dark, disheveled hair,
Each night, in the old meeting place,
Stood lovely Juny, waiting there.
O that was in the long ago,
And Love, remembering, sadly weeps!
Now, by the yellow, swift Yazoo,
Where long she watched, sweet Juny sleeps.
The warm sun shines, the grasses wave,
Ivy and musk-grape haunt the spot;
Wild songsters sing above the grave,
But the lone sleeper waketh not.
No troublous thoughts nor earthly care.
Shall pain that gentle heart again;—.
The only sigh that murmurs there
Is "Peace on earth, good will to men."
Fail, song of mine, our leave we take;
Alas! O cruel slavery!
The tenderest heart that ever brake,
And none to tell the tale but me.
When long my rhyme shall be forgot,
Some bard this story will relate,
And master hands will paint the spot,
With Juny waiting at the gate.
Published in Colored American Magazine, May 1902