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• 1 2022-01-11T10:17:52-05:00 Paul Laurence Dunbar, "Majors and Minors" (Full Text) (1895) 3 plain 2022-07-24T09:21:40-04:00

  
  
  Paul Laurence Dunbar
  MAJORS AND MINORS
  
  Hadley & Hadley, Printers and Binders
  Toledo, Ohio
  1895
  
  
  Dedication: 
  
  
  As my first pipings were inscribed to her, it is fitting, as a further recognition of my love and obligation, that I should also dedicate these later songs to MY MOTHER
  
  
  
  IONE

  Part I

  Ah, yes, 't is sweet still to remember,
  Though 'twere less painful to forget;
  For while my heart glows like an ember,
  Mine eyes with sorrow's drops are wet,
  And, oh, my heart is aching yet.
  It is a law of mortal pain
  That old wounds, long accounted well,
  Beneath the memory's potent spell,
  Will wake to life and bleed again.

  So 'tis with me; it might be better,
  If I should turn no look behind,--
  If I could curb my heart, and fetter
  From reminiscent gaze my mind,
  Or let my soul go blind--go blind!
  But would I do it if I could?
  Nay! Ease at such a price were spurned,
  For, since my love was once returned,
  All that I suffer seemeth good.

  I know, I know it is the fashion,
  When love has left some heart distressed,
  To weight the air with wordful passion:
  But I am glad that in my breast
  I ever held so dear a guest.
  Love does not come at every nod,
  Or every voice that calleth "hasten,"
  He seeketh out some heart to chasten,
  And whips it, wailing up to God!

  Love is no random road wayfarer
  Who where he may must sip his glass.
  Love is the King, the Purple-wearer,
  Whose guard recks not of tree or grass
  To blaze the way that he may pass.
  What if my heart be in the blast
  That heralds his triumphant way;
  Shall I repine, shall I not say:
  "Rejoice, my heart, the King has passed!"

  In life, each heart holds some sad story--
  The saddest ones are never told.
  I too, have dreamed of fame and glory,
  And viewed the future bright with gold;
  But that is as a tale long told.
  Mine eyes have lost their youthful flash,
  My cunning hand has lost its art;
  I am not old, but in my heart
  The ember lies beneath the ash.

  I loved! Why not? My heart was youthfu],
  My mind was filled with healthy thought.
  He doubts not whose own self is truthful,
  Doubt by dishonesty is taught;
  So loved I boldly, fearing naught.
  I did not walk this lowly earth;
  Mine was a newer, higher sphere,
  Where youth was long and life was dear,
  And all save love was little worth.

  Her likeness! Would that I might limn it,
  As Love did with enduring art;
  Nor dust of days, nor death may dim it,
  Where it lies graven on my heart,
  Of this sad fabric of my life a part.
  I would that I might paint her now
  As I beheld her in that day,
  Ere her first bloom had passed away,
  And left the lines upon her brow.

  A face serene that, beaming brightly,
  Disarmed the hot sun's glances bold.
  A foot that kissed the ground so lightly,
  He frowned in wrath and deemed her cold,
  But loved her still though he was old.
  A form where every maiden grace
  Bloomed to perfection's richest flow'r,--
  The statued pose of conscious pow'r,
  Like lithe-limbed Dian's of the chase.

  Beneath a brow too fair for frowning,
  Like moon-lit deeps that glass the skies
  Till all the hosts above seem drowning,
  Looked forth her steadfast hazel eyes,
  With gaze serene and purely wise.
  And over all, her tresses rare,
  Which, when with his desire grown weak,
  The Night bent down to kiss her cheek,
  Entrapped and held him captive there.

  This was Ione; a spirit finer
  Ne'er burned to ash its house of clay;
  A soul instinct with fire diviner
  Ne'er fled athwart the face of day,
  And tempted Time with earthly stay.
  Her loveliness was not alone
  Of face and form and tresses' hue;
  For aye a pure, high soul shone through
  Her every act: this was Ione.

  Part II

  'Twas in the radiant summer weather,
  When God looked, smiling, from the sky;
  And we went wand'ring much together
  By wood and lane, Ione and I,
  Attracted by the subtle tie
  Of common thoughts and common tastes,
  Of eyes whose vision saw the same,
  And freely granted beauty's claim,
  Where others saw but worthless wastes.

  We paused to hear the far bells ringing
  Across the distance, sweet and clear.
  We listened to the wild bird singing
  The song he meant for his mate's ear,
  And deemed our chance to do so, dear.
  We loved to watch the warrior Sun,
  With flaming shield and flaunting crest,
  Go striding down the gory West,
  When Day's long fight was fought and won.

  And life became a different story,
  Where'er I looked, I saw new light.
  Earth's self assumed a greater glory,
  Mine eyes were cleared to fuller sight.
  Then first I saw the need and might
  Of that fair band, the singing throng,
  Who, gifted with the skill, divine,
  Take up the threads of life, spun fine,
  And weave them into soulful song.

  They sung for me, whose passion pressing
  My soul, found vent in song nor line.
  They bore the burden of expressing
  All that I felt, with art's design,
  And every word of theirs was mine.
  I read them to Ione, ofttimes,
  By hill and shore, beneath fair skies,
  And she looked deeply in mine eyes,
  And knew my love spoke through their rhymes.

  Her life was like the stream that floweth,
  And mine was like the waiting sea;
  Her love was like the flower that bloweth,
  And mine was like the searching bee--
  I found her sweetness all for me.
  God plied him in the mint of time,
  And coined for us a golden day,
  And rolled it ringing down life's way
  With love's sweet music in its chime.

  And God unclasped the Book of Ages,
  And laid it open to our sight;
  Upon the dimness of its pages,
  So long consigned to rayless night,
  He shed the glory of his light.
  We read them well, we read them long,
  And ever thrilling did we see
  That love ruled all humanity,--
  The master passion, pure and strong.

  Part III

  To-day my skies are bare and ashen,
  And bend on me without a beam.
  Since love is held the master-passion,
  Its loss must be the pain supreme--
  And grinning Fate has wrecked my dream.
  But pardon, dear departed Guest,
  I will not rant, I will not rail;
  For good the grain must feel the flail;
  There are whom love has never blessed.

  I had and have a younger brother,
  One whom I loved and love to-day
  As never fond and doting mother
  Adored the babe who found its way
  From heavenly scenes into her day.
  Oh, he was full of youth's new wine,--
  A man on life's ascending slope,
  Flushed with ambition, full of hope;
  And every wish of his was mine.

  A kingly youth; the way before him
  Was thronged with victories to be won;
  So joyous, too, the heavens o'er him
  Were bright with an unchanging sun,--
  His days with rhyme were overrun.
  Toil had not taught him Nature's prose,
  Tears had not dimmed his brilliant eyes,
  And sorrow had not made him wise;
  His life was in the budding rose.

  I know not how I came to waken,
  Some instinct pricked my soul to sight;
  My heart by some vague thrill was shaken,--
  A thrill so true and yet so slight,
  I hardly deemed I read aright.
  As when a sleeper, ign'rant why,
  Not knowing what mysterious hand
  Has called him out of slumberland,
  Starts up to find some danger nigh.

  Love is a guest that comes, unbidden,
  But, having come, asserts his right,
  He will not be repressed nor hidden.
  And so my brother's dawning plight
  Became uncovered to my sight.
  Some sound mote in his passing tone,
  Caught in the meshes of my ear;
  Some little glance, a shade too dear
  Betrayed the love he bore Ione.

  What could I do? He was my brother,
  And young, and full of hope and trust;
  I could not, dared not try to smother
  His flame, and turn his heart to dust.
  I knew how oft life gives a crust
  To starving men who cry for bread;
  But he was young, so few his days,
  He had not learned the great world's ways,
  Nor Disappointment's volumes read.

  However fair and rich the booty,
  I could not make his loss my gain.
  For love is dear, but dearer, duty,
  And here my way was clear and plain.
  I saw how I could save him pain.
  And so, with all my day grown dim,
  That this loved brother's sun might shine,
  I joined his suit, gave over mine,
  And sought Ione, to plead for him.

  I found her in an eastern bower,
  Where all day long the am'rous sun
  Lay by to woo a timid flower.
  This day his course was well nigh run,
  But still with lingering art he spun
  Gold fancies on the shadowed wall.
  The vines waved soft and green above,
  And there where one might tell his love,
  I told my pangs--I told her all.

  I told her all and as she hearkened,
  A tear-drop fell upon her dress.
  With grief her flushing brow was darkened;
  One sob that she could not repress
  Betrayed the depths of her distress.
  Upon her grief my sorrow fed,
  And I was bowed with unlived years,
  My heart swelled with a sea of tears,
  The tears my manhood could not shed.

  The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero,
  Disporting in the hour of doom.
  God made us men; times make the hero--
  But in that awful space of gloom,

  I gave no thought but sorrow's room.
  All--all was dim within that bow'r,
  What time the sun divorced the day;
  And all the shadows, glooming gray,
  Proclaimed the sadness of the hour.

  She could not speak--no word was needed;
  Her look, half strength and half despair,
  Told me I had not vainly pleaded,
  That she would not ignore my prayer.
  And so she turned and left me there,
  And as she went, so passed my bliss;
  She loved me, I could not mistake--
  But for her own and my love's sake,
  Her womanhood could rise to this.

  My wounded heart fled swift to cover,
  And life at times seemed very drear.
  My brother proved an ardent lover--
  What had so young a man to fear?
  He wed Ione within the year.
  No shadow clouds her tranquil brow,
  Men speak her husband's name with pride,
  While she sits honored at his side--
  She is--she must be happy now!

  I doubt the course I took no longer,
  Since those I love seem satisfied.
  The bond between them will grow stronger
  As they go forward, side by side;
  Then will my pains be justified.
  Their joy is mine, and that is best--
  I am not totally bereft;
  For I have still the mem'ry left--
  Love stopped with me--a Royal Guest!
   

  FREDERICK DOUGLASS

  A hush is over all the teeming lists,
  And there is pause, a breath-space in the strife;
  A spirit brave has passed beyond the mists
  And vapors that obscure the sun of life.
  And Ethiopia, with bosom torn,
  Laments the passing of her noblest born.

  She weeps for him a mother's burning tears--
  She loved him with a mother's deepest love
  He was her champion thro' direful years,
  And held her weal all other ends above.
  When Bondage held her bleeding in the dust,
  He raised her up and whispered, "Hope and Trust."

  For her his voice, a fearless clarion, rung
  That broke in warning on the ears of men;
  For her the strong bow of his pow'r he strung
  And sent his arrows to the very den
  Where grim Oppression held his bloody place
  And gloated o'er the mis'ries of a race.

  And he was no soft-tongued apologist;
  He spoke straight-forward, fearlessly uncowed;
  The sunlight of his truth dispelled the mist
  And set in bold relief each dark-hued cloud;
  To sin and crime he gave their proper hue,
  And hurled at evil what was evil's due.

  Thro' good and ill report he cleaved his way
  Right onward, with his face set toward the heights,
  Nor feared to face the foeman's dread array--
  The lash of scorn, the sting of petty spites.
  He dared the lightning in the lightning's track,
  And answered thunder with his thunder back.

  When men maligned him and their torrent wrath
  In furious imprecations o'er him broke,
  He kept his counsel as he kept his path;
  'Twas for his race, not for himself, he spoke.
  He knew the import of his Master's call
  And felt himself too mighty to be small.

  No miser in the good he held was he--
  His kindness followed his horizon's rim.
  His heart, his talents and his hands were free
  To all who truly needed aught of him.
  Where poverty and ignorance were rife,
  He gave his bounty as he gave his life.

  The place and cause that first aroused his might
  Still proved its pow'r until his latest day.
  In Freedom's lists and for the aid of Right
  Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray;
  Wrong lived; His occupation was not gone.
  He died in action with his armor on!

  We weep for him, but we have touched his hand,
  And felt the magic of his presence nigh,
  The current that he sent thro'out the land,
  The kindling spirit of his battle-cry
  O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet
  And place our banner where his hopes were set!

  Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore,
  But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale!
  Thou'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar
  And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail.
  She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry,
  She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh,
  And rising from beneath the chast'ning rod,
  She stretches out her bleeding hands to God!
  
   

  THE CHANGE HAS COME

  The change has come, and Helen sleeps--
  Not sleeps; but wakes to greater deeps
  Of wisdom, glory, truth and light,
  That ever blessed her seeking sight,
  In this low, long, lethargic night,
  Worn out with strife
  Which men call life.

  The change has come, and who would say?
  "I would it were not come to-day."
  What were the respite till to-morrow--
  Postponement of a certain sorrow,
  From which each passing day would borrow?
  Let grief be dumb,
  The change has come.
  
   

  A MADRIGAL

  Dream days of fond delight and hours,
  As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine.
  Love's drowsy wine,
  Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers,
  Flows warmly o'er my lips
  And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.

  There were no light if thou wert not;
  The sun would be too sad too shine,
  And all the line
  Of hours from dawn would be a blot;
  And Night would haunt the skies,
  An unlaid ghost with staring dark-ringed eyes.

  Oh, love if thou wert not my love,
  And I perchance not thine--what then?
  Could gift of men
  Or favor of the God above,
  Plant ought in this bare heart
  Or teach this tongue the singer's soulful art?

  Ah, no! 'Tis love, and love alone
  That spurs my soul so surely on;
  Turns night to dawn,
  And thorns to roses fairest blown;
  And winter drear to spring--
  Oh were it not for love I could not sing!
  
   

  WE WEAR THE MASK

  We wear the mask that grins and lies,
  It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
  This debt we pay to human guile;
  With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
  And mouth with myriad subtleties,

  Why should the world be over-wise.
  In counting all our tears and sighs?
  Nay, let them only see us, while
  We wear the mask.

  We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
  To thee from tortured souls arise.
  We sing, but oh the clay is vile
  Beneath our feet, and long the mile,
  But let the world dream otherwise,
  We wear the mask!
  
   

  THE POET AND HIS SONG

  A song is but a little thing,
  And yet what joy it is to sing.
  In hours of toil it gives me zest,
  And when at eve I long for rest;
  When cows come home along the bars,
  And in the fold I hear the bell,
  As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,
  I sing my song and all is well.

  There are no ears to hear my lays,
  No lips to lift a word of praise;
  But still with faith unfaltering,
  I live and laugh and love and sing.
  What matters yon unheeding throng?
  They cannot feel my spirit's spell,
  Since life is sweet and love is long,
  I sing my song and all is well.

  My days are never days of ease,
  I till my ground and prune my trees.
  When ripened gold is all the plain,
  I put my sickle to the grain.
  I labor hard and toil and sweat,
  While others dream within the dell;
  But even while my brow is wet,
  I sing my song and all is well.

  Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,
  My garden makes a desert spot.
  Sometimes a blight upon the tree
  Takes all my fruit away from me;
  And then with throes of bitter pain
  Rebellious passions rise and swell;
  But--life is more than fruit or grain,
  And so I sing, and all is well.
  
   

  ODE TO ETHIOPIA

  O Mother Race! to thee I bring
  This pledge of faith unwavering,
  This tribute to thy glory.
  I know the pangs which thou didst feel,
  When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,
  With thy dear blood all gory.

  Sad days were those--ah, sad indeed!
  But through the land the fruitful seed
  Of better times was growing.
  The plant of freedom upward sprung,
  And spread its leaves so fresh and young--
  Its blossoms now are blowing.

  On every hand in this fair land,
  Proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand
  Beside their fairer neighbor;
  The forests flee before their stroke,
  Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,--
  They stir in honest labor.

  They tread the fields where honor calls;
  Their voices sound through senate halls
  In majesty and power.
  To right they cling; the hymns they sing
  Up to the skies in beauty ring,
  And bolder grow each hour.

  Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul;
  Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll
  In characters of fire.
  High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky
  Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly,
  And truth shall lift them higher.

  Thou hast the right to noble pride,
  Whose spotless robes were purified
  By blood's severe baptism.
  Upon thy brow the cross was laid,
  And labor's painful sweat-beads made
  A consecrating chrism.

  No other race, or white or black,
  When bound, as thou wert, to the rack,
  So seldom stooped to grieving;
  No other race, when free again,
  Forgot the past and proved them men
  So noble in forgiving.

  Go on and up! Our souls and eyes
  Shall follow thy continuous rise;
  Our ears shall list thy story
  From bards who from thy root shall spring,
  And proudly tune their lyres to sing
  Of Ethiopia's glory.
  
   

  A DROWSY DAY

  The air is dark, the sky is gray,
  The misty shadows come and go,
  And here within my dusky room
  Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom.
  Outside the rain falls cold and slow,--
  Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

  Each slightest sound is magnified,
  For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
  The burnt stick on the fireplace breaks,
  The nodding cat with start awakes,
  And then to sleep drops off again,
  Unheeding Towser at her side.

  I look far out across the lawn,
  Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
  My work lies idle at my hands,
  My thoughts fly out like scattered strands
  Of thread, and on the verge of sleep--
  Still half awake--I dream and yawn.

  What spirits rise before my eyes!
  How various of kind and form!
  Sweet memories of days long past,
  The dreams of youth that could not last,
  Each smiling calm, each raging storm,
  That swept across my early skies.

  Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs
  Before my window sweep and sway,
  And chafe in tortures of unrest.
  My chin sinks down upon my breast;
  I cannot work on such a day,
  But only sit and dream and drowse.
  
   

  THE SPARROW

  A little bird, with plumage brown,
  Beside my window flutters down,
  A moment chirps its little strain,
  Then taps upon my window pane,
  And chirps again, and hops along,
  To call my notice to its song;
  But I work on, nor heed its lay,
  Till, in neglect, it flies away.

  So birds of peace and hope and love
  Come fluttering earthward from above,
  To settle on life's window sills,
  And ease our load of earthly ills;
  But we, in traffic's rush and din
  Too deep engaged to let them in,
  With deadened heart and sense plod on,
  Nor know our loss till they are gone.
  
   

  SUNSET

  The river sleeps beneath the sky,
  And clasps the shadows to its breast;
  The crescent moon shines dim on high;
  And in the lately radiant west
  The gold is fading into gray.
  Now stills the lark his festive lay
  And mourns with me the dying day,--

  While in the south the first faint star
  Lifts to the night its silver face,
  And twinkles to the moon afar
  Across the heaven's graying space;
  Low murmurs reach me from the town,
  As Day puts on her sombre crown,
  And shakes her mantle darkly down.
  
   

  COLUMBIAN ODE

  I

  Four hundred years ago a tangled waste
  Lay sleeping on the west Atlantic side;
  Their devious ways the Old World's millions traced
  Content, and loved, and labored, dared and died,
  While students still believed the charts they conned,
  And wallowed in their thriftless ignorance,
  Nor dreamed of other lands that lay beyond
  Old Ocean's dense, indefinite expanse.

  II

  But deep within her heart old Nature knew
  That she had once arrayed, at Earth's behest,
  Another offspring, fine and fair to view,--
  The chosen suckling of the mother's breast.
  The child was wrapped in vestments soft and fine,
  Each fold a work of Nature's matchless art;
  The mother looked on it with love divine,
  And strained the loved one closely to her heart.
  And there it lay, and with the warmth grew strong
  And hearty, by the salt sea breezes fanned,
  Till Time with mellowing touches passed along,
  And changed the infant to a mighty land.

  III

  But men knew naught of this, till there arose
  That mighty mariner, the Genoese,
  Who dared to try, in spite of fears and foes,
  The unknown fortunes of unsounded seas.
  O noblest of Italia's sons, thy bark
  Went not alone into that shrouding night.
  O dauntless darer of the rayless dark,
  The world sailed with thee to eternal light.
  The deer-haunts that with game were crowded then
  To-day are tilled and cultivated lands;
  The schoolhouse tow'rs where bruin had his den,
  And where the wigwam stood the chapel stands;
  The place that nurtured men of savage mien
  Now teems with men of Nature's noblest types;
  Where moved the forest-foliage banner green,
  Now flutters in the breeze the stars and stripes!

  October 21, 1892
  
  
   

  THE MEADOW LARK

  Though the winds be dank,
  And the sky be sober,
  And the grieving day
  In a mantle gray
  Hath let her waiting maiden robe her,--
  All the fields along
  I can hear the song
  Of the meadow lark,
  As she flits and flutters,
  And laughs at the thunder when it mutters.
  O happy bird, of heart most gay
  To sing when skies are gray!

  When the clouds are full,
  And the tempest master
  Lets the loud winds sweep
  From his bosom deep
  Like heralds of some dire disaster,
  Then the heart, alone,
  To itself makes moan;
  And the songs come slow,
  While the tears fall fleeter,
  And silence than song by far seems sweeter.
  Oh, few are they along the way
  Who sing when skies are gray!

  
   

  THE SEEDLING

  As a quiet little seedling
  Lay within its darksome bed,
  To itself it fell a talking,
  And this is what it said:

  "I am not so very robust,
  But I 'll do the best I can";
  And the seedling from that moment
  Its work of life began.

  So it pushed a little leaflet
  Up into the light of day,
  To examine the surroundings
  And show the rest the way.

  The leaflet liked the prospect,
  So it called its brother, Stem;
  Then two other leaflets heard it,
  And quickly followed them.

  To be sure, the haste and hurry
  Made the seedling sweat and pant;
  But almost before it knew it
  It found itself a plant.

  The sunshine poured upon it,
  And the clouds they gave a shower;
  And the little plant kept growing
  Till it found itself a flower.

  Little folks, be like the seedling,
  Always do the best you can;
  Every child must share life's labor
  Just as well as every man.

  And the sun and showers will help you
  Through the lonesome, struggling hours,
  Till you raise to light and beauty
  Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.
  
  
   

  LIFE

  A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,
  A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,
  A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,
  And never a laugh but the moans come double;
  And that is life!

  A crust and a corner that love makes precious,
  With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;
  And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,
  And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;
  And that is life!
  
   

  CHANGING TIME

  The cloud looked in at the window,
  And said to the day, "Be dark!"
  And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
  To stifle the song of the lark.

  The wind sprang up in the tree tops
  And shrieked with a voice of death,
  But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
  Was touched with a violet's breath.
  
  
   

  WHY FADES A DREAM?

  Why fades a dream?
  An iridescent ray
  Flecked in between the tryst
  Of night and day.
  Why fades a dream?--
  Of consciousness the shade
  Wrought out by lack of light and made
  Upon life's stream.
  Why fades a dream?

  That thought may thrive,
  So fades the fleshless dream;
  Lest men should learn to trust
  The things that seem.
  So fades a dream,
  That living thought may grow
  And like a waxing star-beam glow
  Upon life's stream--
  So fades a dream.
  
   

  THE SECRET

  What says the wind to the waving trees?
  What says the wave to the river?
  What means the sigh in the passing breeze?
  Why do the rushes quiver?
  Have you not heard the fainting cry
  Of the flowers that said "Good-bye, good-bye?"

  List how the gray dove moans and grieves
  Under the woodland cover;
  List to the drift of the falling leaves,
  List to the wail of the lover.
  Have you not caught the message heard
  Already by wave and breeze and bird?

  Come, come away to the river's bank,
  Come in the early morning;
  Come when the grass with dew is dank,
  There you will find the warning--
  A hint in the kiss of the quickening air
  Of the secret that birds and breezes bear.
  
  
   

  HE HAD HIS DREAM

  He had his dream, and all through life
  Worked up to it through toil and strife.
  Afloat fore'er before his eyes,
  It colored for him all his skies:
  The storm-cloud dark
  Above his barque,
  The calm and listless vault of blue
  Took on its hopeful hue,
  It tinctured every golden beam--
  He had his dream.

  He labored hard and failed at last,
  His sails too weak to bear the blast,
  The raging tempests tore away
  And sent his beating barque astray.
  But what cared he
  For wind or sea!
  He said, "The tempest will be short,
  My barque will come to port."
  He saw through every cloud a gleam--
  He had his dream.
  
  
   

  A CREED AND NOT A CREED

  To J. E. Iliff

  I am no priest of crooks nor creeds,
  For human wants and human needs
  Are more to me than prophets' deeds;
  And human tears and human cares
  Affect me more than human prayers.

  Go, cease your wail, lugubrious saint!
  You fret high Heaven with your plaint.
  Is this the "Christian's joy" you paint?
  Is this the Christian's boasted bliss?
  Avails your faith no more than this?

  Take up your arms, come out with me,
  Let Heav'n alone; humanity
  Needs more and Heaven less from thee.
  With pity for mankind look 'round;
  Help them to rise--and Heaven is found.
  
  
   

  BEYOND THE YEARS

  I

  Beyond the years the answer lies,
  Beyond where brood the grieving skies
  And Night drops tears.
  Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise
  And doff its fears,
  And carping Sorrow pines and dies--
  Beyond the years.

  II

  Beyond the years, the prayer for rest
  Shall beat no more within the breast;
  The darkness clears,
  And Morn perched on the mountain's crest
  Her form uprears--
  The day that is to come is best,
  Beyond the years.

  III

  Beyond the years, the soul shall find
  That endless peace for which it pined,
  For light appears,
  And to the eyes that still were blind
  With blood and tears,
  Their sight shall come all unconfined
  Beyond the years.
  
  
   

  DIRGE

  Place this bunch of mignonette
  In her cold, dead hand;
  When the golden sun is set,
  Where the poplars stand,
  Bury her from sun and day,
  Lay my little love away
  From my sight.

  She was like a modest flower
  Blown in sunny June,
  Warm as sun at noon's high hour,
  Chaster than the moon.
  Ah, her day was brief and bright,
  Earth has lost a star of light.
  She is dead.

  Softly breathe her name to me,
  Ah, I loved her so.
  Gentle let your tribute be,
  None may better know
  Her true worth than I who weep
  O'er her as she lies asleep--
  Soft asleep.

  Lay these lilies on her breast,
  They are not more white
  Than the soul of her, at rest
  'Neath their petals bright.
  Chant your aves soft and low,
  Solemn be your tread and slow,--
  She is dead.

  Lay her here beneath the grass,
  Cool and green and sweet,
  Where the gentle brook may pass
  Crooning at her feet.
  Nature's bards shall come and sing,
  And the fairest flowers shall spring
  Where she lies.

  Safe above the waters swirl,
  She has crossed the bar;
  Earth has lost a precious pearl,
  Heaven has gained a star,
  That shall ever sing and shine,
  Till it quells this grief of mine
  For my love.
  
  
   

  THE COLORED SOLDIERS

  If the muse were mine to tempt it
  And my feeble voice were strong,
  If my tongue were trained to measures,
  I would sing a stirring song.
  I would sing a song heroic
  Of those noble sons of Ham,
  Of the gallant colored soldiers
  Who fought for Uncle Sam!

  In the early days you scorned them,
  And with many a flip and flout,
  Said "these battles are the white man's
  And the whites will fight them out."
  Up the hills you fought and faltered,
  In the vales you strove and bled,
  While your ears still heard the thunder
  Of the foes' increasing tread.

  Then distress fell on the nation
  And the flag was drooping low;
  Should the dust pollute your banner?
  No! the nation shouted, No!
  So when war, in savage triumph,
  Spread abroad his funeral pall--
  Then you called the colored soldiers,
  And they answered to your call.

  And like hounds unleashed and eager
  For the life blood of the prey,
  Sprung they forth and bore them bravely
  In the thickest of the fray.
  And where'er the fight was hottest,--
  Where the bullets fastest fell,
  There they pressed unblanched and fearless
  At the very mouth of hell.

  Ah, they rallied to the standard
  To uphold it by their might,
  None were stronger in the labors,
  None were braver in the fight.
  At Forts Donelson and Henry
  On the plains of Olustee,
  They were foremost in the fight
  Of the battles of the free.

  And at Pillow! God have mercy
  On the deeds committed there,
  And the souls of those poor victims
  Sent to Thee without a prayer.
  Let the fulness of thy pity
  O'er the hot wrought spirits sway,
  Of the gallant colored soldier
  Who fell fighting on that day!

  Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
  And they won it dearly, too;
  For the life blood of their thousands
  Did the southern fields bedew.
  In the darkness of their bondage,
  In the depths of slavery's night;
  Their muskets flashed the dawning
  And they fought their way to light.

  They were comrades then and brothers,
  Are they more or less to-day?
  They were good to stop a bullet
  And to front the fearful fray.
  They were citizens and soldiers,
  When rebellion raised its head;
  And the traits that made them worthy,--
  Ah! those virtues are not dead.

  They have shared your nightly vigils,
  They have shared your daily toil;
  And their blood with yours commingling
  Has made rich the Southern soil.
  They have slept and marched and suffered
  'Neath the same dark skies as you,
  They have met as fierce a foeman,
  And have been as brave and true.

  And their deeds shall find a record,
  In the registry of Fame;
  For their blood has cleansed completely
  Every blot of Slavery's shame.
  So all honor and all glory
  To those noble Sons of Ham--
  The gallant colored soldiers,
  Who fought for Uncle Sam!
  
  
   

  DEAD

  A knock is at her door, but she is weak;
  Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheeks;
  She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known,
  And knows that he will find her all alone.
  So opens he the door, and with soft tread,
  Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed.
  His soft hand on her dewy head he lays.
  A strange white light she gives him for his gaze.
  Then, looking on the glory of her charms,
  He crushes her resistless in his arms.

  Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace,
  Nor view the calmness of the wanton's face,
  With joy unspeakable and 'bated breath,
  She keeps her last, long, liaison with death!
  
  
   

  TO THE MEMORY OF MARY YOUNG

  God has his plans, and what if we,
  With our sight be too blind to see
  Their full fruition; can not He,
  Who made it, solve the mystery?
  One whom we loved has fall'n asleep,
  Not died; although her calm be deep.
  Some new, unknown and strange surprise
  In Heaven holds enrapt her eyes.

  And can you blame her that her gaze
  Is turned away from earthly ways,
  When to her eyes God's light and love
  Have giv'n the view of things above?
  A gentle spirit sweetly good,
  The pearl of precious womanhood;
  Who heard the voice of duty clear,
  And found her mission soon and near.

  She loved all nature, flowers fair,
  The warmth of sun, the kiss of air,
  The birds that filled the sky with song,
  The stream that laughed its way along.
  Her home to her was shrine and throne,
  But one love held her not alone;
  She sought out poverty and grief,
  Who touched her robe and found relief.

  So sped she in her Master's work,
  Too busy and too brave to shirk,
  When through the silence, dusk and dim,
  God called her and she fled to him.
  We wonder at the early call,
  And tears of sorrow can but fall
  For her o'er whom we spread the pall;
  But faith, sweet faith is over all.

  The house is dust, the voice is dumb,
  But through undying years to come,
  The spark that glowed within her soul
  Shall light our footsteps to the goal.
  She went her way; but oh, she trod
  The path that led her straight to God.
  Such lives as this put death to scorn;
  They lose our day to find God's morn.
  
  
   

  COMPARISON

  The sky of brightest gray seems dark
  To one whose sky was ever white.
  To one who never knew a spark,
  Thro' all his life, of love or light,
  The grayest cloud seems over bright.

  The robin sounds a beggar's note
  Where one the nightingale has heard,
  But he, for whom no silver throat,
  Its liquid music ever stirred,
  
   

  BY THE STREAM

  By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
  How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass,
  And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
  Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.

  And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
  For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
  And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wonderous mysteries,
  When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.
  
  
   

  CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE

  "Goodbye," I said to my conscience--
  "Goodbye for aye and aye,"
  And I put her hands off harshly,
  And turned my face away,
  And conscience smitten sorely
  Returned not from that day.

  But a time came when my spirit
  Grew weary of its pace;
  And I cried: "Come back, my conscience,
  I long to see thy face."
  But conscience cried: "I cannot,
  Remorse sits in my place."
  
  
   

  THE LOVER AND THE MOON

  A lover whom duty called over the wave,
  With himself communed: "Will my love be true
  If left to herself? Had I better not sue
  Some friend to watch over her, good and grave?
  "But my friend might fail in my need," he said,
  And I return to find love dead.
  Since friendships fade like the flow'rs of June,
  I will leave her in charge of the stable moon.

  Then he said to the moon: "O dear old moon,
  Who for years and years from thy throne above
  Hast nurtured and guarded young lovers and love,
  My heart has but come to its waiting June,
  And the promise time of the budding vine;
  Oh guard thee well this love of mine.
  And he harked him then while all was still,
  And the pale moon answered and said "I will."

  And he sailed in his ship o'er many seas,
  And he wandered wide o'er strange far strands:
  In isles of the south and in Orient lands,
  Where pestilence lurks in the breath of the breeze.
  But his star was high, so he braved the main,
  And sailed him blithely home again;
  And with joy he bended his footsteps soon
  To learn of his love from the matron moon.

  She sat as of yore, in her olden place,
  Serene as death, in her silver chair.
  A white rose gleamed in her whiter hair,
  And the tint of a blush was on her face.
  At sight of the youth she sadly bowed
  And hid her face 'neath a gracious cloud.
  She faltered faint on the night's dim marge,
  But "how," spoke the youth, "have you kept your charge?"

  The moon was sad at a trust ill-kept;
  The blush went out in her blanching cheek,
  And her voice was timid and low and weak,
  As she made her plea and sighed and wept.
  "Oh another prayed and another plead,
  And I couldn't resist," she answering said,
  "But love still grows in the hearts of men,
  Go forth dear youth and love again."

  But he turned him away from her proffered grace.
  "Thou art false, Oh moon, as the hearts of men,
  I will not, will not love again."
  And he turned sheer 'round with a soul-sick face,
  To the sea, and cried: "Sea, curse the moon,
  Who makes her vows and forgets so soon."
  And the awful sea with anger stirred,
  And his breast heaved hard as he lay and heard.

  And ever the moon wept down in rain,
  And ever her sighs rose high in wind:
  But the earth and sea were deaf and blind,
  And she wept and sighed her griefs in vain.
  And ever at night, when the storm is fierce,
  The cries of a wraith through the thunders pierce:
  And the waves strain their awful hands on high
  To tear the false moon from the sky.
  
  
   

  SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT

  Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing,
  I look far out into the pregnant night
  Where I can hear a solemn booming gun
  And catch the gleaming of a random light,
  That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

  My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing;
  For I would hail and check that ship of ships.
  I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,
  My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips
  And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.

  Oh Earth, oh Sky, oh Ocean, both surpassing,
  Oh heart of mine, Oh soul that dreads the dark!
  Is there no hope for me? Is there no way
  That I may sight and check that speeding bark,
  Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?
  
  
   

  NATURE AND ART

  To my friend, Charles Booth Nettleton

  I

  The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
  Once on a time fell upon evil days.
  From hearing oft herself discussed with praise,
  There grew within her heart the longing rare
  To see herself; and every passing air
  The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze.
  Full oft she sought this end by devious ways,
  But sought in vain, so fell she in despair.

  For none within her train nor by her side
  Could solve the task or give the envied boon.
  So day and night, beneath the sun and moon,
  She wandered to and fro unsatisfied,
  Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf,
  And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

  II

  Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self,
  Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought,
  Commanded that the skillful wight be brought
  That she might dower him with lands and pelf.
  Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf
  And up the hills and on the downs they sought
  Him who so well and wondrously had wrought;
  And with much search found and brought home the elf,
  But he put by all gifts with sad replies
  And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine:
  "Oh, queen, I want no gift but thee," he said.
  She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes,
  Gave him her hand, low murmuring, "I am thine,"
  And at the morrow's dawning they were wed.
  
  
   

  PREMONITION

  Dear heart, good-night!
  Nay, list awhile that sweet voice singing
  When the world is all so bright,
  And the sound of song sets the heart a-ringing,
  Oh, love, it is not right--
  Not then to say, "good-night."

  Dear heart, good-night!
  The late winds in the lake weeds shiver,
  And the spray flies cold and white.
  And the voice that sings gives a tell-tale quiver--
  "Ah, yes, the world is bright,
  But, dearest heart, good-night!"

  Dear heart, good-night!
  And do not longer seek to hold me!
  For my soul is in affright
  As the fearful glooms in their pall enfold me.
  See him who sang how white
  And still, so dear, good-night.

  Dear heart, good-night!
  Thy hand I'll press no more forever,
  And mine eyes shall lose the light:
  For the great white wraith by the winding river
  Shall check my steps with might.
  So, dear, good-night, good-night!
  
  
   

  ODE FOR MEMORIAL DAY

  Done are the toils and the wearisome marches,
  Done is the summons of bugle and drum.
  Softly and sweetly the sky over-arches,
  Shelt'ring a land where Rebellion is dumb.
  Dark were the days of the country's derangement,
  Sad were the hours when the conflict was on,
  But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement
  God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn.
  O'er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
  Sweeping away to the uttermost parts,
  Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions,
  Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts.

  Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure,
  What did it cost for our fathers to gain!
  Bought at the price of the heart's dearest treasure,
  Born out of travail and sorrow and pain;
  Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying,
  Slaying with sabre stroke bloody and fell:
  Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying,
  Torn by the fury of bullet and shell.
  Ah, but the day is past: silent the rattle,
  And the confusion that followed the fight,
  Peace to the heroes who died in the battle,
  Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right!

  Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal,
  Out of the dust and the dimness of death,
  Burst into blossoms of glory eternal
  Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath.
  Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion
  Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife;
  Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean
  Leaps into beauty and fullness of life.
  So with the singing of pæans and chorals,
  And with the flag flashing high in the sun,
  Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels
  Which their unfaltering valor has won!
  
   

  THE RISING OF THE STORM

  The lake's dark breast
  Is all unrest,
  It heaves with a sob and a sigh.
  Like a tremulous bird,
  From its slumber stirred,
  The moon is a-tilt in the sky.

  From the silent deep
  The waters sweep,
  But faint on the cold white stones,
  And the wavelets fly
  With a plaintive cry
  O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.

  And the spray upsprings
  On its ghost-white wings,
  And tosses a kiss at the stars;
  While a water sprite,
  In sea-pearls dight,
  Hums a sea hymn's solemn bars.

  Far out in the night,
  On the wavering sight
  I see a dark hull loom;
  And its light on high,
  Like a Cyclops' eye,
  Shines out through the mist and gloom.

  Now the winds well up
  From the earth's deep cup,
  And fall the sea and shore,
  And against the pier
  The waters rear
  And break with a sullen roar.

  Up comes the gale,
  And the mist-wrought veil
  Gives way to the lightning's glare,
  And the cloud-drifts fall,
  A sombre pall
  O'er water, earth, and air.

  The storm-king flies,
  His whip he plies,
  And bellows down the wind.
  The lightning rash
  With blinding flash
  Comes pricking on behind.

  Rise, waters, rise,
  And taunt the skies
  With your swift-flitting form.
  Sweep, wild winds, sweep,
  And tear the deep
  To atoms in the storm.

  And the waters leapt,
  And the wild winds swept,
  And blew out the moon in the sky,
  And I laughed with glee,
  It was joy to me
  As the storm went raging by!
  
  
   

  PASSION AND LOVE

  A maiden wept and, as a comforter,
  Came one who cried, "I love thee," and he seized
  Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath,
  That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks.
  While ever more his boldly blazing eye
  Burned into hers; but she uncomforted
  Shrank from his arms and only wept the more.

  Then one came and gazed mutely in her face
  With wide and wistful eyes; but still aloof
  He held himself; as with a reverent fear,
  As one who knows some sacred presence nigh.
  And as she wept he mingled tear with tear
  That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flow'r,--
  Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand!
  
  
   

  A BORDER BALLAD

  Oh, I haven't got long to live, for we all
  Die soon, e'en those who live longest;
  And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
  Along with the richest and strongest.
  So its heigho for a glass and a song,
  And a bright eye over the table,
  And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush,
  And the pick of a gentleman's stable.

  There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yesternight,
  But he's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
  'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow,
  And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
  But its heigho for a brave old song
  And a glass while we are able;
  Here's a health to death and another cup
  To the bright eye over the table.

  I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
  But who argues now on appearance?
  A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best
  May send me to-day to my clearance.
  Then its heigho for the things I love,
  My mother'll be soon wearing sable,
  But give me my horse and my dog and my glass,
  And a bright eye over the table.
  
  
   

  IF

  If life were but a dream, my Love,
  And death the waking time;
  If day had not a beam, my Love,
  And night had not a rhyme;
  A barren, barren world were this
  Without one saving gleam
  I'd only ask that with a kiss
  You'd wake me from the dream.

  If dreaming were the sum of days,
  And loving were the bane;
  If battling for a wreath of bays
  Could soothe a heart in pain;
  I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
  All other aims above
  I'd choose the human's higher right,
  To suffer and to love !
  
  
   

  A CORN-SONG

  On the wide veranda white,
  In the purple failing light,
  Sits the master while the sun is lowly burning;
  And his dreamy thoughts are drowned
  In the softly flowing sound
  Of the corn-songs of the field-hands slow returning.

  Oh, we hoe de co'n
  Since de ehly mo'n
  Now de sinkin' sun
  Says de day is done.

  O'er the fields with heavy tread,
  Light of heart and high of head,--
  Tho' the halting steps be labored, slow, and weary;
  Still the spirits brave and strong
  Find a comforter in song,
  And their corn-song rises ever loud and cheery.

  Oh, we hoe de co'n
  Since de ehly mo'n
  Now de sinkin' sun
  Says de day is done.

  To the master in his seat,
  Comes the burden, full and sweet,
  Of the mellow minor music growing clearer;
  As the toilers raise the hymn,
  Thro' the silence dusk and dim,
  To the cabin's restful shelter drawing nearer.

  Oh, we hoe de co'n
  Since de ehly mo'n
  Now de sinkin' sun
  Says de day is done.

  And a tear is in the eye
  Of the master sitting by,
  As he listens to the echoes low-replying
  To the music's fading calls
  As it faints away and falls
  Into silence, deep within the cabin dying.

  Oh, we hoe de co'n
  Since de ehly mo'n
  Now de sinkin' sun
  Says de day is done.
  
  
   

  RETROSPECTION

  When you and I were young, the days
  Were filled with scent of pink and rose,
  And full of joy from dawn till close,
  From morning's mist till evening's haze.
  And when the robin sung his song
  The verdant woodland ways along,
  We whistled louder than he sung.
  And school was joy, and work was sport
  For which the hours were all too short,
  When you and I were young, my boy,
  When you and I were young.

  When you and I were young, the woods
  Brimmed bravely o'er with every joy
  To charm the happy-hearted boy.
  The quail turned out her timid broods;
  The prickly copse, a hostess fine,
  Held high black cups of harmless wine;
  And low the laden grape-vine swung
  With beads of night-kissed amethyst
  Where buzzing lovers held their tryst,
  When you and I were young, my boy,
  When you and I were young.

  When you and I were young, the cool
  And fresh wind fanned our fevered brows
  When tumbling o'er the scented mows,
  Or stripping by the dimpling pool,
  Sedge-fringed about its shimmering face,
  Save where we'd worn an ent'ring place.
  How with our shouts the calm banks rung!
  How flashed the spray as we plunged in--
  Pure gems that never caused a sin!
  When you and I were young, my boy,
  When you and I were young.

  When you and I were young, we heard
  All sounds of Nature with delight,
  The whirr of wing in sudden flight,
  The chirping of the baby-bird.
  The columbine's red bells were rung;
  The locust's vested chorus sung;
  While every wind his zithern strung
  To high and holy-sounding keys,
  And played sonatas in the trees--
  When you and I were young, my boy,
  When you and I were young.

  When you and I were young, we knew
  To shout and laugh, to work and play,
  And night was partner to the day
  In all our joys. So swift time flew
  On silent wings that, ere we wist,
  The fleeting years had fled unmissed;
  And from our hearts this cry was wrung--
  To fill with fond regret and tears
  The days of our remaining years--
  "When you and I were young, my boy,
  When you and I were young."
  
  
   

  NOT THEY WHO SOAR

  Not they who soar, but they who plod
  Their rugged way, unhelped to God
  Are heroes; they who higher fare,
  And flying, fan the upper air,
  Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.
  'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,
  Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,
  May smile upon defeated care,
  Not they who soar.

  High up there are no thorns to prod,
  Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod
  To turn the keenness of the share;
  For flight is ever free and rare;
  But heroes, they the soil who've trod,
  Not they who soar!
  
  
   

  THE MASTER-PLAYER

  An old, worn harp that had been play'd
  Till all its strings were loose and fray'd,
  Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essay'd,
  To play. But each in turn had found
  No sweet responsiveness of sound.

  Then Love the Master-Player came
  With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
  The Harp he took all undismayed,
  Smote on its strings, still strange to song.
  And brought forth music sweet and strong.
  
  
  
   

  AFTER THE QUARREL

  So we, who've supped the self-same cup,
  To-night must lay our friendship by;
  Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
  Hot breath has blown the ashes high.
  You say that you are wronged--ah, well,
  I count that friendship poor, at best--
  A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
  That cannot stand so slight a test.

  I fain would still have been your friend
  And talked and laughed and loved with you,
  But since it must, why, let it end;
  The false but dies, 'tis not the true.
  So we are favored, you and I,
  Who only want the living truth.
  It was not good to nurse the lie;
  'Tis well it died in harmless youth.

  I go from you to-night to sleep.
  Why, what's the odds? why should I grieve?
  I have no fund of tears to weep
  For happenings that undeceive.
  The days shall come, the days shall go
  Just as they came and went before.
  The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
  Tho' you and I are friends no more.

  And in the volume of my years,
  Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
  The page whereon your name appears
  Shall be forever sealed to me.
  Not that I hate you over-much,
  'Tis less of hate than love defied;
  Howe'er, our hands no more shall touch,
  We'll go our ways--the world is wide.
  
  
   

  UNEXPRESSED

  Deep in my heart that aches with the repression,
  And strives with plenitude of bitter pain,
  There lives a thought that clamors for expression,
  And spends its undelivered force in vain.

  What boots it that some other may have thought it?
  The right of thoughts' expression is divine;
  The price of pain I pay for it has bought it,
  I care not who lays claim to it--'tis mine!

  And yet not mine until it be delivered;
  The manner of its birth shall prove the test.
  Alas, alas, my rock of pride is shivered--
  I beat my brow--the thought still unexpressed.
  
  
   

  ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES

  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
  Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought
  The magic gold which from the seeker flies;
  Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,
  And make the waking world a world of lies,--
  Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,
  That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs;
  Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
  How all the griefs and heartaches we have known
  Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise
  From some base witch's caldron, when the crone
  To work some potent spell, her magic plies.
  The past which held its share of bitter pain,
  Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,
  Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
  What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;
  What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise
  Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.
  What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,
  And pangs of vague inexplicable pain
  That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,
  Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
  Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?
  Thro' what strange realms and unfamiliar skies
  Tends her far course to lands of mystery?
  To lands unspeakable--beyond surmise,
  Where shapes unknowable to being spring,
  Till faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies
  Much wearied with the spirit's journeying,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,
  How questioneth the soul that other soul--
  The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,
  But self exposes unto self, a scroll
  Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise,
  In characters indelible and known;
  So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,
  The soul doth view its awful self alone,
  Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

  When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,
  The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,
  And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize
  For kissing all our passions into calm,
  Ah then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,
  Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,
  Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,
  At glooms thro' which our visions cannot see,
  When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.
  
  
   

  A STARRY NIGHT

  A cloud fell down from the heavens,
  And broke on the mountain's brow;
  It scattered the dusky fragments
  All over the vale below.

  The moon and the stars were anxious
  To know what its fate might be;
  So they rushed to the azure op'ning,
  And all peered down to see.
  
   

  THE LESSON

  My cot was down by a cypress grove,
  And I sat by my window the whole night long,
  And heard well up from the deep dark wood
  A mocking bird's passionate song.

  And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
  And my ]ife's cold winter that knew no spring;
  Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
  Of my heart too sad to sing.

  But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
  A thought stole into my saddened heart,
  And I said, "I can cheer some other soul
  By a carol's simple art."

  For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
  Come songs that brim with joy and light,
  As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
  The mocking-bird sings at night.

  So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
  In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
  And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
  Tho' mine was a feeble art.

  But at his smile, I smiled in turn
  And into my soul there came a ray:
  In trying to soothe another's woes
  Mine own had passed away.
  
   

  DAWN

  An angel, robed in spotless white,
  Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night.
  Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone.
  Men saw the blush and called it Dawn.
  
  
  
   

  A LYRIC

  My lady love lives far away,
  And oh my heart is sad by day,
  And ah my tears fall fast by night,
  What may I do in such a plight.

  Why, miles grow few when love is fleet,
  And love, you know, hath flying feet:
  Break off thy sighs and witness this,
  How poor a thing mere distance is.

  My love knows not I love her so,
  And would she scorn me, did she know?
  How may the tale I would impart
  Attract her ear and storm her heart?

  Calm thou the tempest in thy breast,
  Who loves in silence loves the best,
  But bide thy time, she will awake,
  No night so dark but morn will break.

  But tho' my heart so strongly yearn,
  My lady loves me not in turn,
  How may I win the blest reply
  That my void heart shall satisfy.

  Love breedeth love, be thou but true,
  And soon thy Love shall love thee, too;
  If Fate hath meant you heart for heart,
  There's naught may keep you twain apart.
  
  
   

  PHYLLIS

  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day,
  Few are my years, but my griefs are not few,
  Ever to youth should each day be a May-day,
  Warm wind and rose-breath and diamonded dew--
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

  Oh for the sunlight that shines on a May-day;
  Only the cloud hangeth over my life.
  Love that should bring me youth's happiest hey-day,
  Brings me but seasons of sorrow and strife;
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.

  Sunshine or shadow, or gold day or gray day,
  Life must be lived as our destinies rule;
  Leisure or labor or work day or play day--
  Feasts for the famous and fun for the fool;
  Phyllis, ah, Phyllis, my life is a gray day.
   

  RIGHT'S SECURITY

  What if the wind do howl without,
  And turn the creaking weather-vane;
  What if the arrows of the rain
  Do beat against the window pane.
  Art thou not armored strong and fast
  Against the sallies of the blast?
  Art thou not sheltered safe and well
  Against the flood's insistent swell?

  What boots it, that thou stand'st alone,
  And laughest in the battle's face
  When all the weak have fled the place
  And let their feet and fears keep pace?
  Thou wavest still thine ensign, high,
  And shoutest thy loud battle cry;
  Higher than e'er the tempest roared,
  It cleaves the silence like a sword.

  Right arms and armors, too, that man
  Who will not compromise with wrong;
  Tho' single, he must front the throng,
  And wage the battle hard and long.
  Minorities, since time began,
  Have shown the better side of man;
  And often in the lists of Time
  One man has made a cause sublime!
  
  
   

  OLD

  I have seen peoples come and go
  Alike the Ocean's ebb and flow;
  I have seen kingdoms rise and fall
  Like springtime shadows on a wall.
  I have seen houses rendered great
  That grew from life's debased estate,
  And all, all, all is change I see,
  So, dearest God, take me, take me.
  
  
  
   

  HOW SHALL I WOO THEE

  How shall I woo thee to win the[sic], mine own?
  Say in what tongue shall I tell of my love.
  I who was fearless so timid have grown,
  All that was eagle has turned into dove.
  The path from the meadow that leads to the bars
  Is more to me now than the path of the stars.

  How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own,
  Thou who art fair and as far as the moon?
  Had I the strength of the torrent's wild tone,
  Had I the sweetness of warblers in June;
  The strength and the sweetness might charm and persuade,
  But neither have I my petition to aid.

  How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own?
  How shall I traverse the distance between
  My humble cot and your glorious throne?
  How shall a clown gain the ear of a queen?
  Oh teach me the tongue that shall please thee the best,
  For till I have won thee my heart may not rest.
  
  
   

  AN ANTE-BELLUM SERMON

  We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs,
  In dis howlin' wildaness,
  Fu' to speak some words of comfo't
  To each othah in distress.
  An' we chooses fu' ouah subjic'
  Dis -- we'll 'splain it by an' by;
  "An de Lawd said, 'Moses, Moses,'
  An' de man said, 'Hyeah am I.'"

  Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt,
  Was de wuss man evah bo'n,
  An' he had de Hebrew chillun
  Down dah wukin' in his co'n;
  'Twell de Lawd got tiahed o' his foolin',
  An' sez he: "I'll let him know--
  Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh
  Fu' to let dem chillun go."

  "An' ef he refuse to do it,
  I will make him rue de houah,
  Fu' I'll empty down on Egypt
  All de vials of my powah."
  Yes, he did -- an' Pher'oh's ahmy
  Was n't wuth a ha'f a dime;
  Fu' de Lawd will he'p his chillun,
  You kin trust him evah time.

  An' yo' enemies may 'sail you
  In de back an' in de front;
  But de Lawd is all aroun' you,
  Fu' to ba' de battle's brunt.
  Dey kin fo'ge yo' chains an' shackles
  F'om de mountains to de sea;
  But de Lawd will sen' some Moses
  Fu' to set his chillun free.

  An' de lan' shall hyeah his thundah,
  Lak a blas' f'om Gab'el's ho'n,
  Fu' de Lawd of hosts is mighty
  When he girds his ahmor on.
  But fu' feah some one mistakes me,
  I will pause right hyeah to say,
  Dat I'm still a-preachin' ancient,
  I ain't talkin' 'bout to-day.

  But I tell you, fellah christuns,
  Things'll happen mighty strange;
  Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul,
  An' his ways don't nevah change,
  An' de love he showed to Isrul
  Was n't all on Isrul spent;
  Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs
  Dat I's preachin' discontent.

  'Cause I is n't; I'se a-judgin'
  Bible people by deir ac's;
  I'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah,
  I'se a-handin' you de fac's.
  Cose ole Pher'oh b'lieved in slav'ry,
  But de Lawd he let him see,
  Dat de people he put bref in,--
  Evah mothah's son was free.

  An' dahs othahs thinks lak Pher'oh,
  But dey calls de Scriptuah liar,
  Fu' de Bible says "a servant
  Is a-worthy of his hire."
  An' you cain't git roun' nor thoo dat,
  An' you cain't git ovah it,
  Fu' whatevah place you git in,
  Dis hyeah Bible too'll fit.

  So you see de Lawd's intention,
  Evah sence de worl' began,
  Was dat His almighty freedom
  Should belong to evah man,
  But I think it would be bettah,
  Ef I'd pause agin to say,
  Dat I'm talkin' 'bout ouah freedom
  In a Bibleistic way.

  But de Moses is a-comin',
  An' he's comin' suah and fas'.
  We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin',
  We kin hyeah his trumpit blas'.
  But I want to wa'n you people,
  Don't you git too frigity;
  An' don't you git to braggin'
  'Bout dese things, you wait an' see.

  But when Moses wif his powah
  Comes an' sets us chillun free,
  We will praise de gracious Mastah
  Dat has gin us liberty;
  An' we'll shout ouah halleluyahs,
  On dat mighty reck'nin day,
  When we'se reco'nised ez citiz'--
  Huh uh! Chillun, let us pray!
  
  
   

  A BANJO SONG

  Oh, dere's lots o' keer an' trouble
  In dis world to swaller down;
  An' ol' Sorrer's purty lively
  In her way o' gittin' roun'.
  Yet dere 's times when I furgit 'em,--
  Aches an' pains an' troubles all,--
  An' it's when I tek at ebenin'
  My ol' banjo f'om de wall.

  'Bout de time dat night is fallin'
  An' my daily wu'k is done,
  An' above de shady hilltops
  I kin see de settin' sun;
  When de quiet, restful shadders
  Is beginnin' jes' to fall,--
  Den I take de little banjo
  F'om its place upon de wall.

  Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me
  In de fadin' o' de light,
  Ez I strike de strings to try 'em
  Ef dey all is tuned er-right.
  An' it seems we're so nigh heaben
  We kin hyeah de angels sing
  When de music o' dat banjo
  Sets my cabin all er-ring.

  An' my wife an' all de othahs,--
  Male an' female, small an' big,--
  Even up to gray-haired granny,
  Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;
  Twell I change de style o' music,
  Change de movement an' de time,
  An' de ringin' little banjo
  Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.

  An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,
  An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise
  Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water
  Dat was flowin' to my eyes;
  An' I feel dat I could sorter
  Knock de socks clean off o' sin
  Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny
  Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.

  Den we all th'ow in our voices
  Fu' to he'p de chune out too,
  Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry
  Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.
  An' our th'oahts let out de music,
  Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,
  Twell de raftahs o' my cabin
  Echo wif de melody.

  Oh, de music o' de banjo,
  Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,
  Is de greates' joy an' solace
  Dat a weary slave kin know!
  So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',
  Dough de chune be po' an' rough,
  It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures
  O' dis life is few enough.

  Now, de blessed little angels
  Up in heaben, we are told,
  Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime
  'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.
  Now I think heaben'd be mo' homelike
  Ef we'd hyeah some music fall
  F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,
  Like dat one upon de wall.
  
  
   

  THE OL' TUNES

  You kin talk about yer anthems
  An' yer arias an' sich,
  An' yer modern choir-singin'
  That you think so awful rich;
  But you orter heerd us youngsters
  In the times now far away,
  A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  There was some of us sung treble
  An' a few of us growled bass,
  An' the tide o' song flowed smoothly
  With its 'comp'niment o' grace;
  There was spirit in that music,
  An' a kind o' solemn sway,
  A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  I remember oft o' standin'
  In my homespun pantaloons--
  On my face the bronze an' freckles
  O' the suns o' youthful Junes--
  Thinkin' that no mortal minstrel
  Ever chanted sich a lay
  As the ol' tunes we was singin'
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  The boys 'ud always lead us,
  An' the girls 'ud all chime in,
  Till the sweetness o' the singin'
  Robbed the list'nin' soul o' sin;
  An' I used to tell the parson
  'T was as good to sing as pray,
  When the people sung the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  How I long ag'in to hear 'em
  Pourin' forth from soul to soul,
  With the treble high an' meller,
  An' the bass's mighty roll;
  But the times is very diff'rent,
  An' the music heerd to-day
  Ain't the singin' o' the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  Little screechin' by a woman,
  Little squawkin' by a man,
  Then the organ's twiddle-twaddle,
  Jest the empty space to span,--
  An' ef you should even think it,
  'T is n't proper fur to say
  That you want to hear the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.

  But I think that some bright mornin',
  When the toils of life air o'er,
  An' the sun o' heaven arisin'
  Glads with light the happy shore,
  I shall hear the angel chorus,
  In the realms of endless day,
  A-singin' o' the ol' tunes
  In the ol'-fashioned way.
  
  
   

  A NEGRO LOVE SONG

  Seen my lady home las' night,
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
  Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,
  An' a smile go flittin' by--
  Jump back, honey, jump back.

  Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  An' my hea't was beatin' so,
  When I reached my lady's do',
  Dat I couldn't ba' to go--
  Jump back, honey, jump back.

  Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  Love me, honey, love me true?
  Love me well ez I love you?
  An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do"--
  Jump back, honey, jump back.
  
  
   

  WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT

  Dey is times in life when Nature
  Seems to slip a cog an' go,
  Jes' a-rattlin' down creation,
  Lak an ocean's overflow;
  When de worl' jes' stahts a-spinnin'
  Lak a picaninny's top,
  An' yo' cup o' joy is brimmin'
  'Twell it seems about to slop,
  An' you feel jes' lak a racah,
  Dat is trainin' fu' to trot
  When yo' mammy says de blessin'
  An' de co'n pone's hot.

  When you set down at de table,
  Kin' o' weary lak an' sad,
  An' you'se jes' a little tiahed
  An' purhaps a little mad;
  How yo' gloom tu'ns into gladness,
  How yo' joy drives out de doubt
  When de oven do' is opened,
  An' de smell comes po'in' out;
  Why, de 'lectric light o' Heaven
  Seems to settle on de spot,
  When yo' mammy says de blessin'
  An' de co'n pone's hot.

  When de cabbage pot is steamin'
  An' de bacon good an' fat,
  When de chittlins is a-sputter'n'
  So's to show you whah dey's at;
  Tek away yo' sody biscuit,
  Tek away yo' cake an' pie,
  Fu' de glory time is comin',
  An' it's 'proachin' mighty nigh,
  An' you want to jump an' hollah,
  Dough you know you'd bettah not,
  When yo' mammy says de blessin'
  An' de co'n pone's hot.

  I have hyeahd o' lots o' sermons,
  An' I've hyeahd o' lots o' prayers,
  An' I've listened to some singin'
  Dat has tuck me up de stairs
  Of de Glory-Lan' an' set me
  Jes' below de Mahstah's th'one,
  An' have lef' my hea't a-singin'
  In a happy aftah tone;
  But dem wu'ds so sweetly murmured
  Seem to tech de softes' spot,
  When my mammy says de blessin'
  An' de co'n pone's hot.
  
  
  
   

  LONESOME

  Mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two,
  An' oh, the house is lonesome ez a nest whose birds has flew
  To other trees to build agin; the rooms seem jest so bare
  That the echoes run like sperrits from the kitchen to the stair.
  The shetters flap more lazy-like 'n what they ust to do,
  Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

  We've killed the fattest chicken an' we've cooked her to a turn;
  We've made the richest gravy, but I jist don't give a durn
  Fur nothin' 'at I drink er eat, er nothin' 'at I see.
  The food ain't got the pleasant taste it used to have to me.
  They's somep'n' stickin' in my throat ez tight ez hardened glue,
  Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

  The holly-hocks air jest ez pink, they're double ones at that,
  An' I wuz prouder of 'em than a baby of a cat.
  But now I don't go near 'em, tho' they nod an' blush at me,
  Fur they's somep'n' seems to gall me in their keerless sort o' glee
  An' all their fren'ly noddin' an' their blushin' seems to say:
  "You're purty lonesome, John, old boy, sence mother's gone away."

  The neighbors ain't so fren'ly ez it seems they'd ort to be;
  They seem to be a-lookin' kinder sideways like at me,
  A-kinder feared they'd tech me off ez ef I wuz a match,
  An' all because 'at mother's gone an' I'm a-keepin' batch!
  I'm shore I don't do nothin' worse 'n what I ust to do
  Fore mother went a-visitin' to spend a month er two.

  The sparrers ac's more fearsome like an' won't hop quite so near,
  The cricket's chirp is sadder an' the sky ain't ha'f so clear;
  When ev'nin' comes, I set an' smoke tell my eyes begin to swim,
  An' things aroun' commence to look all blurred, an faint an' dim.
  Well, I guess I'll have to own up 'at I'm feelin' purty blue
  Sence mother's gone a-visitin' to spend a month er two.
  
  
  
   

  THE WOOING

  A youth went faring up and down,
  Alack and well-a-day.
  He fared him to the market town,
  Alack and well-a-day.
  And there he met a maiden fair,
  With hazel eyes and auburn hair--
  His heart went from him then and there
  Alack and well-a-day.

  She posies sold right merrily,
  Alack and well-a-day;
  But not a flower was fair as she,
  Alack and well-a-day.
  He bought a rose and sighed a sigh
  "Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
  Might dare the seller too to buy,"
  Alack and well-a-day.

  She tossed her head--the coy coquette,
  Alack and well-a-day.
  "I'm not sir in the market yet"
  Alack and well-a-day.
  Your love must cool upon a shelf;
  Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf
  I'm yet too young to sell myself
  Alack and well-a-day.

  The youth was filled with sorrow sore
  Alack and well-a-day;
  And looked he at the maid once more
  Alack and well-a-day.
  Then loud he cried, "Fair maiden, if
  Too young to sell, now as I live,
  You're not too young yourself to give"
  Alack and well-a-day.

  The little maid cast down her eyes
  Alack and well-a-day,
  And many a flush began to rise
  Alack and well-a-day.
  "Why, since you are so bold," she said,
  "I doubt not you are highly bred,
  So take me!" and the twain were wed.
  Alack and well-a-day.
  
  
  
   

  THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE

  When the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine
  Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;
  When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
  And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;
  Then its heigho fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,
  For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

  And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
  With an expert eye to its worthy points,
  And you think of the bubbling strains of song
  That are bound between its pithy joints--
  Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,
  With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

  Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
  O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand!
  And the music's flow never loud but low
  Is the concert note of a fairy band.
  Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle
  To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

  When the eve comes on and our work is done,
  And the sun drops down with a tender glance,
  With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
  Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance,
  And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle,
  More time than tune--from the corn-stalk fiddle.

  Then brother Jabez takes the bow,
  While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,
  Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,
  And John takes Nellie Jones's hand,
  While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,
  And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

  "Salute your partners," comes the call,
  "All join hands and circle round,"
  "Grand train back," and "Balance all,"
  Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.
  "Take your lady and balance down the middle"
  To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

  So the night goes on and the dance is o'er,
  And the merry girls are homeward gone,
  But I see it all in my sleep once more,
  And I dream till the very break of dawn
  Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle
  To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.
  
  
   

  CURTAIN

  Villain shows his indiscretion,
  Villain's partner makes confession.
  Juvenile, with golden tresses,
  Finds her pa and dons long dresses.
  Scape-grace comes home, money-laden,
  Hero comforts tearful maiden,
  Soubrette marries loyal chappie,
  Villain skips, and all are happy.
  
  
   

  THE DESERTED PLANTATION

  Oh, de grubbin-hoe's a rustin' in de co'nah,
  An' de plow's a tumblin' down in de fiel'--
  While de whippo'will's a wailin' lak a mou'nah
  When his stubbo'n hawt is tryin' ha'd to yiel'.

  In de furrers wha' de co'n was allus wavin',
  Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall;
  An de swallers roun' de whole place is a bravin'
  Lak dey thought their folks had allus owned it all.

  An' de big house stan's all quiet lak an' solemn,
  Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch er lawn;
  Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef' to haul 'em,
  Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone.

  An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters,
  D'ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de ah;
  But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters
  Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness da.

  Wha's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a dancin'
  Ebry night befo' de ole cabin do'?
  Wha's de chillun, dem dat used to be a prancin',
  Er a rollin' in de san' er on de flo'?

  Wha's de Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron?
  Wha's Aunt Doshy, Sam an' Kit an' all de res'?
  Wha's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how's he farin'?
  Wha's de gals dat ust to sing an' dance de bes'?

  Gone! not one o' dem is lef' to tell de story;
  Dey have lef' de deah ole place to fall away.
  Couldn't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory
  Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?

  Dey have lef' de ole plantation to de swallers,
  But it hol's in me a lover till de las';
  Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers
  All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'.

  So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it
  Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
  Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it,
  An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.
  
  
   

  WHEN MALINDY SINGS

  G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy-
  Put dat music book away;
  What's de use to keep on tryin'?
  Ef you practice twell you're gray,
  You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin'
  Lak de ones dat rants an' rings
  F'om de kitchen to de big woods
  When Melindy sings.

  You ain't got de nachel o'gans
  Fu' to make de soun' come right,
  You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's
  Fu' to make it sweet an' light.
  Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy,
  An' I'm tellin' you fu' true,
  When hit comes to raal right singin',
  'Tain't no easy thing to do.

  Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah,
  Lookin' at de lines an' dots,
  When dey ain't no one kin sence it,
  An' de chune comes in, in spots;
  But fu' real melojous music,
  Dat jes' strikes yo' hawt and clings,
  Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me
  When Malindy sings.

  Ain't you nevah heerd Malindy?
  Blessed soul, take up de cross!
  Look heah, ain't you jokin' honey?
  Well, you don't know whut you los'.
  Y'ought to heah dat gal a-wa'blin',
  Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things,
  Heish dey moufs an' hides dey faces
  When Malindy sings.

  Fiddlin' man, jes' stop his fiddlin',
  Lay his fiddle on de she'f;
  Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle,
  'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f.
  Folks a-playin' on de banjo
  Draps dey fingahs on de strings--
  Bless yo' soul--fu'gits to move 'em,
  When Malindy sings.

  She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs,
  "Come to Jesus," twell you heah
  Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices,
  Timid-like a-drawin' neah;
  Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages,"
  Simply to de cross she clings,
  An' you fin' yo' teahs a drappin'
  When Malindy sings.

  Who dat says dat humble praises
  Wif de Master nevah counts?
  Heish yo' mouf, I heah dat music,
  Ez hit rises up an' mounts--
  Floatin' by de hills an' valleys,
  Way above dis buryin' sod,
  Ez hit makes its way in glory
  To de very gates of God!

  Oh, hits sweetah dan de music
  Of an edicated band;
  An' hits dearah dan de battle's
  Song o' triumph in de lan'.
  It seems holier dan evenin'
  When de solemn chu'ch bell rings,
  Ez I sit an' ca'mly listen
  While Malindy sings.

  Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', heah me!
  Mandy, make dat chile keep still;
  Don't you heah de echoes callin'
  F'om de valley to de hill.
  Let me listen, I can heah it,
  Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings,
  Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,"
  Ez Malindy sings.