Priscilla Jane Thompson, "Gleanings of Quiet Hours" (full text) (1907)
GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS
BY
Priscilla Jane Thompson.
AUTHOR OF
"Ethiope Lays."
Athelstane 1
A Prayer 9
Adieu, Adieu, Forever 12
A Home Greeting 22
A Christmas Ghost 30
A Valentine 33
A Tribute to the Bride and Groom 34
An Afternoon Gossip 39
Adown the Heights of Ages 69
After the Quarrel 72
A domestic Storm 81
A little Wren 83
Address to Ethiopia 86
Autumn 88
A kindly Deed 96
Death and Resurrection 10
Emancipation 35
Freedom at McNealey's 65
In the Valley 84
Insulted 75
Just how it Happened 7
Lines to an old Schoolhouse 23>
Lines to Emma 90
Oh whence comes the Gladness 94
Raphael 77
Song of the Moon 74
Soft black Eyes 77
The Snow-flakes 2
The Fugitive 2
The Husband's return 13>
The Examination 25
To a deceased Friend 37
The Muse's favor 45
The favorite Slave's story 49
The interrupted Reproof 63
The old Freedman 97
The old Year 100
Uncle Ike,s [sic] Holiday 20
Uncle Jimmie's Yarn 91
While the Choir sang 17
INTRODUCTION
In presenting this little volume of poems to the public, (mostly of which are closely associated with a proscribed race,) the writer's sole and earnest endeavor, is to bring to light their real life and character; and if in any of these humble and simple rhymes, a passage or thought may chance prove a medium, through which the race may be elevated, or benefited, if only in the private mind of some reader, the writer feels, that her efforts is fully repaid.
THE AUTHORESS.
DEDICATED TO MY SISTER AND BROTHERS.
GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS.
ATHELSTANE.
OH, ATHELSTANE, the faithful!
Why linger at my gate?
Is not thy hopes yet blasted?
I for another wait.
Now hie thee, to yon forest;
'Tis Clare bids thee depart;
Nay, bow thee not in sorrow,
To break my bleeding heart!
"Oh Clare, why wed another?
Thou canst but give thy hand,
Thy heart is in my keeping,
Were I in foreign land."
"Why tarry here, in bondage,
When freedom is so nigh?
My steed waits in yon forest.
And champs his bit to fly."
"Far from thy cruel uncle,
Thy pining heart shall rest,
In peaceful bliss of Eden,
Upon thy lover's breast."
"Oh, Athelstane, the faithful!
My heart is thine alone;
No more I'll brook their babble,
I'll fly with thee, mine own."
THE SNOW-FLAKES.
DOWN, DOWN, in millions, blending,
The snow-flakes gambol fast;
With eddies gay, descending,
Hurled by the winter's blast.
Down, down, in millions, blending,
The shower seems never ending,
While a white spread is extending,
From the countless flakes, amassed.
Down, down, in millions blending,
The snow flakes gambol fast;
Each little drop is wending,
To a resting place at last.
Down, down, in millions, blending,
Our God the flakes are sending,
And a lesson is impending,
Which blind man fails to grasp.
Down, down, in millions, blending,
The snow-flakes gambol fast;
In mystic shapes, portending,
God's wisdom great and vast.
Down, down, in millions, blending,
While scholars are contending,
And the sage his wits is bending
Unexplained, they drift and pass.
THE FUGITIVE.
WITH BLEEDING back, from tyrant's lash,:
A fleet-foot slave has sped,
All frantic, past his humble hut,
And seeks the wood instead.
Once in the woods, his manhood wakes;
Why stand this bondage, wroth?
With diabolic, reckless heart,
He turns he, to the North.
He flings his crude hat to the ground,
And face the northern wind;
Fleet in his tracks, the blood-hounds bay,
He leaves them far behind.
By devious way, cross many a stream,
He fiercely pressed that day,
With deadly oaths for brush or brake,
That chance to block his way.
Erelong, when kind and soothing night,
Had hushed the strife of man,
He wades waist-deep, unto a tree,
To rest awhile and plan.
He knows no friends or shelter, kind,
To soothe his deadly grief,
He only knows, that farther north,
A slave may find relief.
No lore of book, or college craft,
Lends cunning to his plan,
Fresh from the tyrant's blasting touch.
He stands a crude, rough, man.
But Providence, with pity, deep,
Looked down upon that slave,
And mapped a path, up through the South,
And strength and courage gave.
Sometimes, a friendly fellow-slave,
Chance, spying where he hid,
At night would bring his coarse, rough, fare,
And God speed warmly bid.
And sometimes, when to hunger fierce,
He'd seem almost to yield,
A bird would fall into his clutch,
A fish would shake his reel.
And when on reaching colder climes,
A sheep-cote shelter made,
Or, law-abiding Yankee, stern,
Clandestinely, lent aid.
Till after many a restless day,
And weary, toiling, night,
All foot-sore, worn, and tired of limb,
His haven looms in sight.
His tired feet press Canadian shore,
Friends tell him he is free;
He feels a craving still, to hide,
It seems it cannot be.
But from suspense and thralldom freed,
His manhood wakes at last,
And plies he hand and brain with might,
To mend his ruthless past.
And Providence, in years that came,
Sent blessings rife, his way,
With grateful heart he journeyed through,
His free, allotted days.
JUST HOW IT HAPPENED.
WELL, I was at the dresser,
A-prinking at my hair,
When mamma bustled in, and said,
"Luvenia, Joe's down-stair."
Of course I was all ready,
But say girls, don't you know?
Just not to seem too anxious,
I poked, and came down slow.
Well, girls! I felt so funny.
When I came to the door;
For Joe had on a sober look,
I'd never seen before.
But soon he was all smiling,
And I felt quite at ease;
Then girls, he caught and gave my hand,
The cutest little squeeze.
I sat down on the sofa,
And Joe,— he sat so near;
That sober look came back again,
And girls! I did feel queer.
I said, "You look so sober;"
(For girls, that's not his way;)
And then he laughed so odd, and said
He'd felt blue, all that day.
I said, "What is the matter?"
Says he, "My heart aches so!"
Well girls! I was so got at that,
I only said, "Oh Joe!"
He slipped his arms around me,
I understood, you see,
Now girls, what are you giggling 'bout?
You'd kissed him too, like me!
A PRAYER.
OH, LORD! I lift my heart,
In gratitude, to Thee,
For blessings, manifold,
Thou hast bestowed on me.
When conflicts raged within,
Too blinding to express,
Thou pitied my still tongue,
And soothed my heart to rest.
Keep me within thy care;
Compel me, to the right;
'Tis sweet to walk with Thee,
In darkness or in light.
DEATH AND RESURRECTION.
THE PRIESTS, the elders, and the scribes,
From council had adjourned;
And Pilate's proffered sacrifice,
The mob had promptly spurned.
And up Golgotha's rising slope,
A boist'ous, cruel, band,
With taunts, and jeers, and foul rebuke,
Leads forth the Son of Man.
Oh, what a scene for human eyes!
Our Savior. bowed in grief;
And tortured by the very ones,
To whom He brings relief.
Close at His side, a swarthy man,
Beneath His cross doth bow;
Oh Simon! Ne'er did mortal bend,
To nobler task than thou.
And, on the brow of Calvary,
With scoffing, and with scorn,
They nailed our Saviour to the cross,
With diadem of thorn.
`Tis done, and Joseph now has laid
His body in the tomb;
And none except the guards keep watch,
Amid the somber gloom.
But what can bar our holy Lord,
Or cross his wondrous plan?
The stronghold 'bout His lonely tomb,
Shows unbelief of man.
When, to the tomb, the women came,
In grief, at break of day,
An angel, 'mid an earthquake, vast,
Had rolled the stone away.
No power within this great domain,
Can stay our mighty King;
Oh grave, where is thy victory,
Oh death, where is thy sting!
Despite the grave, despite the bar,
In triumph He hath flown,
And sitteth on the Right of God,
Joint-ruler of His own.
ADIEU, ADIEU, FOREVER.
ADIEU, YOU haughty maiden!
Proud Lydia, adieu;
I will not tarry longer at your side;
My heart now heavy-laden,
With sorrows made by you,
Never more shall thrall me or satiate your pride;
Adieu, adieu, forever.
Adieu, you dusky maiden,
You crafty prude, adieu!
No more the sport of narrow mind I'll be;
Ne'er shall my heart awaken,
To love strains, played by you,
I spurn you from my heart, for a maid of small degree;
Adieu, adieu, forever.
Adieu, you heartless trifle!
To dally with my love,
When I humbly laid my whole heart, at your feet;
My very soul you'd rifle,
Your vain heart you did prove;
Henceforth, for nobler maidens, this outraged heart will seek,
Adieu, adieu, forever.
THE HUSBAND'S RETURN.
THE PROUD, majestic Southern sun,
Let fall a golden gleam;
It flickered through a leafy bower,
And fell aslant a traveler's brow,
And roused him from his dream.
A finer specimen of man,
Was never cast in clay;
A swarthy Hercules was he,
With that rash intrepidity,
Of manhood's earliest day.
He, an emancipated slave,
From Rappahanock's side;
Assured by Lincoln's strong decree,
Had journeyed southward, bold and free,
To claim his stolen bride.
From many a camp of Union men,
He'd found his rations free;
And by their kindly guiding hand,
He now locates the plundered land,
Where his young wife must be.
A three hours' tramp 'cross rugged hills,
Footsore, yet full of life;
Now brings him to the handsome gate,
Where flowers, bedeck a mansion great,
The prison of his wife.
And as he boldly seeks the porch,
On entering through the gate,
The master, from his wicker chair,
With grim forebodings, wildly glare,
As he his errand wait.
Advancing nearer, now at hand,
He recognize the face,
The same firm mouth, the flashing eye,
The trouble wrought in days gone by,
Comes back with no good grace.
"Well Steve, you scoundrel, what's to pay?"
He said, with rising fear;
"You've run away, that is a fact,
I'll have you flogged, and shipped right right [sic] back,
What do you want back here?"
Young Stephen, to keep down his wrath,
His strongest will employ;
He simply says, "All slaves are free,
The news is heard where e'er I be;
I want my wife and boy."
A white rage lights the planter's face,
His oaths are fierce and wild;
He calls on demons from below,
To take him if a will he'd show,
To yield the wife and child.
The rash young freedman with one bound,
Had seized his deadly foe,
But Providence sent "second thought,"
Before the murderous deed was wrought,
He loosed his hold to go.
There played about that swarthy youth,
As he strode down the path,
A threat'ning storm from rights bereft,
That stayed the planter's gasping breath,
And took away his wrath.
"Stop, Steve! where are you going now?"
He cried with deadly fear;
"Come, boy, now let me hear your plan,
Come, let us talk as man to man!
Your wife is happy here."
Young Stephen flung an answer back,
With fury in his eye,
That suddenly did take his breath,
And paled his face, as if grim death
Had dropped down from the sky.
"I'm a-goin' to the barracks,
An' fetch the "blue-coats" here;
I swear this day I'll claim my wife,
Or you will pay it with your life,
Long 'fore the night appear."
Swift to the dairy house hard by,
A summon speeds the while;
A slender girl, with, sweet, dark eyes,
Comes quickly forth in glad surprise,
Dangling a heavy child.
Young Stephen's wrath is all forgot,
As with a cry of joy,
With kisses sweet and sighs of love,
The bright sun smiling from above,
He clasps his wife and boy.
And, as he strained them to his breast,
Where tumult late held sway,
A peace suffused his storm tossed heart,
That bade all gloomy moods depart,
And lit with joy his way.
WHILE THE CHOIR SANG.
THE THREAT'NING clouds of yesternight,
Have sought the western rim;
The peaceful Easter sun, beams forth
"Glad tidings to all men."
The festooned church is filling fast;
The frivolous, the gay,
The saint, the sinner, mingle free,
On this triumphant day.
Around the altar decked with flowers,
Each old saint takes his seat;
The organ swells, the choir breaks forth,
In cadence full and sweet.
But there, amongst the aged saint,
About the altar rail,
A vacant seat, an absent face,
Bespeaks the same sad tale.
Within a humble, upper room,
Across the street, near by,
All weak and worn, and racked with pain,
A faithful soldier lies.
He's felt the galling slav'ry's yoke,
In days now long since, fled;
He's groaned in destitution, sore,
And felt the need of bread.
But through it all, with child-like faith,
He's looked up to his God;
And though the billows loudly roared,
He came across, dry-shod.
And now, the crucial test is come,
For Jordan's bank is near;
He's trusted God at smaller streams,
Canst he not trust Him here?
The choir bursts forth in classic strains,
The notes unto him ring;
Though he's not trained in classic lore,
He knows they praise his King.
His soul hath caught the holy spell;
Who could doubt such a King?
His fav'rite hymn is on his lips;
He launches, as he sings:—
"Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus;
Steal away, steal away home,
I aint got long to stay here.
He feels his old wife's ling'ring clasp,
He faintly hears her moan,
For Jordan's waves break on his ear,
And drifts him toward his home.
The choir, in rich crescendo strains,
In final triumph, chord;
They little dreamed, 'twere theirs to launch,
An old saint to his Lord.
UNCLE IKE'S HOLIDAY.
"WELL UNCLE IKE! This beats me;
I don't know what to say:
Last night I took it for a joke,
When of that odd project you spoke,
To celebrate today."
"I didn't take you for the man,
Kind as I've been to you,
To leave me in this busy time,
Tomatoes, spoiling on my vines,
To loaf a whole day through."
I've corn now parching in the field;
Potatoes yet to dig.
Yet you can walk off in this way,
And leave me in "a hole" all day,
Nor do you give a "fig."
You colored folks, are cranks for sure;
Here in this busy week,
To stop a good job, just for fun.
And sport around from sun to sun,—"
"Stop right dah! Let me speak!"
"Dis day is 'Mancipation,
De day when God, who reigns,
Wid Lincum fah his instrument,
De very jaws ob Sof did rent,
To bust de slav'ry's chains.
"An' now, wid umble gratwatude,
I's promised him fah one,
To set aside one day each year,
An' meet my people wid good cheer,
An 'joice at whut He's done."
"You say, I'se stopped in busy times,
I answer in reply,
De 'high boss', dat I'm on today,
You sot astride, dis very way,
Jest back here, in July.
"Yo' June grass lay cut in de field,
De wetter looked like rain,
An' yet you sent me right back home,
An' to yo' surrey hitched yo' roan,
An' driv off jest de same."
"An' mind you, when I spoke to you,
'Bout wastein' sich a day,
"Faw Jesus Christ I would not work,
Doe tahment claimed me fah a shirk,"
Dem aw de words you say."
"I won't say dat, I'll wuk fah God,
But, mind you dis is true,
Mo' serious time will hab to come,
An' mighty heavy, arg'ing done,
Befo' I'd wuk fah you."
I s'pose you know whut brung me 'round,
I want dat 'change', you know;
I call it wrong to stingy be,
Upon de day when we are free;
Tank you sah; I must go."
A HOME GREETING.
A PAIR of soft, black eyes,
A velvet, dusky, cheek,
A flash of dazzling pearls,
An Eden for me speak.
And next a soft embrace;
My eyes drink to their fill,
The tender, liquid, depth,
Of orbs that ever thrill.
A long, ecstatic, kiss,
That drowns all earthly strife:
What gift can e'er exceed,
A pure, confiding, wife?
LINES TO AN OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE.
DEAR SCHOOL of my childhood, thrice dear doth thou seem,
Now that thou shalt soon be no more;
Oh, fresh in my memory, sweet visions gleam,
Reflecting the bright days of yore.
Those days when we played with our faces abeam,
And manhood and womanhood, seemed but a dream.
Thy grove, cool and shady, with maples o'er grown,
Has sheltered us all, in the past;
We've romped 'neath thy shadows, while bright years have flown,
Too sweet and too pleasant to last.
Dear school of my childhood, with pain in my heart,
I yield to grim progress, and see thee depart.
And all of our teachers: how bright in our mind,
We recall every one, as they came;
Each, like a wise monarch, unselfish and kind,
Did make our advancement, their aim.
Think not that the scholar, ne'er valued thy care;
Thy teachings sank deeper than thou wert aware.
Thy dear grove has sheltered, when life seemed a care,
And trials have clouded our way.
And oft the young lover, and sweet maiden fair,
Have wooed here, where once they did play.
Oh, fresh in our memories e'er wilt thou be,
Since the skein of our childhood is woven with thee!
Dear 'Amity,' emblem of friendship's pure gold,
We shall not bemoan thee, as past;
E'en now, like that fabulous phoenix of old,
From thy ashes, a new school looms, vast.
More comely in structure, we view it near by,
And hail thy successor, with pride in our eye.
We dread not the future, oh 'Amity,' new,
What else canst thou do, but succeed;
Thy ancestor's mantle has fallen to you,
And we know thou'lt supply ev'ry need.
May thy present scholars, and those to enroll,
Inscribe a good record, upon thy fair scroll.
THE EXAMINATION.
LOOK here, Petah! whut's dis here,
Dat I heard at sistah Brooks,
'Bout you fallin' back dis year,
In most all uv yo' school books?"
"You think me an' pa'll work,
Keep a lazy scamp in school,
Jest to play, an' prink, an' shirk?
Ef you do, you ah a fool."
"Oh ma, Mrs. Brooks don't know,
What I do at school each day!"
"'Twan't her dat tole me so,
I aint 'peatin' whut she say."
"But I heard it, right enough,
An' I'm b'lievin' uv it, too:
Now, I woont stan' no sich stuff!
So you know whut you kin do."
"I'm not lagging in my books!
'Less it be my algebra:
They told stories down to Brooks—"
"I'm a-b'lievin' whut dey say."
"Fetch dem books fum dat machine,
An' my specks, fum off dat she'f,
I'll find out whut all dis mean,
Gwine to test you fah myse'f.
"Look at me, an' look at pa!
Nevah spent one day in school;
Brung up undah slav'ry's law;
White folks used us fah a tool."
"But jest soon as freedom come,
Me an' pa made up our minds,
To take lessons fum Miss Crum,
An' she said we jest did fine."
"We wuked days, and studied nights;
Pa right here can tell de same,
How de lessons we would fight,
See who'd git the biggest name.
"Doe pa now won't have it so,
'Tis de fac' jes' ax Miss Jane:
I wus fust,—whether or no,
Kase I had de strongest brain."
"Sakes o' life, ma! how you 'blow,
'Kase I once misspelled 'employ,'
Look here Cindy, don't you know?—"
"Oh, hesh! let me test dis boy."
"Whut's dis book you's gibbin' me?
'Spose I keer for allerbay? A, b, c, and x, y, z;
Here, boy, put dis book away!"
"Learned my letters long ago,
And I thought you did de same;
Dese new schools beat all I know!
Don't know you or dem to blame."
"Bring dat spellin' book to me!
You don't use dat book no mo'?
'Spec you ought now, we will see;
Take yo' place tha' by de do.'"
"Now Pete spell me 'domineer;
Right; now spell me 'gasoline;'
Dey's 'too easy' do I hear?
Never mind, now spell 'machine!"
'Mancipate',(set free, to fly;)
Once I craved dat soon an' late:
'M-a-n—c-i si man—ci,
P-a-t-e, 'Man-ci pate'.
"E' cums fus instid uv 'M',
Dis here spellin' will not do!"
"Dates de way you spoke it to 'im,
Dat boy's jest as right as you.'"
"Pa, I wush you'd shet yo' mouf,
An' quit takin' on, so mean,
Now den, Petah, spell me 'soul';
Right,—now spell fah 'me, 'ravene'"
"Wrong! I knowed you'd miss a sight;
Dat new's straight, I got at Brooks;
"Ma, I know I spelt that right!"
"Aint I lookin' on de book?"
"Like as not de boy is right,
Cindy, let me see dat word;
Dat word's 'raven'— Sakes o' life!.
Kyah! kyah! kyah! you is a bird."
"Oh shet up! an' act wid sense!
Ain't gwine test Pete any mo';
You knowed when I fus' commence,
Dat my eyes wus dim an' so."
"Dat's why I bought dem gold specks,
Dat you made de man take back;
You wont have me here to vex,
Always, wid yo' spite an' slack."
"B'lieve Lucindy's gwine to cry;
Kyah! kyah! kyah! she is a bird!
Makin' out she's gwine to die.
'Case she mispernounced dat word."
A CHRISTMAS GHOST.
THE EVE of Christmas had arrived;
The children were in bed,
The clock upon the mantel, chimed
The half-hours as they fled.
Aunt Lucy tip-toed 'bout her work;
For work she had to do;
I've never seen a Christmas eye
Bring aught but work,— have you?
And so Aunt Lucy tip-toed 'bout,
With heart expectant, light,
"Twould be a shame to wake the babes,
With Santa mos' in sight."
But all at once Aunt Lucy stopped;
"Laws! Whut's dat thumpin' noise?"
She had good reason to believe,
It wasn't Santa Claus.
And yet, five minutes back, had she
Not seen on pillows white,
Four little cherubs, wrapped in sleep,
Most pleasing to the sight?
With busy hands and heavy step,
Aunt Lucy fairly flew;
Admitting that they were awake,
She had her work to do.
Next, calls she stern, behind closed door,
(Too busy to pass through,)
"Now, whut's flat thumpin' sound I hear?
Paul Peters, is dat you?"
"Phil, Joe, an' Babe, I know is sleep,
An' you, too, ought to be,
Ef you don't git back in dat bed,
I'll lay you 'cross my knee!"
"But mamma, Santa Claus is come!
I seed him pattin' Ring,
He's come an' fetched his wife along,—"
"He aint cum, no sich thing!"
"But ma, he had a dreat big sack,
They did'nt [sic] make no noise,
An' when he set it down, to rest,
He kissed Miss Santa Claus."
"You hesh yo' mouf, an' git to bed!
Don't b'lieve a word you say;
Fah none has come into this house,
But Sis an' mister Clay."
"Nobody axed you whut you seed,
All bad boys see a sight;
You git in bed, or you will see,
A whoopin' 'fore 'tis light.
So guilty Paul crept back to bed,
Most miserable of boys,
For fear she'd tell old Santa Claus,
And forfeit him his toys.
Yet mamma never "peached" on him,
For Santa brought a host;
And so he solved the myst'ry thus:
He merely saw a ghost.
A VALENTINE.
OUT of the depths of a heart of love,
Out of the birth-place of sighs,
Freighted with hope and freighted with fear,
My all in a valentine, hies.
Oh, frail little missive
Of delicate texture,
Speed thee, on thy journey,
And give her a lecture!
Fathom her heart, that seems to me, cold,
Trouble her bosom, as mine,
Let it be mutual, this that I crave,
Her 'yes' for a valentine.
Oh, frail little missive,
In coy Cupid's keeping,
Oh! speed back a message,
To set my pulse leaping.
A TRIBUTE TO THE BRIDE AND GROOM.
DEAR friends, we are gathered together,
With innocent hearts, that are light;
Each face is abeam, and meet doth it seem,
As there is a wedding tonight.
A wedding! with love and peace in full bloom;
And a sweet, comely, bride and an exquisite groom.
Dear friends, we are gathered together,
And happiness leads us tonight;
We follow her star, with nothing to mar,
Through the sweet, dreamy whirl of delight;
And we feel our hearts throb and swell for the room,
To encompass our hopes, for the sweet bride and groom.
May this night's love and contentment,
For the happy pair, prove to be,
A nucleus e'er, to enlarge with each year,
As their barque drifts out, in life's sea:
And we wish them many returns of the day,
With peace, love, and happiness, as only friends may.
Should sorrows e'er darken their pathway,
As oft in our lives, sorrows will,
May they turn to the One, to whom millions have come,
And each heard His sweet words, "Be still."
And may His blest Presence, forever find room,
In the pure, sweet, abode of the bride and the groom.
EMANCIPATION.
TIS a time for much rejoicing;
Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!
Many a time in days now ended,
Hath our fathers' courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
Ne'er they to their, Maker, railed;
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.
As of old the Red Sea parted,
And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from North, the bold South, started,
And a fissure wide she drew;
Drew a cleft of Liberty,
Through it, marched our people free.
And, in memory, ever grateful,
Of the day they reached the shore,
Meet we now, with hearts e'er faithful,
Joyous that the storm is o'er.
Storm of Torture! May grim Past,
Hurl thee down his torrents fast.
Bring your harpers, bring your sages,
Bid each one the story tell;
Waft it on to future ages,
Bid descendants learn it well.
Kept it bright in minds now tender,
Teach the young their thanks to render.
Come with hearts all firm united,
In the union of a race;
With your loyalty well plighted,
Look your brother in the face.
Stand by him, forsake him never,
God is with us now, forever.
TO A DECEASED FRIEND.
WRITTEN IN MEMORY OF MRS. POLLY DIXON.
THE veil of death hath fallen,
Loved one 'twixt thee and me;
Thou art now among the chosen of the Lord;
With heavenly saints immortal,
Enrobed in sanctity,
Thou art chanting with the blest, in sweet accord.
Oh, ever bright thy image,
Is pictured in my heart,
Though autumn after autumn now hath flown;
But memories still steal o'er me,
In which thou hast a part,
And I sometimes yearn to rob Death of his own.
Well didst thou keep the promise,
My dying mother craved:
That thou shouldst ever guard her orphan brood;
Oh, blessed foster-mother!
Thy tenderest love, thou gav'st;
And thou ever taught me lessons, pure and good.
Oh Death! why rob so early?
Why snatched thou her, from me,
When I, in wane of childhood, craved her most?
If longer thou hadst spared her,
I could ungrudgingly,
Permitted her, to be unto me lost.
Oh, many times in blindness
Have I stumbled as I tread,
The rugged old road, which to me is new;
And I miss thy warm hand's pressure,
And I grieve that thou art dead;
While sad, regretful, tears, mine eyes bedew.
But sleep, beloved mother,
Why shouldst I grudge thy rest?
For thou indeed, hast done the 'better part;'
A mother to the orphan,
Of wives the true and best,
My inmost self, can yield thee, with glad heart.
AN AFTERNOON GOSSIP.
IS that you sistah Harris?
I knowed you when you knocked;
Jest keep right on a-pushing,
The ole door isn't locked!
Ole white man's been forgetting,
Each day since first I sent;
He's got a pow'ful mem'ry,
When comes the time for rent.
Now, sit down; Whut's your hurry?
You have no work to do;
I'm mos' done with my i'ning;
You always beats me through.
You aint no bother to me!
Jest sit here where its cool;
Hush fretting 'bout them child'en!
You know they're safe in school.
Now, whut's the news, Amanda?
Hearn some 'bout Flora Ann;
Jest take this little rocker,
And reach that pa'm leaf fan.
I hearn she's gone and married,
That trifling Louis Bird;
Says I to Abe this mo'nin',
Don't b'lieve a single word.
Hush woman! Whut's you sayin'?
How can that news be true?
Flo Ann wus sot on Jasper,
She never keered for Lou.
Well people! Don't that beat you?
Gone married Lou fo' spite;
The Lod have mussy on her!
She's trapped herse'f for life.
Guess what ole Jeems ben doin'?
Can't guess to save my life;
Aint took a crazy notion,
To git another wife?
Fo' land-sakes! sister Harris,
Ha! ha! ha! aint I beat?
That man's jest buyin' hosses
Fo' crows an' dogs to eat.
Now, you know well as I do,
He loses ev'ry one:
They're half dead when he gets them;
I 'spect he thinks it's fun.
'Twus jest a week last Tuesday;
Abe made me break my side,
Telling how the marshal fined him,
For half bur'ing one that died.
I hearn 'bout Sister Curtley?
Why Sistah Harris, no!
Fell down and broke her ankle?
Good Lo'd! You don't say so?
Fell down them ole back do' steps!
She told me they wus broke;
Ole Smith put off the fixing:
I'd make that white man smoke!
I must git round and see her;
Hope God will bring her through;
We must pray for her, Mandy,
And see whut we can do.
We must not shirk our duty,
And linger in the lurch,
But help, in tribulations,
A sistah in the church.
You say you're feeling poorly?
Then course you couldn't go;
Yes, Sistah Riley told me,
That you wus feeling slow.
Now hush your 'pologizing!
I know your heart is true;
Whut sistah did more shouting,
Last 'vival time than you?
You wa'n't out to meeting,
When they 'churched' Riah Brown?
You'd broke your sides a-laughing,
How Elder called him down.
The Elder riz and asked him,
To take a seat in front;
So, up the aisle he shuffled,
And sot down, with a grunt.
Then, spoke up Elder Mitchell,
"Now, whut have you to say?
You know the charge against you,
For the evil of your way.
"You've walked the way of sinnahs,
Used church funds for your gain,
And when 'cused by Deacon Riley,
Took the name of God, in vain."
Ef evah in your lifetime,
You've seen a good whooped hound,
With head and tail a-dragging,
You then saw Riah Brown.
"And therefore," said the elder,
His voice wus loud and stout;
"We want no wolves among us;
I move to turn you out."
Poor sistah Brown wus crying,
Riah wus sniffling too;
Yet seemed no sad occasion,
Jest spite of all I'd do.
I know 'twa'n't like no christain,
The feeling that I had,
For ev'ry where around me,
The sistahs looked so sad.
But 'pon my word, Amanda,
Since my eyes first saw light;
I never felt more tickled,
Than I did Tuesday night.
Then Riah says a sniffin'.
"I did do whut you say,
But bred'ren 'twas ole Satan,
That coaxed me from the way."
You could a hearn a pin drop,
When he commenced to say,—
"I'm but a umble critter;—"
Laws, listen! Is that May?"
Laws, honey! here's the child'en,
School caint be out so soon;
Ef ever time went flyin',
It did this afternoon.
That's right, I didn't finish,
Well, I wus most nigh through,
You'll hear the rest tomorrow?
I dont keer ef you do.
All right, tomorrow, Mandy,
I'm mighty gled you come;
Now, don't fret 'bout them child'en,
You'll find them safe at home.
And say, oh Sistah Harris!
Tomorrow, when you come,
Please tell old Mr. Bailey,
To send Abe's hatchet home.
THE MUSE'S FAVOR.
OH MUSE! I crave a favor,
Grant but this one unto me;
Thou hast always been indulgent,
So I boldly come to thee.
For oft I list thy singing,
And the accents, sweet and clear,
Like the rhythmic flow of waters,
Falls on my ecstatic ear.
But of Caucasia's daughters,
So oft I've heard thy lay,
That the music, too familiar,
Falls in sheer monotony.
And now, oh Muse exalted!
Exchange this old song staid,
For an equally deserving:—
The oft slighted, Afric maid.
The muse, with smiles, consenting,
Runs her hand the strings along,
And the harp, as bound by duty,
Rings out with the tardy song.
THE SONG.
Oh, foully slighted Ethiope maid!
With patience bearing rude upbraid,
With sweet, refined, retiring, grace,
And sunshine lingering in thy face,
With eyes bedewed and pityingly,
I sing of thee, I sing of thee.
Thy dark and misty curly hair,
In small, neat, braids entwineth fair,
Like clusters of rich, shining, jet,
All wrapt in mist, when sun is set;
Fair maid, I gaze admiringly,
And sing of thee, and sing of thee.
Thy smooth and silky, dusky skin,
Thine eyes of sloe, thy dimple chin,
That pure and simple heart of thine,
'Tis these that make thee half divine;
Oh maid! I gaze admiringly,
And sing of thee, and sing of thee
Oh modest maid, with beauty rare,
Who e'er hath praised thy lithe form, fair?
Thy tender mien, thy fairy tread,
Thy winsome face and queenly head?
Naught of thy due in verse I see,
All pityingly I sing of thee.
Who's dared to laud thee 'fore the world,
And face the stigma of a churl?
Or brook the fiery, deep, disdain,
Their portion, who defend thy name?
Oh maiden, wronged so cowardly,
I boldly, loudly, sing of thee.
Who've stood the test of chastity,
Through slav'ry's blasting tyranny,
And kept the while, their virtuous grace,
To instill in a trampled race?
Fair maid, thy equal few may see;
Thrice honored I, to sing of thee.
Let cowards fear thy name to praise,
Let scoffers seek thee but to raze;
Despite their foul, ignoble, jeers,
A worthy model thou appear,
Enrobed in love and purity;
Oh, who dare blush, to sing of thee?
And now, oh maid, forgive I pray,
The tardiness of my poor lay;
The weight of wrongs unto thee done,
Did paralize My falt'ring tongue;
'Twas my mute, innate, sympathy,
That staid this song, I sing of thee.
THE FAVORITE SLAVE'S STORY.
WELL, son de story of my life,
Is long, and full of shade;
And yet, the bright spots, here and tha,
A heap of comforts made.
When fust my eyes beheld de light,
'Twas on a Chris'mus day;
Twelve miles fum Richmond "on a fa'm,"
As you young upsta'ts say.
We said "plantation" in de South,
We black, and white folks too;
We wa'n't a changin' ev'ry day,
Like all you young folks do.
My mother cooked de white-folks grub,
Dat's all she had to do,
Ole Miss, she spilte her half to death,
And spilte her young ones, too.
Fah, well I mind me, in dem days,
How I and Sue and Pete,
Would roll around Miss Nancy's cheer,
And play about her feet.
Miss Nancy,—I kin hear her yet—
'You Petah, Sue, an' Si!
I'll make yo' maustah whoop you sho!"
(Wid laughtah in her eye.)
Ole mause, he'd whoop us soon as not;
But, when Miss Nancy saw,
She'd run out, wid dat look, an' say,
'I wouldn't whoop him, Pa.'
One day,—I nevah kin fahgit,
Ole Miss wus sick in bed;
Ole Mause, he ripped, an' cussed, an' to',
An' made himself a dread.
Somehow, I can't tell how it wus,
He slapped my sistah Sue,
And mammy, coase she took it up,
Den dab wus heap to do.
Pete lit right in wid tooth and claw,
And so did little sis,
Fah me, I had anothah plan,
I flew upstairs fah Miss.
I met Miss Nancy on de stairs
Wrapped in a great big shawl,
An' comin' down de steps so fast,
Jest seemed as ef she'd fall.
I tried to tell her 'whut wus up,'
She pushed me on befo',
Fah mammy's cries wus in her yeahs
An' she heard nothin' mo'.
She caught ole Mause, an' pulled him off;
Her eyes dey fa'ly blazed;
Ole Mause commenced a silly grin,
An' looked like he wus dazed.
I'd nevah seed Miss Nancy mad.
Good Lo'd! She fussed an' to'e;
She 'raked ole Maustah o'er de coals',
Until he begged an' swo'.
She wouldn't 'low Maria whooped,
She jest would leave de place,
An' take 'way ev'ry slave she brought!
She jest r'ared in his face.
She wouldn't 'low Maria whooped,
Jest leave her young ones be!
They nevah sassed her when she spoke,
It wasn't dem, 'twas he!
He tried to coax her back to bed,
But, Lo'd! She wouldn't go:
'Whut time had she to stay upstairs
When he would take on so?'
An' Mammy, she wus cryin' loud;
(De whoopin' wus her fus,)
An', whut wid little sistah Sue,
It made Miss Nancy wus.
She'd fuss all round about Ole Mause,
Jest like a spunky hen;
She'd pat my mothah on de back,
An' den begin' again.
Well son, she p'intly mane things wa'm,
Fah Ole Mause whined an' swo';
No mattah how we all took on,
He'd whoop none uv us mo'.
"Maria, take yo' Miss upstairs!"
He'd wring his hands an' say;
Miss Nancy'd stamp her foot an' scream,
She'd stay right tha' all day.
Well, when she'd fussed plum out uv bref,
To add to his ala'ms,
She jest 'keeled' ovah in a faint,
An' fell into his a'ms.
Well, son, tha wus anothah stir;
We young ones thought her dead:
Ole Mause, I b'lieve, he thought so too,
Fah he plum lost his head.
Ole Miss wus sick fah quite a spell,
An' mad right thue it all;
Fah when ole Mause cumed grinnin' roun',
She'd turn an' face de wall.
So things went on, until one day,
He axed her, how she felt,
She reached out wid her ole time smile,
So he cumed tha an' knelt.
Dey made it up, right dah an' den,
An' as de day was fa',
he took her up into his a'ms,
An' brung her down de sta'.
An' aftah dat, I tell you, son,
Ole Mause, he let us be,
An' doe he slashed de othah slaves,
Pete, Sue, an' me went free.
An' so de time went spinnin' on,
Wid not a keer nor plan;
I didn't know whut trouble wus,
Till I wus nigh a man,
Ole Fairfax owned my fathah, son,
Dey lived across de creek,
De white folks al'ays let him come,
Three nights in ev'ry week.
Of coase he had his Sundays, too,
Great days dey use to be,
Fah all de blessed day he'd have
We young ones, bout his knee.
Or else, he'd take us all to church,
All breshed up neat an' new,
Wid' Mammy hanging to his arm,
An' leading little Sue.
An' Mammy's eyes 'ud be so bright,
When she had Pappy near;
She'd laugh an' giggle like a gal,
But tryin' times drawed near.
Ole Mause an' Fairfax wus fast friends;
A pa' uv roscals dey;
In gamblin', cheatin', an' de like,
Dey bofe had heap to say.
So bofe got mixed up in a scrape,
Wid Richmond's bank, an' den,
Dey bofe sold ev'ry slave dey had,
To keep out uv de pen.
I tell you son de good white-folks,
Wus good in time uv ease;
But soon as hawd times cummed tha' way,
Dey'd change, "quick as you please.
Soon as Miss Nancy seed de trap,
Ole Mause had done walked in,
She changed right dah, an who but she!
A-helpin' him to sin.
Dey talked an' planned togethah, long;
An', as de days flew by,
Miss Nancy changed an' got so cross,
Dat Mammy use to cry.
One mawnin', jest to pick a fuss,
She said she missed a pie;
When Mammy said dey all wus tha,
She said, she told a lie.
'Dat pie wus in her cabin, hid;
She wus a vixen, bold;
An' ef she didn't bring it back,
She'd have her whooped an' sold.'
Well, son, you see dat wus her scheme,
To sell her, wid de rest;
An' aftah dat, she made it plain,
To all uv us, I 'fess,
An' so, at last, de day rolled 'round,
When all, exceptin' I,
Wus put upon de block an' sold,
To any one who'd buy.
Oh, son! You don't know whut it is,
To see yo' loved ones sold,
An' hear de groans, an' see de tears,
Uv young, as well as ole.
An' see dem white men bus'lin 'roun',
A-feelin' uv yo' a'm,
An' havin' you to run an' skip,
An' caper till you's wa'm,
An' all de while, wid questions, keen,
An' wid a watchful eye,
Not keerin' how yo' h'a't might ache,
Jest so you's strong an', spry.
Po' Mammy! How kin I fahgit,
Her pa'tin' from us all?
Dat pa'tin', son, will 'bide wid me,
Until de Lo'd will call!
'Way down de rivah, she wus sold,
Alone, wid no kin nigh;
Her tendah h'a't broke 'fo' she left,
I know she's long on High.
An' Pappy, Pete, an' little Sue,
Wus sent their dif'rent ways,
An' not one has my eyes beheld,
Since dem sad, pa'tin' days.,
Oh son, you don't know how I felt,
When all dat stir wus past!
Sometimes I'd git to grievin' so,
I thought I couldn't last.
De empty cabins all aroun'.
De stables empty, too,
Miss Nancy, cryin' day an' night
Ole Mause a-lookin' blue.
I tell you son, dem tryin' days,
Aw burnt into my soul:
I feel de pain, I see it all,
Same as dem days uv old.
Ah well! De sun will sometimes shine,
E'en in a po' slave's life;
De Lo'd healed up my broken h'a't,
By sendin' me a wife.
Miss Nancy wus as good to her,
An' spilte her jest as bad,
As she did mammy long befo',
Sometimes it made me sad.
Ole Mause had prospered, bought mo' slaves,
Ole Miss wus sweet an' kind,
My little ones an' Charlotte dear,
Had pushed my grief behind.
I al'ays wus Miss Nancy's pet,
She made it very plain;
An' I must say, in all my grief,
She tried to ease my pain.
An' now, dat I wus gay once mo',
An' happy as could be,
She petted Charlotte an' my chaps,
An' seemed as pleased as me.
So time sped on widout a keer,
Save whut had long since past,
Till Ole Mause's health begin to fail,
An' son, he went down fast.
He took on scan'lous in dem days,
When he saw death wus nigh,
He cussed an' to' from mawn till night,
It made Miss Nancy cry.
He nevah had been conquered, son,
By any living thing,
So, when grim Death lay hold uv him,
He fit ha'd, 'gainst de sting.
But, son, at last he'd found his match,
Fah spite uv all his rage,
Ole Satan flung his fi'ry hook,
An' pulled him in his cage.
You nevah seed a sinnah die,
So son you jest don't know;
You could've heard Ole Maustah cuss,
Fuh half a mile or mo'.
He axed me fuh a glass uv gin.
He jest wus crazy med,
He bit de rim from off de glass,
An' spit it on de bed.
An' den he yelled, "Look at him, Si!
"Drive that black dog away!
He's snapping at my throat, you see,
Ketch hold his chain, I say!"
He would've sprung plum out de bed,
Had I not held him in,
Den, wid a long an' doleful yell,
He died in all his sin.
De wah, dat had been grumblin' roun',
Broke full about dis time,
De slaves begun a-walkin' off.
To suit their own free mind.
Ole Miss wus cryin' day an' night,
An' beggin' me to stay,
While Charlotte urged me, on de sly,
To go North, fah away.
I looked into her pleadin' eyes.
So helpless, trustin' me,
An' den, upon my little chaps,
An' manhood said, "Be free!"
Ole Missus cumed down to de gate;
To bid fahwell she tried,
But she jest held fast bofe our hands,
An' cried, an' cried, an' cried.
An' so we cumed up to dis state,
An' worked on, bes' we could,
A-trustin' al'ays in de Lo'd,
An' tryin' to be good.
We raised our chaps, dey all done well,
An' now have settled down,
Exceptin' Jane, our baby gal,
Who you aw co'ting now.
You say, you want her fah yo' wife?
I know, uv co'se you do;
I give consent, fah son you see,
I al'ays did like you.
Dat lifts a burden from my mind,
You're young, an' good, an' true,
We've lived to see our othahs thrive.
We want Jane settled, too.
Take good keer uv our baby, son,
A tendah child she be,
Why, look! Here she an' Charlotte comes;
She's told her Ma you see.
THE INTERRUPTED REPROOF.
ZELLA WHEELER! did I evah?
Playing with yo' ole dolls; Well!
Great, big gal, here, tall as mammy,
Big a baby as Estelle!
I'll tell daddy, Miss, this eb'nin',
And he'll pleg yo' life out sho';
Great big gal, with beaux a-comin',
Crawlin' 'round heah on the flo'!
Sunday noon, gwine tell the EIder;
Sunday night, I'm gwine tell Ed;
Needn't come heah tryin' to hug me!
You caint coax it out my head.
Yo' ole mammy's not gwine keep it,
Ed's gwine 'o hear it sho's you bo'n;
Shame on you! An' Ed a co'ting,
Playing dolls heah all the mo'n.
Them's yo' dolls! Think I don't know them,
When I bought them all myse'f?
Needn't try, caint fool yo' mammy,
Them's Estelle's tha on the shef.
Gwine tell Ed, and gwine tell daddy,
What's that noise! Who's that out tha'?
Give me them dolls, Lawd, here's Eddie!
Mussy sakes! Go bresh yo' ha'
FREEDOM AT MCNEALY'S.
ALL around old Chattanooga,
War had left his wasteful trace;
And the rebels, quelled and baffled,
Freed reluctantly their slaves.
On his spacious, cool, veranda—
Stood McNealy, gaunt and tall,
With bowed head, and long arms folded,
Pond'ring on his blacks, enthralled.
Years and years, he'd been their master,
Harsh and stern his reign had been;
Many an undeserving lashing,
He had rudely given them.
All his life he'd been a despot;
Ruling all with iron hand;
Never till this deadly conflict,
Had he e'er brooked one command.
But his lately rich plantation,
Sacked by Union men he see;
And the bitter dregs stand waiting:
He must set his bondmen free.
From their work, they come together,
At their master's last command,
And at length, well-nigh two hundred.
'Fore the large veranda stand.
Oh! that motley crowd before him,
Speaks the wrong one man has done;
For his constant, dire oppression,
Can be seen on every one.
Men of middle age all palsied,
By hard work and sorrow's pain,
Blighted youths and orphaned infants;
All had felt his cruel reign.
There were women fair, who knew him,
To be more of brute than man;
There were children clinging to them,
Through whose veins his own blood ran.
Widowed hearts in swarthy bosoms.
Ever bled in patient pain,
O'er their loved ones, sold before them,
To increase McNealy's gain.
All of this preys on McNealy,
As before his slaves he stands;
And his low'ring, dogged, expression,
Speaks the power that's left his hands.
And, with quivering voice and husky,
Tells he that each one is free;
Tells them of his heavy losses,
Meanly seeking sympathy.
And the soft hearts of his vassals,
Melt, as only Ethiopes' can;
As with brimming eyes and kind words,
Each one grasps his tyrant's hand.
One by one, they've all departed;
Man and woman, boy and girl;
Void of learning, inexperienced,
Launched upon the crafty world.
But one cabin is not empty,
Two old souls are kneeling there;
In the throes of desolation,
They have sought their Lord in prayer.
They have never tasted freedom.
And their youthful hopes are fled;
Now, the freedom they are seeking,
Is with Jesus, and the dead.
Poor aunt Jude and uncle Simon!
Freedom brings to them, no cheer;
They have served McNealys fam'ly,
For three-score or more, of years.
Steep and rough, the road they've traveled,
Many were their heart felt groans,
Yet they cleave unto their tyrant,
For his lash, is all they've known.
Like a bird of long confinement,
Cleaves unto his open cage,
These two wretched slaves, benighted,
Clave to bondage, in their age.
And they sought McNealy humbly,
With their hearts filled to the brim;
Told him, all their days remaining,
They would gladly give to him.
And McNealy, pleased and flattered,
With no feeling of remorse,
Takes them back into his service,
As you would a faithful horse.
ADOWN THE HEIGHTS OF AGES
ADOWN the heights of Ages,
Where mist oft dims the view,
Where blinding chaos rages,
Whilst sweet peace mingles, too,
A caravan e'er moves along,
A fast increasing, fitful throng,
To whom we've said adieu.
Oft, through the mist, seclusive,
Familiar forms, appear;
And from their realm, exclusive,
Their joys and griefs, we hear;
A bright ray, oft, lights up the mist,
And flash us back a loving kiss;
Or counsel we hold dear.
And often, in the young night,
When memories, beguile,
We drift behind the foot-lights,
And play with them awhile;
'Tis then we press that hand, again,
And hear that voice, that thrills to pain,
And drink again that smile.
Then stroll we through the wildwood,
Down to the meadow brook.
And with the joy of childhood,
We ply our fishing hook;
Or, in the country school, once more,
We take our places, "on the floor,"
Intent with slate and book.
Or else, with joy and laughter,
We join the social feast,
Which brings the smile long after,
The hour of mirth has ceased;
We catch those love-lit eyes, as bright
As e'er they shone that long fled night,
And feel our glad heart leap.
And so we drift, forgetful,
Of all except the past,
'Til with a start, regretful.
We find ourselves, at last;
The drama fades before our eye;
We yield our loved ones, with a sigh.
Back, to relentless past.
Thus down the heights of Ages,
A mere yore in the throng,
All that our life engages,
Moves speedily along;
Small, small, indeed the part we play,
The hour glass wastes the sand away,
Ere half is sung, Life's song.
AFTER THE QUARREL.
LINDIE, chile, fo' Lawd sake, tell me
Whut's come ovah you an' Link?
Mos' fo' weeks since he's called on you,
Time he's comin' back, I think.
'Tain't no use to cry now, Honey,
Mussy! how de chile takes on!
Mammy knows well how yo' h'a't aches,
Done felt all, chile, fo' you's bo'n.
Felt dat, when yo' Pa wus co'tin;
Lawd! I've felt it day on day!
Honey, Sugah, hesh yo' cryin!'
Can't make out a word you say.
Oh, I see! Link's done got jealous!
Didn't I say it wan't so sma't,
Prancin' round, wid Elex Johnson,
When you know, Link's got yo' h'a't.
I go tell him dat you love him?
Lindie, ain't you goin' med?
Tink yo' Mammy'd stoop to dat trick,
Tink I'd frow you at his head?
Wha's de dignity I taught you,
While you growed up by my side?
Didn't mean it? Dat sound bettah,
Knowed you had Virginia, pride.
Honey, chile, yo' Ma feels fo' you,
Hash yo' cryin', brace up prim,
Don't you know dat Link is grievin'
Much fo' you as you fo' him?
Yes indeed! Link's not fo'got you,
He'll quit poutin' by an' by.
Den he'll love you mo'en evah,
'Twas dat way wid Pa an' I.
Dah, you laugh; dat's bettah, Honey,
But now mind, when Link comes back,
You leave Elex to Lize Posten,
An' jest trot on yo' own track.
SONG OF THE MOON.
OH, a hidden power is in my breast,
A power that none can fathom;
I call the tides from seas of rest,
They rise, they fall, at my behest;
And many a tardy fisher's boat,
I've torn apart and set afloat,
From out their raging chasm.
For I'm an enchantress, old and grave;
Concealed I rule the weather;
Oft set I, the lover's heart a-blaze,
With hidden power of my fulgent rays,
Or seek I the souls of dying men,
And call the sea-tides from the fen,
And drift them out together.
I call the rain from the mountain's peak,
And sound the mighty thunder;
When I wax and wane from week to week,
The heavens stir, while vain men seek,
To solve the myst'ries that I hold,
But a bounded portion I unfold,
So nations pass and wonder.
Yea, my hidden strength no man may know;
Nor myst'ries be expounded;
I'll cause the tidal waves to flow,
And I shall wane, and larger grow,
Yet while man rack his shallow brain,
The secrets with me still remain,
He seeks in vain, confounded.
INSULTED.
MY Mamma is a mean old sing,
An' toss as she tan be;
I'm doeing to pack my doll trunt,
An' doe to Ga'n'ma Lee.
My Mamma baked a dinger tate,
Den panked me shameful hard,
Dust 'tause I stuck my finder in,
An' filled de holes wiz lard.
If I was down to G'an'ma Lee,
She'd say "Ionie, shame!"
And fen I'ud tommence to ky,
She'd call me pitty names.
But Mamma, fus, she slapped my ear,
Den jerked me fum de chair,
And panked and flung me on de lounge,
An said, "You dus' lay dere!"
I'm doein' to tell my Papa, too,
Fen he tum home tonight,
He'll take me back to g'an'ma,
An' out of Mamma's sight.
An' fen she det so lonesome,
Like she did las' week, an' kied,
I won't yon out an' tiss her,
I'm doeing way, an' hide.
SOFT BLACK EYES.
SOFT black eyes, all pensive, tender,
Changeful as a shifting ray;
Now, in sympathy they linger,
Now, in mirth, they flash away.
Orbs of midnight, like a dart,
Doth thou pierce my aching heart!
Soft black eyes, half coy, half artless,
Half in earnest, half in jest,
Well I know thou art not heartless,
Yet thy tricks doth pain my breast.
Orbs of night, gaze a caress,
Thou, alone, my life canst bless!
Soft black eyes, so sweet and soothing,
Knowest thou from day to day,
My sad life in sighs I'm losing,
Sighing heart and soul away?
Let my plight, those stars molest!
Sympathy will give me rest.
RAPHAEL.
BEHOLD young Raphael coming back;
How long the time doth seem,
Since last he parted from the side
Of her, his sweetest dream.
And yet a fortnight scarce hath past,
Since last he left her side,
And saw these soft eyes fill with tears;
His love, his joy, his pride.
And now he's coming back again,
A husband's place to hold;
He seeks communion with himself,
And saunters 'cross the wold.
With polished rifle on his arm,
And hunting coat of gray,
His Pilot trotting at his heel,
With joy he winds his way.
Though Raphael is a marksman fair,
Of hunting over fond,
Ere yet, he lifteth not his gun,
To bring the good game down.
But now doth muse he from his dream,
And cocks his trusty gun;
For he hath reached the willowed dell,
Where deer is wont to run.
The day is calm, soft breezes blow,
And all is still as dawn;
Upon the lake, among the rush,
Are floating, flocks of swan.
Then saith young Raphael, as he gaze
On rush, and willows 'round,
"The truant deer hath sought the cliffs,
And naught but swan I've found."
I'll choose the whitest of the flock,"
Thus did young Raphael speak,
"As symbol of the pure young heart
Of her, whose hand I seek."
And so, adown the dell he peers,
And through the rush he sees,
A mass of downy whiteness there,
Half hidden by the leaves.
He lifts his gun, he takes good aim,
And forward Pilot start:
Triumphantly he lowers his piece;
He knows he's hit the mark.
Oh luckless youth, retrace thy steps!
The sight that waits thine eyes,
Will turn thy ebon locks to snow;
And waste thy life with sighs.
Oh deadly bullet, why so true?
What havoc thou hast wrought,
To turn into the deepest grief,
Young Raphael's noblest thought!
For there, half hidden by the rush,
Doth lie a heap like snow;
Poor Pilot whines and licks the face,
Of one full well he know.
And now, young Raphael's coming up;
He puts the rush aside.
And there upon the sward, beholds,
His game—his own loved bride.
One look reveals his waiting love,
All clad in snowy white,
Her angel face, her bosom red—
He groans—and all is night.
Oh young, heart-broken, weary youth!
God chasteneth whom he love;
Thy thoughts were ever with thy bride;
They never soared above.
But since the one thou lovest so well,
Hast flown to realms of rest,
Thy whole soul turneth to thy God,
And yearneth for the blest.
And when thy keenest grief is past,
And hushed thy deepest sighs,
Thou'lt deem her but an angel sent,
To lure thee to the skies.
A DOMESTIC STORM.
I'M goin' to whoop you, Sammy Taylor,
Done gone eat nigh half my pie!
"Please Ma, honest, no I never,"
Hesh dat tellin' me dat lie!
Here's de prints uv dirty fingahs,
As you tilted up de lid;
Here, you smeared de plate wid grape juice;
"Nom' I didn't" Yes you did!
Ma'ch yourse'f right in dis kitchen!
"Please, I didn't steal it Mum,
See, I've been out hunting bird eggs,
Jest got back afore you come."
Hunting bird eggs! didn't I tell you
Dat 'twas wrong to pester birds?
Thought I told you to mind Viney,
Don't you say another word!
Den you didn't steal de grape-pie,
Do some meanness doe you would;
Wonder, den, if Viney eat it?
Ef she did, I'll whoop her good.
Viney!. — "Ma'am!" —Ma'ch in dis kitchen;
Taint no use fo' you to cry;
I can see as plain as daylight,
Dat 'twus you dit eat de pie.
Eat dat pie Miss Julie sent me,
When Jim cya'ed de washin' home!
You knowed dat you'd got yo' po'tion,
Ef you went an' left it 'lone.
Ef you wont hear to Miss Vi'let,
Whut she teach in Sunday School,
Den I'll try anothah method,
I will whoop you to de rule.
Where's my switch? Jest ti'ed uv foolin;
Ought to done dis long befo!
0-o-o! Please Ma dont whoop no harder,
Honest! I wont steal no mo'!
Sit right down da' in dat cornah;
Stop dat sniffin'! wipe dat nose!
Ef I'd set, and let you do it,
Next you'd eat de house I s'pose.
An' you's been out huntin' bird eggs,
Spite uv all I said to you,
When I told you to mind Viney!
Dah, now! Dah! "Please, Mammie, oo-o-o!
"'I wont never steal no bird eggs,
Please quit whoopin' Mammie, do
I'll mind Viney good, the next time!
Guess you will, you rascal, you.
A LITTLE WREN.
A WREN dropped down on my window sill,
And his little feet was hid in the snow;
Yet he tossed me a saucy glance, as to say,
I'm happy out here where the ice wind blow
And life seems bright and cheerful as May;
And you inside in your soft armchair,
Seems half in content and half in despair.
And coyly he frisked about in the snow,
And the white flakes flew from his dainty feet;
And airily lifting his little right wing,
With latest wren etiquette me did he greet;
Then dashed he away, with a merry swing:
And I thought as he scurried away from my sight,
Contentment is his who reads it aright.
He was without and I was within;
Yet he had the sunshine, I had the shade;
With life as it was, he e'er could rejoice,
While I must be pampered, and comforts be made,
Ere I my jubilant joys could voice;
And I thought as I mused on the failings of men,
Which does God deems wisest, the sage or the wren?
IN THE VALLEY.
OH GOD! my heart is thine,
Content, am I in Thee;
Thy chast'ning rod but proves,
That Thou, abides with me.
I know Thou leadeth on,
But oh, the way is drear;
Naught, but the click of thorns,
Is sounding in my ear.
I cry, 'Thy will be done!'
My heart is with the cry;
Yet comes not light, nor peace,
To soothe my tear-dim eye.
My heart craves earthly things;
I feel its nature's claim;
Since Thou didst give me life,
Canst I discard an aim?
The hot blood stirs my brain,
And sweet dreams to me flock:
Alas! I see them wrecked,
Upon Ambition's rock.
Oh Christ! Come down to earth,
An elder brother, be;
And pilot Thou, my barque,
Which drifts, capriciously.
Oh wrench me from the toils,
Of this entangled mesh!
My spirit strives for Thee,
Despite the erring flesh.
ADDRESS TO ETHIOPIA.
OH, ill-starred Ethiop'an—
My weak and trampled race!
With fathomless emotion,
Thy dismal path I trace.
Thy bright and stalwart, swarthy, son
Thy meek-eyed daughters, fair,
I trace through centuries bygone,
Of misery and despair.
Thy fathers' fathers, long were taught
Nay, forced by tyrants, bold,
To worship at a mortal shrine,
With humble heart and soul.
So long hath slav'ry's blasting hand,
O'er thee its power swayed,
That now, though freedom sweet is thine,
I see thee cowed and dazed.
The sin is at thy tyrant's door;
The curse is at thine own;
And e'er will rest upon thy head,
Till thou wilt tear it down.
Oh! rouse thy slumb'ring manhood, strong!
A foothold boldly earn;
And scorn thy brothers' patronage,
When he's thy fellow-worm.
Tear down those idols thou hast built,
In weakness to the proud!
Knowest thou that in thy blindness, deep,
Thou desecrate thy God?
Oh! rise in union great and strong!
Hold each black brother, dear;
And form a nation of thine own,
Despite thy tyrant's jeers!
We need not reek in blood and groans,
This is a war within;
We need but conquer cow'ring self,
And rise a man, with men.
What though our number may be few?
Hath not the Jews long stood,
In unions strong, 'mid myriads
Of foes, who craved their blood?
Then, rise oh fainting Ethiopes!
And gather up thy strength;
For, by repeated efforts, strong,
Thou'lt gain thy ground at length.
The same God hast created thee,
Who did thy fairer brother;
Thinkst thou, that in His justice, great,
He'd prize one 'bove the other?
AUTUMN.
LIST to the sad wind, drearily moaning;
Moaning the fate of the choicest and best;
Seest those red leaves descending in torrents?
'Tis blood drops of warriors sinking to rest.
Many a volley they've turned in their glory,
Now, lack-a-day! They perish, all gory.
Ever they conquered and victory boasted,
O'er storm and o'er drought and vollies of rain;
Showing more strength when battle was over,
And bearing off laurels again and again.
Flushed with success, did they go forth rejoicing.
Now their ill-fate, the sad wind is voicing.
Fiercely the frost-king urged on his subjects,
Spreading destruction o'er hillside and fen!
Yet bravely they fought, not one e'er despairing,
Till gushing with life-blood, they fell down like men.
Now the pathos of death the last scene is lending,
Who'd have believe such a fate was impending.
LINES TO EMMA.
OH, could I but sing as the minstrels of old!
Whose beautiful love songs ring still in our ear!
In accents so musical, rhythmical, clear,
Now soaring majestical, now hov'ring near,
With passionate tenderness, shy and yet bold,
That enamored his lady-love, ruffled her breast,
And drew her frail form to his bosom, for rest!
Oh, could I, my sweetheart charm thus to my breast,
Methink overflowing, my cup would then be;
To gaze to the depth, of those eyes' liquid sea,
And cause them to waver and droop before me,
And to feel my glad heart throb wild with the zest,
While tenderly holding her in my embrace,
And feasting my eyes on her fair, angel face.
But alas I am luckless, dear Emma the best,
And sternly hath Cupid dealt fate unto me;
To stir my love passion, and yet let me see,
A maiden that yearneth another's to be,
And yearns not in vain, to be queen of his breast,
For my bosom too often has felt that keen dart
To be wrong in sounding a brother's sore heart.
UNCLE JIMMIE'S YARN.
DID I evah tell you, Sonny,
Well, a-he! he! he!
De trick I played in Dixie,
'Way back in 'sixty-three?
I wus wild an' full uv mischief,
An' reckless ez could be,
In dem rough ole days in Natchez,
'Way back in 'sixty-three.
I wus out a-for'gin', Sonny,
Well, a-he! he! he!
Out a-doin' debbilment,
Big man sah, who but me?
Had a smackin' big hoss-pistol,
'Long bout dis size, confound!
Jest to wa'm dem rebels' jackets,
An' make dem jump around.
It wus early Sunday mawnin',
Well, a-he! he! he!
When all de boys wus restin,
'Cept sma'ties, jest like me.
I, astride my coal black filly,
Cumed a-lopin' up de hill,
Whar I halted an' sot lookin',
Down Natchez, ca'm an' still.
I could see de great big buildins',
Well, a-he! he! he!
A-r'arin' up tha steeples,
Dat seemed a-sassin' me;
Den I pulled ole roa'in' Betsey,
An' aimed de cupelo.
Uv de co'thouse uv de rebels,
An' let de triggah go,
I wus handy wid a pistol.
Well a he! he! he!
My han' wus true an' stiddy.
Fuh I wus young, you see;
So my fust shot toe a slab off,
Nigh big ez dat ba'n doe;
Dat jest riled me wus dan evah,
So, once mo' I let huh go.
Den de othah side, I leveled,
Well, a-he! he! he!
She jest to'e tings to pieces,
Ez any eye could see;
So den, nuttin but de centah pa't.
Uv dat fine cupelo,
Was a-standin' now fuh Natchez,
De rest wus layin' low.
Den I loaded roa'in Betsy,
Well, a-he! he! he!
An' cracked it on de centah,
An' Betsy bawled out, Dee!
De centah pa't jest crumbled down,
Sho Sonny, yes sah ree!
So dat settled wid dat co't-house,
'Way back in 'sixty-three.
Den I wheeled, an' spurred my filly;
Well, a he! he! he!
An' put off fuh de barracks,
Ez fas' ez fas' could be:
I could heah de bullets whislin',
About my very head,
Fuh I'd hit de rebel's bee-hive,
An' dey answered me wid lead.
When at last I reached de barracks,
Well, a-he! he! he!
De captain standin' 'kimbo,
Wus fus man dat I see;
"Whut's you doin' to dem rebels?
You vagabond, he sed,
You raised mo' fuss an' smoke down dah,
Dan evah could ole Ned."
Den de laugh his eyes 'gin twinklin',
Well, a-he! he! he!
An' so I bust out laughin',
I seed dat I wus free;
'You'll git yo' fill uv fightin', sah,
You roscil!' Den, says he,
And dat wound up de co't-house scrape,
'Way back in'sixty-three
OH, WHENCE COMES THE GLADNESS?
OH, whence comes the gladness?
The joy fraught with madness?
The hopes and the fancies of childhood's bright day?
The weird exultation,
And rife animation,
That sets all the heart strings,
A-chord with the May.
From whence comes the Wonder-Land?
Likewise the Fairy land?
The halo encircling, the trifles of life?
The bright dream materialized?
The bear and wolf humanized?
The bugbear, the werwolf,
And fair water sprite?
Then searched I with lightness,
The summer sun's brightness;
There caught I a glimpse of this coveted mirth,
Then sought I the South Wind;
Among the rank clinging vine;
And caught it once more,
As it fled from the earth.
A KINDLY DEED.
A THOUGHT flashed 'cross a kindly mind,
It grew into a deed;
A deed, that stretched a helping hand,
Unto a brother's need.
That brother, strengthened by the deed,
In humble gratitude,
Passed on the blessing he received,
To do another good,
And on it went, and years passed by;
'Til, as the maxim run,
This deed, around its circuit passed,
Returned where it begun.
It found its owner sunken low,
In heartache's bitter groan;
The thought, the deed of that far day,
Proved but a friendly loan.
THE OLD FREEDMAN.
HE sits in front of the bright, blazing grate;
A poor old freedman, maimed and gray;
With worn hands folded, he sits and waits,
His Master's summons, from day to day.
His ebon brow is seamed deeply with care;
His dim eyes, robbed of their scanty sight,
By the dazzling red of the ember's glare,
Sets him to dreaming as thou 'twere night.
And his hard, early life comes, scene by scene,
As acts appear on a play-house stage;
While he sits with a thoughtful smile, serene,
And views the past, in a dreamy maze.
Yes, now he can smile as he thinks on those days,
For the fire of youth has long fled his breast;
He has cast the burden of past care away,
And humbly looks to his Master, for rest.
He hears the fierce screams of his mother, wild,
Anguished and startling, and loud as of old;
While haplessly he, her remaining child,
Is hurried "down the river," and sold.
And now comes the scene of that sugar farm,
Where the lash and fever, rules supreme;
Where the humid, sickly, atmosphere, warm,
Brings on a giddiness, e'en in his dream.
He is hoeing cane, with a stalwart pace,
And with him, a girl, the joy of his life;
With her graceful figure and dark brown face,
And her sunny smile— his own fair wife.
When e'er the overseer's back is turned,
He lends a strong hand to her lagging row;
That her exacting task may be earned,
To ward from her back, the brutal blow.
Despite the appalling crosses of life,
He deems himself, e'en a happy man;
Just to have her near and to call her 'wife',
And to hurriedly press her little worn hand.
The third scene is on, and now he behold,
His Lucy coming with eyes filled with tears;
"Oh Ruben," she's crying, "why I'm to be sold!"
The words fall like doom upon his shocked ears.
Again that dull giddiness rises within,
His lower limbs weaken, he rests on his hoe;
He feels her embraces again and again,
Then turns she, and back to the "big house" doth go.
Her fleeting form brings him back to himself;
He drops his hoe, with a desperate groan;
He'll make the rude trader take back his foul pelf
He'll claim his wife, for she is his own.
Oh, futile struggle! he sees his fair love,
Borne off by the rude, evil, trader, who spoils,
While he helplessly, calls on his Father above,
And is fiercely, brutally, lashed for his toils.
Oh, let us pass over the dark days that came,
And rev'rently screen this act of his life!
When the anguish of Rizpah, who mourned for her slain,
Could not be compared, with his grief o'er his wife.
And now, clears the smoke, that is black as the night;
He stands firm a giant with Gettysburg's brave
The death blows he deals, in the hand to hand fight,
Serve vengeance to rebels who late held him slave.
And now, he is come to the calm years of peace;
His restless wand'rings in search of his wife;
When despaired and discouraged, his wanderings cease,
And he fills with religion, the void of his life.
And now the last scene, the triumphant, the grand!
With dim sight renewed and infirmities, fled,
Fair Lucy once more is pressing his hand,
And Jesus is placing a crown on his head.
For there, in front of the bright blazing, grate,
With a sad, kind, smile, and expressionless eye,
At the end of the day, in the even, late.
He had taken his flight, to his home on high.
THE OLD YEAR.
INFIRM and aged, doth he sit,
And ponder on the gilded past;
His brilliant eyes, alas, death-lit,
Is like a spark, too bright to last,
And muses he on days now sped,
When he, a youth, with staff and thong,
Pursued the waning year, that fled,
And left him monarch brave and strong.
What happy days they seem to be,
Now that they number with the past;
But hark! those distant shouts of glee!
He cuts his musings with a gasp.
With bony hands he grasps his cape,
And wraps it 'bout his trembling form;
Then turns, a humped, decrepit, shape,
And flees the coming of the morn.
And as his wasted form doth drift,
All mist-like, through the frosty air,
Close in the rear, behold a rift;
And through it comes the glad New Year.