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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/11986-0.txt b/11986-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc0fbc4 --- /dev/null +++ b/11986-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6064 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11986 *** + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + +Chosen and Edited +With An Essay On The Negro's Creative Genius + +by +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + +Author of "Fifty Years and Other Poems" + + + + +1922 +Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., New York + +Printed in the U.S.A. by the Quinn & Boden Company, Rahway, N.J. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PREFACE + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + A Negro Love Song + Little Brown Baby + Ships That Pass in the Night + Lover's Lane + The Debt + The Haunted Oak + When de Co'n Pone's Hot + A Death Song + +JAMES EDWIN CAMPBELL + Negro Serenade + De Cunjah Man + Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + Ol' Doc' Hyar + When Ol' Sis' Judy Pray + Compensation + +JAMES D. CORROTHERS + At the Closed Gate of Justice + Paul Laurence Dunbar + The Negro Singer + The Road to the Bow + In the Matter of Two Men + An Indignation Dinner + Dream and the Song + +DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS + 'Weh Down Souf + Hog Meat + +WILLIAM H. A. MOORE + Dusk Song + It Was Not Fate + +W. E. BURGHARDT DU BOIS + A Litany of Atlanta + +GEORGE MARION McCLELLAN + Dogwood Blossoms + A Butterfly in Church + The Hills of Sewanee + The Feet of Judas + +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + Sandy Star and Willie Gee + I. Sculptured Worship + II. Laughing It Out + III. The Exit + IV. The Way + V. Onus Probandi + Del Cascar + Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves + Ironic: LL.D + Scintilla + Sic Vita + Rhapsody + +GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON + Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society + +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + O Black and Unknown Bards + Sence You Went Away + The Creation + The White Witch + Mother Night + O Southland + Brothers + Fifty Years + +JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY + Miss Melerlee + Calling the Doctor + The Corn Song + Black Mammies + +LESLIE PINCKNEY HILL + Tuskegee + Christmas at Melrose + Summer Magic + The Teacher + +EDWARD SMYTH JONES + A Song of Thanks + +RAY G. DANDRIDGE + Time to Die + 'Ittle Touzle Head + Zalka Peetruza + Sprin' Fevah + De Drum Majah + +FENTON JOHNSON + Children of the Sun + The New Day + Tired + The Banjo Player + The Scarlet Woman + +R. NATHANIEL DETT + The Rubinstein Staccato Etude + +GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + The Heart of a Woman + Youth + Lost Illusions + I Want to Die While You Love Me + Welt + My Little Dreams + +CLAUDE McKAY + The Lynching + If We Must Die + To the White Fiends + The Harlem Dancer + Harlem Shadows + After the Winter + Spring in New Hampshire + The Tired Worker + The Barrier + To O. E. A + Flame-Heart + Two-an'-Six + +JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + A Prayer + And What Shall You Say + Is It Because I Am Black? + The Band of Gideon + Rain Music + Supplication + +ROSCOE C. JAMISON + The Negro Soldiers + +JESSIE FAUSET + La Vie C'est la Vie + Christmas Eve in France + Dead Fires + Oriflamme + Oblivion + +ANNE SPENCER + Before the Feast of Shushan + At the Carnival + The Wife-Woman + Translation + Dunbar + +ALEX ROGERS + Why Adam Sinned + The Rain Song + +WAVERLEY TURNER CARMICHAEL + Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + Winter Is Coming + +ALICE DUNBAR-NELSON + Sonnet + +CHARLES BERTRAM JOHNSON + A Little Cabin + Negro Poets + +OTTO LEYLAND BOHANAN + The Dawn's Awake! + The Washer-Woman + +THEODORE HENRY SHACKLEFORD + The Big Bell in Zion + +LUCIAN B. WATKINS + Star of Ethiopia + Two Points of View + To Our Friends + +BENJAMIN BRAWLEY + My Hero + Chaucer + +JOSHUA HENRY JONES, JR. + To a Skull + + + + +PREFACE + +There is, perhaps, a better excuse for giving an Anthology of American +Negro Poetry to the public than can be offered for many of the anthologies +that have recently been issued. The public, generally speaking, does not +know that there are American Negro poets--to supply this lack of +information is, alone, a work worthy of somebody's effort. + +Moreover, the matter of Negro poets and the production of literature by +the colored people in this country involves more than supplying +information that is lacking. It is a matter which has a direct bearing on +the most vital of American problems. + +A people may become great through many means, but there is only one +measure by which its greatness is recognized and acknowledged. The final +measure of the greatness of all peoples is the amount and standard of the +literature and art they have produced. The world does not know that a +people is great until that people produces great literature and art. No +people that has produced great literature and art has ever been looked +upon by the world as distinctly inferior. + +The status of the Negro in the United States' is more a question of +national mental attitude toward the race than of actual conditions. And +nothing will do more to change that mental attitude and raise his status +than a demonstration of intellectual parity by the Negro through the +production of literature and art. + +Is there likelihood that the American Negro will be able to do this? There +is, for the good reason that he possesses the innate powers. He has the +emotional endowment, the originality and artistic conception, and, what is +more important, the power of creating that which has universal appeal and +influence. + +I make here what may appear to be a more startling statement by saying +that the Negro has already proved the possession of these powers by being +the creator of the only things artistic that have yet sprung from American +soil and been universally acknowledged as distinctive American products. + +These creations by the American Negro may be summed up under four heads. +The first two are the Uncle Remus stories, which were collected by Joel +Chandler Harris, and the "spirituals" or slave songs, to which the Fisk +Jubilee Singers made the public and the musicians of both the United +States and Europe listen. The Uncle Remus stories constitute the greatest +body of folklore that America has produced, and the "spirituals" the +greatest body of folk-song. I shall speak of the "spirituals" later +because they are more than folk-songs, for in them the Negro sounded the +depths, if he did not scale the heights, of music. + +The other two creations are the Cakewalk and ragtime. We do not need to go +very far back to remember when cakewalking was the rage in the United +States, Europe and South America. Society in this country and royalty +abroad spent time in practicing the intricate steps. Paris pronounced it +the "poetry of motion." The popularity of the cakewalk passed away but its +influence remained. The influence can be seen to-day on any American stage +where there is dancing. + +The influence which the Negro has exercised on the art of dancing in this +country has been almost absolute. For generations the "buck and wing" and +the "stop-time" dances, which are strictly Negro, have been familiar to +American theatre audiences. A few years ago the public discovered the +"turkey trot," the "eagle rock," "ballin' the jack," and several other +varieties that started the modern dance craze. These dances were quickly +followed by the "tango," a dance originated by the Negroes of Cuba and +later transplanted to South America. (This fact is attested by no less +authority than Vincente Blasco IbaƱez in his "Four Horsemen of the +Apocalypse.") Half the floor space in the country was then turned over to +dancing, and highly paid exponents sprang up everywhere. The most noted, +Mr. Vernon Castle, and, by the way, an Englishman, never danced except to +the music of a colored band, and he never failed to state to his audiences +that most of his dances had long been done by "your colored people," as he +put it. + +Any one who witnesses a musical production in which there is dancing +cannot fail to notice the Negro stamp on all the movements; a stamp which +even the great vogue of Russian dances that swept the country about the +time of the popular dance craze could not affect. That peculiar swaying of +the shoulders which you see done everywhere by the blond girls of the +chorus is nothing more than a movement from the Negro dance referred to +above, the "eagle rock." Occasionally the movement takes on a suggestion +of the, now outlawed, "shimmy." + +As for Ragtime, I go straight to the statement that it is the one +artistic production by which America is known the world over. It has been +all-conquering. Everywhere it is hailed as "American music." + +For a dozen years or so there has been a steady tendency to divorce +Ragtime from the Negro; in fact, to take from him the credit of having +originated it. Probably the younger people of the present generation do +not know that Ragtime is of Negro origin. The change wrought in Ragtime +and the way in which it is accepted by the country have been brought about +chiefly through the change which has gradually been made in the words and +stories accompanying the music. Once the text of all Ragtime songs was +written in Negro dialect, and was about Negroes in the cabin or in the +cotton field or on the levee or at a jubilee or on Sixth Avenue or at a +ball, and about their love affairs. To-day, only a small proportion of +Ragtime songs relate at all to the Negro. The truth is, Ragtime is now +national rather than racial. But that does not abolish in any way the +claim of the American Negro as its originator. + +Ragtime music was originated by colored piano players in the questionable +resorts of St. Louis, Memphis, and other Mississippi River towns. These +men did not know any more about the theory of music than they did about +the theory of the universe. They were guided by their natural musical +instinct and talent, but above all by the Negro's extraordinary sense of +rhythm. Any one who is familiar with Ragtime may note that its chief charm +is not in melody, but in rhythms. These players often improvised crude +and, at times, vulgar words to fit the music. This was the beginning of +the Ragtime song. + +Ragtime music got its first popular hearing at Chicago during the world's +fair in that city. From Chicago it made its way to New York, and then +started on its universal triumph. + +The earliest Ragtime songs, like Topsy, "jes' grew." Some of these +earliest songs were taken down by white men, the words slightly altered or +changed, and published under the names of the arrangers. They sprang into +immediate popularity and earned small fortunes. The first to become widely +known was "The Bully," a levee song which had been long used by +roustabouts along the Mississippi. It was introduced in New York by Miss +May Irwin, and gained instant popularity. Another one of these "jes' grew" +songs was one which for a while disputed for place with Yankee Doodle; +perhaps, disputes it even to-day. That song was "A Hot Time in the Old +Town To-night"; introduced and made popular by the colored regimental +bands during the Spanish-American War. + +Later there came along a number of colored men who were able to transcribe +the old songs and write original ones. I was, about that time, writing +words to music for the music show stage in New York. I was collaborating +with my brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, and the late Bob Cole. I remember +that we appropriated about the last one of the old "jes' grew" songs. It +was a song which had been sung for years all through the South. The words +were unprintable, but the tune was irresistible, and belonged to nobody. +We took it, re-wrote the verses, telling an entirely different story from +the original, left the chorus as it was, and published the song, at first +under the name of "Will Handy." It became very popular with college boys, +especially at football games, and perhaps still is. The song was, "Oh, +Didn't He Ramble!" + +In the beginning, and for quite a while, almost all of the Ragtime songs +that were deliberately composed were the work of colored writers. Now, the +colored composers, even in this particular field, are greatly outnumbered +by the white. + +The reader might be curious to know if the "jes' grew" songs have ceased +to grow. No, they have not; they are growing all the time. The country has +lately been flooded with several varieties of "The Blues." These "Blues," +too, had their origin in Memphis, and the towns along the Mississippi. +They are a sort of lament of a lover who is feeling "blue" over the loss +of his sweetheart. The "Blues" of Memphis have been adulterated so much on +Broadway that they have lost their pristine hue. But whenever you hear a +piece of music which has a strain like this in it: + +[Illustration: Music] + +you will know you are listening to something which belonged originally to +Beale Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. The original "Memphis Blues," so far as +it can be credited to a composer, must be credited to Mr. W. C. Handy, a +colored musician of Memphis. + +As illustrations of the genuine Ragtime song in the making, I quote the +words of two that were popular with the Southern colored soldiers in +France. Here is the first: + + "Mah mammy's lyin' in her grave, + Mah daddy done run away, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray. + Yes, I've done gone astray, po' boy, + An' I've done gone astray, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray, po' boy." + +These lines are crude, but they contain something of real poetry, of that +elusive thing which nobody can define and that you can only tell that it +is there when you feel it. You cannot read these lines without becoming +reflective and feeling sorry for "Po' Boy." + +Now, take in this word picture of utter dejection: + + "I'm jes' as misabul as I can be, + I'm unhappy even if I am free, + I'm feelin' down, I'm feelin' blue; + I wander 'round, don't know what to do. + I'm go'n lay mah haid on de railroad line, + Let de B. & O. come and pacify mah min'." + +These lines are, no doubt, one of the many versions of the famous "Blues." +They are also crude, but they go straight to the mark. The last two lines +move with the swiftness of all great tragedy. + +In spite of the bans which musicians and music teachers have placed on it, +the people still demand and enjoy Ragtime. In fact, there is not a corner +of the civilized world in which it is not known and liked. And this proves +its originality, for if it were an imitation, the people of Europe, at +least, would not have found it a novelty. And it is proof of a more +important thing, it is proof that Ragtime possesses the vital spark, the +power to appeal universally, without which any artistic production, no +matter how approved its form may be, is dead. + +Of course, there are those who will deny that Ragtime is an artistic +production. American musicians, especially, instead of investigating +Ragtime, dismiss it with a contemptuous word. But this has been the course +of scholasticism in every branch of art. Whatever new thing the people +like is pooh-poohed; whatever is popular is regarded as not worth while. +The fact is, nothing great or enduring in music has ever sprung +full-fledged from the brain of any master; the best he gives the world he +gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through the alembic of +his genius. + +Ragtime deserves serious attention. There is a lot of colorless and +vicious imitation, but there is enough that is genuine. In one composition +alone, "The Memphis Blues," the musician will find not only great melodic +beauty, but a polyphonic structure that is amazing. + +It is obvious that Ragtime has influenced, and in a large measure, +become our popular music; but not many would know that it has influenced +even our religious music. Those who are familiar with gospel hymns can at +once see this influence if they will compare the songs of thirty years +ago, such as "In the Sweet Bye and Bye," "The Ninety and Nine," etc., with +the up-to-date, syncopated tunes that are sung in Sunday Schools, +Christian Endeavor Societies, Y.M.C.A.'s and like gatherings to-day. + +Ragtime has not only influenced American music, it has influenced American +life; indeed, it has saturated American life. It has become the popular +medium for our national expression musically. And who can say that it does +not express the blare and jangle and the surge, too, of our national +spirit? + +Any one who doubts that there is a peculiar heel-tickling, +smile-provoking, joy-awakening, response-compelling charm in Ragtime needs +only to hear a skilful performer play the genuine article, needs only to +listen to its bizarre harmonies, its audacious resolutions often +consisting of an abrupt jump from one key to another, its intricate +rhythms in which the accents fall in the most unexpected places but in +which the fundamental beat is never lost in order to be convinced. I +believe it has its place as well as the music which draws from us sighs +and tears. + +Now, these dances which I have referred to and Ragtime music may be lower +forms of art, but they are evidence of a power that will some day be +applied to the higher forms. And even now we need not stop at the Negro's +accomplishment through these lower forms. In the "spirituals," or slave +songs, the Negro has given America not only its only folksongs, but a mass +of noble music. I never think of this music but that I am struck by the +wonder, the miracle of its production. How did the men who originated +these songs manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they +are, for the most part, taken from the Bible. But the melodies, where did +they come from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully +strong. Take, for instance, "Go Down, Moses"; I doubt that there is a +stronger theme in the whole musical literature of the world. + +[Illustration: Music (Oppressed so hard they could not stand, Let my +people go. Go down, Mo-ses, way down in E-gypt land, Tell ole Pha-raoh, +Let my people go.)] + +It is to be noted that whereas the chief characteristic of Ragtime is +rhythm, the chief characteristic of the "spirituals" is melody. The +melodies of "Steal Away to Jesus," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Nobody +Knows de Trouble I See," "I Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray," "Deep River," "O, +Freedom Over Me," and many others of these songs possess a beauty that +is--what shall I say? poignant. In the riotous rhythms of Ragtime the +Negro expressed his irrepressible buoyancy, his keen response to the sheer +joy of living; in the "spirituals" he voiced his sense of beauty and his +deep religious feeling. + +Naturally, not as much can be said for the words of these songs as for the +music. Most of the songs are religious. Some of them are songs expressing +faith and endurance and a longing for freedom. In the religious songs, the +sentiments and often the entire lines are taken bodily from the Bible. +However, there is no doubt that some of these religious songs have a +meaning apart from the Biblical text. It is evident that the opening lines +of "Go Down, Moses," + + "Go down, Moses, + 'Way down in Egypt land; + Tell old Pharoah, + Let my people go." + +have a significance beyond the bondage of Israel in Egypt. + +The bulk of the lines to these songs, as is the case in all communal +music, is made up of choral iteration and incremental repetition of the +leader's lines. If the words are read, this constant iteration and +repetition are found to be tiresome; and it must be admitted that the +lines themselves are often very trite. And, yet, there is frequently +revealed a flash of real, primitive poetry. I give the following examples: + + "Sometimes I feel like an eagle in de air." + + "You may bury me in de East, + You may bury me in de West, + But I'll hear de trumpet sound + In-a dat mornin'." + + "I know de moonlight, I know de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I know de graveyard, I know de graveyard, + When I lay dis body down. + I walk in de graveyard, I walk troo de graveyard + To lay dis body down. + + I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms; + I lay dis body down. + I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day + When I lay dis body down. + An' my soul an' yo' soul will meet in de day + When I lay dis body down." + +Regarding the line, "I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms," Col. +Thomas Wentworth Higginson of Boston, one of the first to give these slave +songs serious study, said: "Never it seems to me, since man first lived +and suffered, was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively +than in that line." + +These Negro folksongs constitute a vast mine of material that has been +neglected almost absolutely. The only white writers who have in recent +years given adequate attention and study to this music, that I know of, +are Mr. H.E. Krehbiel and Mrs. Natalie Curtis Burlin. We have our native +composers denying the worth and importance of this music, and trying to +manufacture grand opera out of so-called Indian themes. + +But there is a great hope for the development of this music, and that hope +is the Negro himself. A worthy beginning has already been made by +Burleigh, Cook, Johnson, and Dett. And there will yet come great Negro +composers who will take this music and voice through it not only the soul +of their race, but the soul of America. + +And does it not seem odd that this greatest gift of the Negro has been the +most neglected of all he possesses? Money and effort have been expended +upon his development in every direction except this. This gift has been +regarded as a kind of side show, something for occasional exhibition; +wherein it is the touchstone, it is the magic thing, it is that by which +the Negro can bridge all chasms. No persons, however hostile, can listen +to Negroes singing this wonderful music without having their hostility +melted down. + +This power of the Negro to suck up the national spirit from the soil and +create something artistic and original, which, at the same time, possesses +the note of universal appeal, is due to a remarkable racial gift of +adaptability; it is more than adaptability, it is a transfusive quality. +And the Negro has exercised this transfusive quality not only here in +America, where the race lives in large numbers, but in European countries, +where the number has been almost infinitesimal. + +Is it not curious to know that the greatest poet of Russia is Alexander +Pushkin, a man of African descent; that the greatest romancer of France +is Alexander Dumas, a man of African descent; and that one of the greatest +musicians of England is Coleridge-Taylor, a man of African descent? + +The fact is fairly well known that the father of Dumas was a Negro of +the French West Indies, and that the father of Coleridge-Taylor was a +native-born African; but the facts concerning Pushkin's African ancestry +are not so familiar. + +When Peter the Great was Czar of Russia, some potentate presented him with +a full-blooded Negro of gigantic size. Peter, the most eccentric ruler of +modern times, dressed this Negro up in soldier clothes, christened him +Hannibal, and made him a special body-guard. + +But Hannibal had more than size, he had brain and ability. He not only +looked picturesque and imposing in soldier clothes, he showed that he had +in him the making of a real soldier. Peter recognized this, and eventually +made him a general. He afterwards ennobled him, and Hannibal, later, +married one of the ladies of the Russian court. This same Hannibal was +great-grandfather of Pushkin, the national poet of Russia, the man who +bears the same relation to Russian literature that Shakespeare bears to +English literature. + +I know the question naturally arises: If out of the few Negroes who have +lived in France there came a Dumas; and out of the few Negroes who have +lived in England there came a Coleridge-Taylor; and if from the man who +was at the time, probably, the only Negro in Russia there sprang that +country's national poet, why have not the millions of Negroes in the +United States with all the emotional and artistic endowment claimed for +them produced a Dumas, or a Coleridge-Taylor, or a Pushkin? + +The question seems difficult, but there is an answer. The Negro in the +United States is consuming all of his intellectual energy in this +gruelling race-struggle. And the same statement may be made in a general +way about the white South. Why does not the white South produce literature +and art? The white South, too, is consuming all of its intellectual energy +in this lamentable conflict. Nearly all of the mental efforts of the white +South run through one narrow channel. The life of every Southern white man +and all of his activities are impassably limited by the ever present Negro +problem. And that is why, as Mr. H. L. Mencken puts it, in all that vast +region, with its thirty or forty million people and its territory as large +as a half a dozen Frances or Germanys, there is not a single poet, not a +serious historian, not a creditable composer, not a critic good or bad, +not a dramatist dead or alive. + +But, even so, the American Negro has accomplished something in pure +literature. The list of those who have done so would be surprising both by +its length and the excellence of the achievements. One of the great books +written in this country since the Civil War is the work of a colored man, +"The Souls of Black Folk," by W.E.B. Du Bois. + +Such a list begins with Phillis Wheatley. In 1761 a slave ship landed a +cargo of slaves in Boston. Among them was a little girl seven or eight +years of age. She attracted the attention of John Wheatley, a wealthy +gentleman of Boston, who purchased her as a servant for his wife. Mrs. +Wheatley was a benevolent woman. She noticed the girl's quick mind and +determined to give her opportunity for its development. Twelve years later +Phillis published a volume of poems. The book was brought out in London, +where Phillis was for several months an object of great curiosity and +attention. + +Phillis Wheatley has never been given her rightful place in American +literature. By some sort of conspiracy she is kept out of most of the +books, especially the text-books on literature used in the schools. Of +course, she is not a _great_ American poet--and in her day there were +no great American poets--but she is an important American poet. Her +importance, if for no other reason, rests on the fact that, save one, she +is the first in order of time of all the women poets of America. And she +is among the first of all American poets to issue a volume. + +It seems strange that the books generally give space to a mention of Urian +Oakes, President of Harvard College, and to quotations from the crude and +lengthy elegy which he published in 1667; and print examples from the +execrable versified version of the Psalms made by the New England divines, +and yet deny a place to Phillis Wheatley. + +Here are the opening lines from the elegy by Oakes, which is quoted from +in most of the books on American literature: + + "Reader, I am no poet, but I grieve. + Behold here what that passion can do, + That forced a verse without Apollo's leave, + And whether the learned sisters would or no." + +There was no need for Urian to admit what his handiwork declared. But this +from the versified Psalms is still worse, yet it is found in the books: + + "The Lord's song sing can we? being + in stranger's land, then let + lose her skill my right hand if I + Jerusalem forget." + +Anne Bradstreet preceded Phillis Wheatley by a little over twenty years. +She published her volume of poems, "The Tenth Muse," in 1750. Let us +strike a comparison between the two. Anne Bradstreet was a wealthy, +cultivated Puritan girl, the daughter of Thomas Dudley, Governor of Bay +Colony. Phillis, as we know, was a Negro slave girl born in Africa. Let us +take them both at their best and in the same vein. The following stanza is +from Anne's poem entitled "Contemplation": + + "While musing thus with contemplation fed, + And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, + The sweet tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, + And chanted forth a most melodious strain, + Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, + I judged my hearing better than my sight, + And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight." + +And the following is from Phillis' poem entitled "Imagination": + + "Imagination! who can sing thy force? + Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? + Soaring through air to find the bright abode, + The empyreal palace of the thundering God, + We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, + And leave the rolling universe behind, + From star to star the mental optics rove, + Measure the skies, and range the realms above, + There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, + Or with new worlds amaze the unbounded soul." + +We do not think the black woman suffers much by comparison with the white. +Thomas Jefferson said of Phillis: "Religion has produced a Phillis +Wheatley, but it could not produce a poet; her poems are beneath +contempt." It is quite likely that Jefferson's criticism was directed more +against religion than against Phillis' poetry. On the other hand, General +George Washington wrote her with his own hand a letter in which he thanked +her for a poem which she had dedicated to him. He, later, received her +with marked courtesy at his camp at Cambridge. + +It appears certain that Phillis was the first person to apply to George +Washington the phrase, "First in peace." The phrase occurs in her poem +addressed to "His Excellency, General George Washington," written in 1775. +The encomium, "First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his +countrymen" was originally used in the resolutions presented to Congress +on the death of Washington, December, 1799. + +Phillis Wheatley's poetry is the poetry of the Eighteenth Century. She +wrote when Pope and Gray were supreme; it is easy to see that Pope was her +model. Had she come under the influence of Wordsworth, Byron or Keats or +Shelley, she would have done greater work. As it is, her work must not be +judged by the work and standards of a later day, but by the work and +standards of her own day and her own contemporaries. By this method of +criticism she stands out as one of the important characters in the making +of American literature, without any allowances for her sex or her +antecedents. + +According to "A Bibliographical Checklist of American Negro Poetry," +compiled by Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, more than one hundred Negroes in the +United States have published volumes of poetry ranging in size from +pamphlets to books of from one hundred to three hundred pages. About +thirty of these writers fill in the gap between Phillis Wheatley and Paul +Laurence Dunbar. Just here it is of interest to note that a Negro wrote +and published a poem before Phillis Wheatley arrived in this country from +Africa. He was Jupiter Hammon, a slave belonging to a Mr. Lloyd of +Queens-Village, Long Island. In 1760 Hammon published a poem, eighty-eight +lines in length, entitled "An Evening Thought, Salvation by Christ, with +Penettential Cries." In 1788 he published "An Address to Miss Phillis +Wheatley, Ethiopian Poetess in Boston, who came from Africa at eight years +of age, and soon became acquainted with the Gospel of Jesus Christ." These +two poems do not include all that Hammon wrote. + +The poets between Phillis Wheatley and Dunbar must be considered more in +the light of what they attempted than of what they accomplished. Many of +them showed marked talent, but barely a half dozen of them demonstrated +even mediocre mastery of technique in the use of poetic material and +forms. And yet there are several names that deserve mention. George M. +Horton, Frances E. Harper, James M. Bell and Alberry A. Whitman, all merit +consideration when due allowances are made for their limitations in +education, training and general culture. The limitations of Horton were +greater than those of either of the others; he was born a slave in North +Carolina in 1797, and as a young man began to compose poetry without being +able to write it down. Later he received some instruction from professors +of the University of North Carolina, at which institution he was employed +as a janitor. He published a volume of poems, "The Hope of Liberty," in +1829. + +Mrs. Harper, Bell and Whitman would stand out if only for the reason that +each of them attempted sustained work. Mrs. Harper published her first +volume of poems in 1854, but later she published "Moses, a Story of the +Nile," a poem which ran to 52 closely printed pages. Bell in 1864 +published a poem of 28 pages in celebration of President Lincoln's +Emancipation Proclamation. In 1870 he published a poem of 32 pages in +celebration of the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment to the +Constitution. Whitman published his first volume of poems, a book of 253 +pages, in 1877; but in 1884 he published "The Rape of Florida," an epic +poem written in four cantos and done in the Spenserian stanza, and which +ran to 97 closely printed pages. The poetry of both Mrs. Harper and of +Whitman had a large degree of popularity; one of Mrs. Harper's books went +through more than twenty editions. + +Of these four poets, it is Whitman who reveals not only the greatest +imagination but also the more skilful workmanship. His lyric power at its +best may be judged from the following stanza from the "Rape of Florida": + + "'Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; + Upon the waters is my light canoe; + Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make + A music on the parting wave for you. + Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; + Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, + Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!' + This is the song that on the lake was sung, + The boatman sang it when his heart was young." + +Some idea of Whitman's capacity for dramatic narration may be gained from +the following lines taken from "Not a Man, and Yet a Man," a poem of even +greater length than "The Rape of Florida": + + "A flash of steely lightning from his hand, + Strikes down the groaning leader of the band; + Divides his startled comrades, and again + Descending, leaves fair Dora's captors slain. + Her, seizing then within a strong embrace, + Out in the dark he wheels his flying pace; + + He speaks not, but with stalwart tenderness + Her swelling bosom firm to his doth press; + Springs like a stag that flees the eager hound, + And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground. + Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er + His shoulders, streaming to his waist and more; + While on and on, strong as a rolling flood, + His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood." + +It is curious and interesting to trace the growth of individuality and +race consciousness in this group of poets. Jupiter Hammon's verses were +almost entirely religious exhortations. Only very seldom does Phillis +Wheatley sound a native note. Four times in single lines she refers to +herself as "Afric's muse." In a poem of admonition addressed to the +students at the "University of Cambridge in New England" she refers to +herself as follows: + + "Ye blooming plants of human race divine, + An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe." + +But one looks in vain for some outburst or even complaint against the +bondage of her people, for some agonizing cry about her native land. In +two poems she refers definitely to Africa as her home, but in each +instance there seems to be under the sentiment of the lines a feeling of +almost smug contentment at her own escape therefrom. In the poem, "On +Being Brought from Africa to America," she says: + + "'Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, + Taught my benighted soul to understand + That there's a God and there's a Saviour too; + Once I redemption neither sought or knew. + Some view our sable race with scornful eye, + 'Their color is a diabolic dye.' + Remember, Christians, Negroes black as Cain, + May be refined, and join th' angelic train." + +In the poem addressed to the Earl of Dartmouth, she speaks of freedom and +makes a reference to the parents from whom she was taken as a child, a +reference which cannot but strike the reader as rather unimpassioned: + + "Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, + Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, + Whence flow these wishes for the common good, + By feeling hearts alone best understood; + I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate + Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat; + What pangs excruciating must molest, + What sorrows labor in my parents' breast? + Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd + That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd; + Such, such my case. And can I then but pray + Others may never feel tyrannic sway?" + +The bulk of Phillis Wheatley's work consists of poems addressed to people +of prominence. Her book was dedicated to the Countess of Huntington, at +whose house she spent the greater part of her time while in England. On +his repeal of the Stamp Act, she wrote a poem to King George III, whom she +saw later; another poem she wrote to the Earl of Dartmouth, whom she knew. +A number of her verses were addressed to other persons of distinction. +Indeed, it is apparent that Phillis was far from being a democrat. She was +far from being a democrat not only in her social ideas but also in her +political ideas; unless a religious meaning is given to the closing lines +of her ode to General Washington, she was a decided royalist: + + "A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine + With gold unfading, Washington! be thine." + +Nevertheless, she was an ardent patriot. Her ode to General Washington +(1775), her spirited poem, "On Major General Lee" (1776) and her poem, +"Liberty and Peace," written in celebration of the close of the war, +reveal not only strong patriotic feeling but an understanding of the +issues at stake. In her poem, "On Major General Lee," she makes her hero +reply thus to the taunts of the British commander into whose hands he has +been delivered through treachery: + + "O arrogance of tongue! + And wild ambition, ever prone to wrong! + Believ'st thou, chief, that armies such as thine + Can stretch in dust that heaven-defended line? + In vain allies may swarm from distant lands, + And demons aid in formidable bands, + Great as thou art, thou shun'st the field of fame, + Disgrace to Britain and the British name! + When offer'd combat by the noble foe, + (Foe to misrule) why did the sword forego + The easy conquest of the rebel-land? + Perhaps TOO easy for thy martial hand. + + What various causes to the field invite! + For plunder YOU, and we for freedom fight, + Her cause divine with generous ardor fires, + And every bosom glows as she inspires! + Already thousands of your troops have fled + To the drear mansions of the silent dead: + Columbia, too, beholds with streaming eyes + Her heroes fall--'tis freedom's sacrifice! + So wills the power who with convulsive storms + Shakes impious realms, and nature's face deforms; + Yet those brave troops, innum'rous as the sands, + One soul inspires, one General Chief commands; + Find in your train of boasted heroes, one + To match the praise of Godlike Washington. + Thrice happy Chief in whom the virtues join, + And heaven taught prudence speaks the man divine." + +What Phillis Wheatley failed to achieve is due in no small degree to her +education and environment. Her mind was steeped in the classics; her +verses are filled with classical and mythological allusions. She knew Ovid +thoroughly and was familiar with other Latin authors. She must have known +Alexander Pope by heart. And, too, she was reared and sheltered in a +wealthy and cultured family,--a wealthy and cultured Boston family; she +never had the opportunity to learn life; she never found out her own true +relation to life and to her surroundings. And it should not be forgotten +that she was only about thirty years old when she died. The impulsion or +the compulsion that might have driven her genius off the worn paths, out +on a journey of exploration, Phillis Wheatley never received. But, +whatever her limitations, she merits more than America has accorded her. + +Horton, who was born three years after Phillis Wheatley's death, expressed +in all of his poetry strong complaint at his condition of slavery and a +deep longing for freedom. The following verses are typical of his style +and his ability: + + "Alas! and am I born for this, + To wear this slavish chain? + Deprived of all created bliss, + Through hardship, toil, and pain? + + * * * * * + + Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound, + Roll through my ravished ears; + Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, + And drive away my fears." + +In Mrs. Harper we find something more than the complaint and the longing +of Horton. We find an expression of a sense of wrong and injustice. The +following stanzas are from a poem addressed to the white women of America: + + "You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian + Who weeps in her desolate home. + You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia + From kindred and friends doomed to roam. + + * * * * * + + But hark! from our Southland are floating + Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain, + And women heart-stricken are weeping + O'er their tortured and slain. + + * * * * * + + Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, + Just a plea, a prayer or a tear + For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows + Of agony, hatred and fear? + + * * * * * + + Weep not, oh my well sheltered sisters, + Weep not for the Negro alone, + But weep for your sons who must gather + The crops which their fathers have sown." + +Whitman, in the midst of "The Rape of Florida," a poem in which he related +the taking of the State of Florida from the Seminoles, stops and discusses +the race question. He discusses it in many other poems; and he discusses +it from many different angles. In Whitman we find not only an expression +of a sense of wrong and injustice, but we hear a note of faith and a note +also of defiance. For example, in the opening to Canto II of "The Rape of +Florida": + + "Greatness by nature cannot be entailed; + It is an office ending with the man,-- + Sage, hero, Saviour, tho' the Sire be hailed, + The son may reach obscurity in the van: + Sublime achievements know no patent plan, + Man's immortality's a book with seals, + And none but God shall open--none else can-- + But opened, it the mystery reveals,-- + Manhood's conquest of man to heaven's respect appeals. + + "Is manhood less because man's face is black? + Let thunders of the loosened seals reply! + Who shall the rider's restive steed turn back, + Or who withstand the arrows he lets fly + Between the mountains of eternity? + Genius ride forth! Thou gift and torch of heav'n! + The mastery is kindled in thine eye; + To conquest ride! thy bow of strength is giv'n-- + The trampled hordes of caste before thee shall be driv'n! + + * * * * * + + "'Tis hard to judge if hatred of one's race, + By those who deem themselves superior-born, + Be worse than that quiescence in disgrace, + Which only merits--and should only--scorn. + Oh, let me see the Negro night and morn, + Pressing and fighting in, for place and power! + All earth is place--all time th' auspicious hour, + While heaven leans forth to look, oh, will he quail or cower? + + "Ah! I abhor his protest and complaint! + His pious looks and patience I despise! + He can't evade the test, disguised as saint; + The manly voice of freedom bids him rise, + And shake himself before Philistine eyes! + And, like a lion roused, no sooner than + A foe dare come, play all his energies, + And court the fray with fury if he can; + For hell itself respects a fearless, manly man." + +It may be said that none of these poets strike a deep native strain or +sound a distinctively original note, either in matter or form. That is +true; but the same thing may be said of all the American poets down to the +writers of the present generation, with the exception of Poe and Walt +Whitman. The thing in which these black poets are mostly excelled by their +contemporaries is mere technique. + + +Paul Laurence Dunbar stands out as the first poet from the Negro race in +the United States to show a combined mastery over poetic material and +poetic technique, to reveal innate literary distinction in what he wrote, +and to maintain a high level of performance. He was the first to rise to a +height from which he could take a perspective view of his own race. He was +the first to see objectively its humor, its superstitions, its +shortcomings; the first to feel sympathetically its heart-wounds, its +yearnings, its aspirations, and to voice them all in a purely literary +form. + +Dunbar's fame rests chiefly on his poems in Negro dialect. This appraisal +of him is, no doubt, fair; for in these dialect poems he not only carried +his art to the highest point of perfection, but he made a contribution to +American literature unlike what any one else had made, a contribution +which, perhaps, no one else could have made. Of course, Negro dialect +poetry was written before Dunbar wrote, most of it by white writers; but +the fact stands out that Dunbar was the first to use it as a medium for +the true interpretation of Negro character and psychology. And, yet, +dialect poetry does not constitute the whole or even the bulk of Dunbar's +work. In addition to a large number of poems of a very high order done in +literary English, he was the author of four novels and several volumes of +short stories. + +Indeed, Dunbar did not begin his career as a writer of dialect. I may be +pardoned for introducing here a bit of reminiscence. My personal +friendship with Paul Dunbar began before he had achieved recognition, and +continued to be close until his death. When I first met him he had +published a thin volume, "Oak and Ivy," which was being sold chiefly +through his own efforts. "Oak and Ivy" showed no distinctive Negro +influence, but rather the influence of James Whitcomb Riley. At this time +Paul and I were together every day for several months. He talked to me a +great deal about his hopes and ambitions. In these talks he revealed that +he had reached a realization of the possibilities of poetry in the +dialect, together with a recognition of the fact that it offered the +surest way by which he could get a hearing. Often he said to me: "I've +got to write dialect poetry; it's the only way I can get them to listen +to me." I was with Dunbar at the beginning of what proved to be his last +illness. He said to me then: "I have not grown. I am writing the same +things I wrote ten years ago, and am writing them no better." His +self-accusation was not fully true; he had grown, and he had gained a +surer control of his art, but he had not accomplished the greater things +of which he was constantly dreaming; the public had held him to the things +for which it had accorded him recognition. If Dunbar had lived he would +have achieved some of those dreams, but even while he talked so dejectedly +to me he seemed to feel that he was not to live. He died when he was only +thirty-three. + +It has a bearing on this entire subject to note that Dunbar was of unmixed +Negro blood; so, as the greatest figure in literature which the colored +race in the United States has produced, he stands as an example at once +refuting and confounding those who wish to believe that whatever +extraordinary ability an Aframerican shows is due to an admixture of white +blood. + +As a man, Dunbar was kind and tender. In conversation he was brilliant and +polished. His voice was his chief charm, and was a great element in his +success as a reader of his own works. In his actions he was impulsive as a +child, sometimes even erratic; indeed, his intimate friends almost looked +upon him as a spoiled boy. He was always delicate in health. +Temperamentally, he belonged to that class of poets who Taine says are +vessels too weak to contain the spirit of poetry, the poets whom poetry +kills, the Byrons, the Burns's, the De Mussets, the Poes. + +To whom may he be compared, this boy who scribbled his early verses while +he ran an elevator, whose youth was a battle against poverty, and who, in +spite of almost insurmountable obstacles, rose to success? A comparison +between him and Burns is not unfitting. The similarity between many phases +of their lives is remarkable, and their works are not incommensurable. +Burns took the strong dialect of his people and made it classic; Dunbar +took the humble speech of his people and in it wrought music. + +Mention of Dunbar brings up for consideration the fact that, although he +is the most outstanding figure in literature among the Aframericans of the +United States, he does not stand alone among the Aframericans of the whole +Western world. There are PlĆ”cido and Manzano in Cuba; Vieux and Durand in +Haiti, Machado de Assis in Brazil; Leon Laviaux in Martinique, and others +still that might be mentioned, who stand on a plane with or even above +Dunbar. PlĆ”cido and Machado de Assis rank as great in the literatures of +their respective countries without any qualifications whatever. They are +world figures in the literature of the Latin languages. Machado de Assis +is somewhat handicapped in this respect by having as his tongue and medium +the lesser known Portuguese, but PlĆ”cido, writing in the language of +Spain, Mexico, Cuba and of almost the whole of South America, is +universally known. His works have been republished in the original in +Spain, Mexico and in most of the Latin-American countries; several +editions have been published in the United States; translations of his +works have been made into French and German. + +PlĆ”cido is in some respects the greatest of all the Cuban poets. In sheer +genius and the fire of inspiration he surpasses even the more finished +Heredia. Then, too, his birth, his life and his death ideally contained +the tragic elements that go into the making of a halo about a poet's head. +PlĆ”cido was born in Habana in 1809. The first months of his life were +passed in a foundling asylum; indeed, his real name, Gabriel de la +Concepcion ValdĆ©s, was in honor of its founder. His father took him out of +the asylum, but shortly afterwards went to Mexico and died there. His +early life was a struggle against poverty; his youth and manhood was a +struggle for Cuban independence. His death placed him in the list of Cuban +martyrs. On the 27th of June, 1844, he was lined up against a wall with +ten others and shot by order of the Spanish authorities on a charge of +conspiracy. In his short but eventful life he turned out work which bulks +more than six hundred pages. During the few hours preceding his execution +he wrote three of his best known poems, among them his famous sonnet, +"Mother, Farewell!" + +PlĆ”cido's sonnet to his mother has been translated into every important +language; William Cullen Bryant did it in English; but in spite of its +wide popularity, it is, perhaps, outside of Cuba the least understood of +all PlĆ”cido's poems. It is curious to note how Bryant's translation +totally misses the intimate sense of the delicate subtility of the poem. +The American poet makes it a tender and loving farewell of a son who is +about to die to a heart-broken mother; but that is not the kind of a +farewell that PlĆ”cido intended to write or did write. + +The key to the poem is in the first word, and the first word is the +Spanish conjunction _Si_ (if). The central idea, then, of the sonnet +is, "If the sad fate which now overwhelms me should bring a pang to your +heart, do not weep, for I die a glorious death and sound the last note of +my lyre to you." Bryant either failed to understand or ignored the opening +word, "If," because he was not familiar with the poet's history. + +While PlĆ”cido's father was a Negro, his mother was a Spanish white woman, +a dancer in one of the Habana theatres. At his birth she abandoned him to +a foundling asylum, and perhaps never saw him again, although it is known +that she outlived her son. When the poet came down to his last hours he +remembered that somewhere there lived a woman who was his mother; that +although she had heartlessly abandoned him; that although he owed her no +filial duty, still she might, perhaps, on hearing of his sad end feel some +pang of grief or sadness; so he tells her in his last words that he dies +happy and bids her not to weep. This he does with nobility and dignity, +but absolutely without affection. Taking into account these facts, and +especially their humiliating and embittering effect upon a soul so +sensitive as PlĆ”cido's, this sonnet, in spite of the obvious weakness of +the sestet as compared with the octave, is a remarkable piece of work.[1] + +[Footnote 1: PlĆ”cido's sonnet and two English versions will be found in +the Appendix.] + +In considering the Aframerican poets of the Latin languages I am impelled +to think that, as up to this time the colored poets of greater +universality have come out of the Latin-American countries rather than out +of the United States, they will continue to do so for a good many years. +The reason for this I hinted at in the first part of this preface. The +colored poet in the United States labors within limitations which he +cannot easily pass over. He is always on the defensive or the offensive. +The pressure upon him to be propagandic is well nigh irresistible. These +conditions are suffocating to breadth and to real art in poetry. In +addition he labors under the handicap of finding culture not entirely +colorless in the United States. On the other hand, the colored poet of +Latin-America can voice the national spirit without any reservations. And +he will be rewarded without any reservations, whether it be to place him +among the great or declare him the greatest. + +So I think it probable that the first world-acknowledged Aframerican poet +will come out of Latin-America. Over against this probability, of course, +is the great advantage possessed by the colored poet in the United States +of writing in the world-conquering English language. + +This preface has gone far beyond what I had in mind when I started. It was +my intention to gather together the best verses I could find by Negro +poets and present them with a bare word of introduction. It was not my +plan to make this collection inclusive nor to make the book in any sense a +book of criticism. I planned to present only verses by contemporary +writers; but, perhaps, because this is the first collection of its kind, I +realized the absence of a starting-point and was led to provide one and to +fill in with historical data what I felt to be a gap. + +It may be surprising to many to see how little of the poetry being written +by Negro poets to-day is being written in Negro dialect. The newer Negro +poets show a tendency to discard dialect; much of the subject-matter which +went into the making of traditional dialect poetry, 'possums, watermelons, +etc., they have discarded altogether, at least, as poetic material. This +tendency will, no doubt, be regretted by the majority of white readers; +and, indeed, it would be a distinct loss if the American Negro poets threw +away this quaint and musical folk-speech as a medium of expression. And +yet, after all, these poets are working through a problem not realized by +the reader, and, perhaps, by many of these poets themselves not realized +consciously. They are trying to break away from, not Negro dialect itself, +but the limitations on Negro dialect imposed by the fixing effects of long +convention. + +The Negro in the United States has achieved or been placed in a certain +artistic niche. When he is thought of artistically, it is as a +happy-go-lucky, singing, shuffling, banjo-picking being or as a more or +less pathetic figure. The picture of him is in a log cabin amid fields of +cotton or along the levees. Negro dialect is naturally and by long +association the exact instrument for voicing this phase of Negro life; and +by that very exactness it is an instrument with but two full stops, humor +and pathos. So even when he confines himself to purely racial themes, the +Aframerican poet realizes that there are phases of Negro life in the +United States which cannot be treated in the dialect either adequately or +artistically. Take, for example, the phases rising out of life in Harlem, +that most wonderful Negro city in the world. I do not deny that a Negro in +a log cabin is more picturesque than a Negro in a Harlem flat, but the +Negro in the Harlem flat is here, and he is but part of a group growing +everywhere in the country, a group whose ideals are becoming increasingly +more vital than those of the traditionally artistic group, even if its +members are less picturesque. + +What the colored poet in the United States needs to do is something like +what Synge did for the Irish; he needs to find a form that will express +the racial spirit by symbols from within rather than by symbols from +without, such as the mere mutilation of English spelling and +pronunciation. He needs a form that is freer and larger than dialect, but +which will still hold the racial flavor; a form expressing the imagery, +the idioms, the peculiar turns of thought, and the distinctive humor and +pathos, too, of the Negro, but which will also be capable of voicing the +deepest and highest emotions and aspirations, and allow of the widest +range of subjects and the widest scope of treatment. + +Negro dialect is at present a medium that is not capable of giving +expression to the varied conditions of Negro life in America, and much +less is it capable of giving the fullest interpretation of Negro character +and psychology. This is no indictment against the dialect as dialect, but +against the mould of convention in which Negro dialect in the United +States has been set. In time these conventions may become lost, and the +colored poet in the United States may sit down to write in dialect without +feeling that his first line will put the general reader in a frame of mind +which demands that the poem be humorous or pathetic. In the meantime, +there is no reason why these poets should not continue to do the beautiful +things that can be done, and done best, in the dialect. + +In stating the need for Aframerican poets in the United States to work out +a new and distinctive form of expression I do not wish to be understood to +hold any theory that they should limit themselves to Negro poetry, to +racial themes; the sooner they are able to write _American_ poetry +spontaneously, the better. Nevertheless, I believe that the richest +contribution the Negro poet can make to the American literature of the +future will be the fusion into it of his own individual artistic gifts. + +Not many of the writers here included, except Dunbar, are known at all to +the general reading public; and there is only one of these who has a +widely recognized position in the American literary world, he is William +Stanley Braithwaite. Mr. Braithwaite is not only unique in this respect, +but he stands unique among all the Aframerican writers the United States +has yet produced. He has gained his place, taking as the standard and +measure for his work the identical standard and measure applied to +American writers and American literature. He has asked for no allowances +or rewards, either directly or indirectly, on account of his race. + +Mr. Braithwaite is the author of two volumes of verses, lyrics of delicate +and tenuous beauty. In his more recent and uncollected poems he shows +himself more and more decidedly the mystic. But his place in American +literature is due more to his work as a critic and anthologist than to his +work as a poet. There is still another role he has played, that of friend +of poetry and poets. It is a recognized fact that in the work which +preceded the present revival of poetry in the United States, no one +rendered more unremitting and valuable service than Mr. Braithwaite. And +it can be said that no future study of American poetry of this age can be +made without reference to Braithwaite. + +Two authors included in the book are better known for their work in prose +than in poetry: W.E.B. Du Bois whose well-known prose at its best is, +however, impassioned and rhythmical; and Benjamin Brawley who is the +author, among other works, of one of the best handbooks on the English +drama that has yet appeared in America. + +But the group of the new Negro poets, whose work makes up the bulk of this +anthology, contains names destined to be known. Claude McKay, although +still quite a young man, has already demonstrated his power, breadth and +skill as a poet. Mr. McKay's breadth is as essential a part of his +equipment as his power and skill. He demonstrates mastery of the three +when as a Negro poet he pours out the bitterness and rebellion in his +heart in those two sonnet-tragedies, "If We Must Die" and "To the White +Fiends," in a manner that strikes terror; and when as a cosmic poet he +creates the atmosphere and mood of poetic beauty in the absolute, as he +does in "Spring in New Hampshire" and "The Harlem Dancer." Mr. McKay gives +evidence that he has passed beyond the danger which threatens many of the +new Negro poets--the danger of allowing the purely polemical phases of the +race problem to choke their sense of artistry. + +Mr. McKay's earliest work is unknown in this country. It consists of poems +written and published in his native Jamaica. I was fortunate enough to run +across this first volume, and I could not refrain from reproducing here +one of the poems written in the West Indian Negro dialect. I have done +this not only to illustrate the widest range of the poet's talent and to +offer a comparison between the American and the West Indian dialects, but +on account of the intrinsic worth of the poem itself. I was much tempted +to introduce several more, in spite of the fact that they might require a +glossary, because however greater work Mr. McKay may do he can never do +anything more touching and charming than these poems in the Jamaica +dialect. + +Fenton Johnson is a young poet of the ultra-modern school who gives +promise of greater work than he has yet done. Jessie Fauset shows that she +possesses the lyric gift, and she works with care and finish. Miss Fauset +is especially adept in her translations from the French. Georgia Douglas +Johnson is a poet neither afraid nor ashamed of her emotions. She limits +herself to the purely conventional forms, rhythms and rhymes, but through +them she achieves striking effects. The principal theme of Mrs. Johnson's +poems is the secret dread down in every woman's heart, the dread of the +passing of youth and beauty, and with them love. An old theme, one which +poets themselves have often wearied of, but which, like death, remains one +of the imperishable themes on which is made the poetry that has moved +men's hearts through all ages. In her ingenuously wrought verses, through +sheer simplicity and spontaneousness, Mrs. Johnson often sounds a note of +pathos or passion that will not fail to waken a response, except in those +too sophisticated or cynical to respond to natural impulses. Of the half +dozen or so of colored women writing creditable verse, Anne Spencer is the +most modern and least obvious in her methods. Her lines are at times +involved and turgid and almost cryptic, but she shows an originality which +does not depend upon eccentricities. In her "Before the Feast of Shushan" +she displays an opulence, the love of which has long been charged against +the Negro as one of his naĆÆve and childish traits, but which in art may +infuse a much needed color, warmth and spirit of abandon into American +poetry. + +John W. Holloway, more than any Negro poet writing in the dialect to-day, +summons to his work the lilt, the spontaneity and charm of which Dunbar +was the supreme master whenever he employed that medium. It is well to say +a word here about the dialect poems of James Edwin Campbell. In dialect, +Campbell was a precursor of Dunbar. A comparison of his idioms and +phonetics with those of Dunbar reveals great differences. Dunbar is a +shade or two more sophisticated and his phonetics approach nearer to a +mean standard of the dialects spoken in the different sections. Campbell +is more primitive and his phonetics are those of the dialect as spoken by +the Negroes of the sea islands off the coasts of South Carolina and +Georgia, which to this day remains comparatively close to its African +roots, and is strikingly similar to the speech of the uneducated Negroes +of the West Indies. An error that confuses many persons in reading or +understanding Negro dialect is the idea that it is uniform. An ignorant +Negro of the uplands of Georgia would have almost as much difficulty in +understanding an ignorant sea island Negro as an Englishman would have. +Not even in the dialect of any particular section is a given word always +pronounced in precisely the same way. Its pronunciation depends upon the +preceding and following sounds. Sometimes the combination permits of a +liaison so close that to the uninitiated the sound of the word is almost +completely lost. + +The constant effort in Negro dialect is to elide all troublesome +consonants and sounds. This negative effort may be after all only positive +laziness of the vocal organs, but the result is a softening and smoothing +which makes Negro dialect so delightfully easy for singers. + +Daniel Webster Davis wrote dialect poetry at the time when Dunbar was +writing. He gained great popularity, but it did not spread beyond his own +race. Davis had unctuous humor, but he was crude. For illustration, note +the vast stretch between his "Hog Meat" and Dunbar's "When de Co'n Pone's +Hot," both of them poems on the traditional ecstasy of the Negro in +contemplation of "good things" to eat. + +It is regrettable that two of the most gifted writers included were cut +off so early in life. R. C. Jamison and Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., died +several years ago, both of them in their youth. Jamison was barely thirty +at the time of his death, but among his poems there is one, at least, +which stamps him as a poet of superior talent and lofty inspiration. "The +Negro Soldiers" is a poem with the race problem as its theme, yet it +transcends the limits of race and rises to a spiritual height that makes +it one of the noblest poems of the Great War. Cotter died a mere boy of +twenty, and the latter part of that brief period he passed in an invalid +state. Some months before his death he published a thin volume of verses +which were for the most part written on a sick bed. In this little volume +Cotter showed fine poetic sense and a free and bold mastery over his +material. A reading of Cotter's poems is certain to induce that mood in +which one will regretfully speculate on what the young poet might have +accomplished had he not been cut off so soon. + +As intimated above, my original idea for this book underwent a change in +the writing of the introduction. I first planned to select twenty-five to +thirty poems which I judged to be up to a certain standard, and offer them +with a few words of introduction and without comment. In the collection, +as it grew to be, that "certain standard" has been broadened if not +lowered; but I believe that this is offset by the advantage of the wider +range given the reader and the student of the subject. + +I offer this collection without making apology or asking allowance. I feel +confident that the reader will find not only an earnest for the future, +but actual achievement. The reader cannot but be impressed by the distance +already covered. It is a long way from the plaints of George Horton to the +invectives of Claude McKay, from the obviousness of Frances Harper to the +complexness of Anne Spencer. Much ground has been covered, but more will +yet be covered. It is this side of prophecy to declare that the undeniable +creative genius of the Negro is destined to make a distinctive and +valuable contribution to American poetry. + +I wish to extend my thanks to Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, who placed his +valuable collection of books by Negro authors at my disposal. I wish also +to acknowledge with thanks the kindness of Dodd, Mead & Co. for permitting +the reprint of poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar; of the Cornhill Publishing +Company for permission to reprint poems of Georgia Douglas Johnson, Joseph +S. Cotter, Jr., Bertram Johnson and Waverley Carmichael; and of Neale & +Co. for permission to reprint poems of John W. Holloway. I wish to thank +Mr. Braithwaite for permission to use the included poems from his +forthcoming volume, "Sandy Star and Willie Gee." And to acknowledge the +courtesy of the following magazines: _The Crisis, The Century Magazine, +The Liberator, The Freeman, The Independent, Others_, and _Poetry: A +Magazine of Verse_. + +James Weldon Johnson. +New York City, 1921. + + + + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + + + + + Paul Laurence Dunbar + + +A NEGRO LOVE SONG[1] + +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 could n'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. + +[Footnote 1: Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company.] + + +LITTLE BROWN BABY + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, + Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. +What you been doin', suh--makin' san' pies? + Look at dat bib--You's ez du'ty ez me. +Look at dat mouf--dat's merlasses, I bet; + Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's. +Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, + Bein' so sticky an' sweet--goodness lan's! + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes + Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile? +Who is it all de day nevah once tries + Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? +Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp! + Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin? +Pappy do' know you--I b'lieves you's a tramp; + Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in! + +Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san', + We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; +Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man; + I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. +Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', + Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. +Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', + Swaller him down f'om his haid to his feet! + +Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close. + Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. +He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se; + He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy. +Come to you' pallet now--go to you' res'; + Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies; +Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'-- + Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes! + + +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. + +O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, + O heart of mine, O 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? + + +LOVER'S LANE + +Summah night an' sighin' breeze, + 'Long de lovah's lane; +Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, + 'Long de lovah's lane. +White folks' wo'k all done up gran'-- +Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' +Struttin' lak we owned de lan', + 'Long de lovah's lane. + +Owl a-settin' 'side de road, + 'Long de lovah's lane, +Lookin' at us lak he knowed + Dis uz lovah's lane. +Go on, hoot yo' Mou'nful tune, +You ain' nevah loved in June, +An' come hidin' f'om de moon + Down in lovah's lane. + +Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, + Down in lovah's lane, +Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say + 'Long de lovah's lane. +But I whispahs low lak dis, +An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss-- +Mistah Bush he shek his fis', + Down in lovah's lane. + +Whut I keer ef day is long, + Down in lovah's lane. +I kin allus sing a song + 'Long de lovah's lane. +An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say +Meks up fu' de weary day +Wen I's strollin' by de way, + Down in lovah's lane. + +An' dis t'ought will allus rise + Down in lovah's lane; +Wondah whethah in de skies + Dey's a lovah's lane. +Ef dey ain't, I tell you true, +'Ligion do look mighty blue, +'Cause I do' know whut I'd do + 'Dout a lovah's lane. + + +THE DEBT + +This is the debt I pay +Just for one riotous day, +Years of regret and grief. +Sorrow without relief. + +Pay it I will to the end-- +Until the grave, my friend, +Gives me a true release-- +Gives me the clasp of peace. + +Slight was the thing I bought, +Small was the debt I thought, +Poor was the loan at best-- +God! but the interest! + + +THE HAUNTED OAK + +Pray why are you so bare, so bare, + Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; +And why, when I go through the shade you throw, + Runs a shudder over me? + +My leaves were green as the best, I trow, + And sap ran free in my veins, +But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird + A guiltless victim's pains. + +I bent me down to hear his sigh; + I shook with his gurgling moan, +And I trembled sore when they rode away, + And left him here alone. + +They'd charged him with the old, old crime, + And set him fast in jail: +Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, + And why does the night wind wail? + +He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, + And he raised his hand to the sky; +But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, + And the steady tread drew nigh. + +Who is it rides by night, by night, + Over the moonlit road? +And what is the spur that keeps the pace, + What is the galling goad? + +And now they beat at the prison door, + "Ho, keeper, do not stay! +We are friends of him whom you hold within, + And we fain would take him away + +From those who ride fast on our heels + With mind to do him wrong; +They have no care for his innocence, + And the rope they bear is long." + +They have fooled the jailer with lying words, + They have fooled the man with lies; +The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, + And the great door open flies. + +Now they have taken him from the jail, + And hard and fast they ride, +And the leader laughs low down in his throat, + As they halt my trunk beside. + +Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, + And the doctor one of white, +And the minister, with his oldest son, + Was curiously bedight. + +Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? + 'Tis but a little space, +And the time will come when these shall dread + The mem'ry of your face. + +I feel the rope against my bark, + And the weight of him in my grain, +I feel in the throe of his final woe + The touch of my own last pain. + +And never more shall leaves come forth + On a bough that bears the ban; +I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, + From the curse of a guiltless man. + +And ever the judge rides by, rides by, + And goes to hunt the deer, +And ever another rides his soul + In the guise of a mortal fear. + +And ever the man he rides me hard, + And never a night stays he; +For I feel his curse as a haunted bough + On the trunk of a haunted tree. + + +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 Mastah'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. + + +A DEATH SONG + +Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, +Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass + An' w'en I's a-layin' low, + I kin hyeah it as it go +Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." + +Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, +An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool, + Whah de little birds in spring, + Ust to come an' drink an' sing, +An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. + +Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load +Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; + Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' + Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' +If I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed. + + + + + James Edwin Campbell + + +NEGRO SERENADE + +O, de light-bugs glimmer down de lane, + Merlindy! Merlindy! +O, de whip'-will callin' notes ur pain-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +O, honey lub, my turkle dub, + Doan' you hyuh my bawnjer ringin', +While de night-dew falls an' de ho'n owl calls + By de ol' ba'n gate Ise singin'. + +O, Miss 'Lindy, doan' you hyuh me, chil', + Merlindy! Merlindy! +My lub fur you des dribe me wil'-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +I'll sing dis night twel broad day-light, + Ur bu's' my froat wid tryin', +'Less you come down, Miss 'Lindy Brown, + An' stops dis ha't f'um sighin'! + + +DE CUNJAH MAN + +O chillen, run, de Cunjah man, +Him mouf ez beeg ez fryin' pan, +Him yurs am small, him eyes am raid, +Him hab no toof een him ol' haid, +Him hab him roots, him wu'k him trick, +Him roll him eye, him mek you sick-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Him hab ur ball ob raid, raid ha'r, +Him hide it un' de kitchen sta'r, +Mam Jude huh pars urlong dat way, +An' now huh hab ur snaik, de say. +Him wrop ur roun' huh buddy tight, +Huh eyes pop out, ur orful sight-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Miss Jane, huh dribe him f'um huh do', +An' now huh hens woan' lay no mo'; +De Jussey cow huh done fall sick, +Hit all done by de Cunjah trick. +Him put ur root un' 'Lijah's baid, +An' now de man he sho' am daid-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Me see him stan' de yudder night +Right een de road een white moon-light; +Him toss him arms, him whirl him 'roun', +Him stomp him foot urpon de groun'; +De snaiks come crawlin', one by one, +Me hyuh um hiss, me break an' run-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + + +UNCLE EPH'S BANJO SONG + +Clean de ba'n an' sweep de flo', + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +We's gwine ter dawnce dis eb'nin' sho', + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits up de road an' down de lane, +Hurry, niggah, you miss de train; +De yaller gal she dawnce so neat, +De yaller gal she look so sweet, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + +De moon come up, de sun go down, + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +De niggahs am all come f'um town, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits roun' de hill an' froo de fiel'-- +Lookout dar, niggah, doan' you steal! +De milyuns on dem vines am green, +De moon am bright, O you'll be seen, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + + +OL' DOC' HYAR + +Ur ol' Hyar lib in ur house on de hill, +He hunner yurs ol' an' nebber wuz ill; +He yurs dee so long an' he eyes so beeg, +An' he laigs so spry dat he dawnce ur jeeg; +He lib so long dat he know ebbry tings +'Bout de beas'ses dat walks an' de bu'ds dat sings-- + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +He doctah fur all de beas'ses an' bu'ds-- +He put on he specs an' he use beeg wu'ds, +He feel dee pu's' den he look mighty wise, +He pull out he watch an' he shet bofe eyes; +He grab up he hat an' grab up he cane, +Den--"blam!" go de do'--he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah Ba'r fall sick--dee sont fur Doc' Hyar, +"O, Doctah, come queeck, an' see Mr. B'ar; +He mighty nigh daid des sho' ez you b'on!" +"Too much ur young peeg, too much ur green co'n," +Ez he put on he hat, said Ol' Doc' Hyar; +"I'll tek 'long meh lawnce, an' lawnce Mistah B'ar," + Said Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah B'ar he groaned, Mistah B'ar he growled, +W'ile de ol' Miss B'ar an' de chillen howled; +Doctah Hyar tuk out he sha'p li'l lawnce, +An' pyu'ced Mistah B'ar twel he med him prawnce +Den grab up he hat an' grab up he cane +"Blam!" go de do' an' he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +But de vay naix day Mistah B'ar he daid; +Wen dee tell Doc' Hyar, he des scratch he haid: +"Ef pahsons git well ur pahsons git wu's, +Money got ter come een de Ol' Hyar's pu's; +Not wut folkses does, but fur wut dee know +Does de folkses git paid"--an' Hyar larfed low, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een de mighty fine house on de mighty high hill! + + +WHEN OL' SIS' JUDY PRAY + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De teahs come stealin' down my cheek, +De voice ur God widin me speak'; +I see myse'f so po' an' weak, +Down on my knees de cross I seek, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De thun'ers ur Mount Sin-a-i +Comes rushin' down f'um up on high-- +De Debbil tu'n his back an' fly +While sinnahs loud fur pa'don cry, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Ha'd sinnahs trimble in dey seat +Ter hyuh huh voice in sorro 'peat; +(While all de chu'ch des sob an' weep) +"O Shepa'd, dese, dy po' los' sheep!" +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De whole house hit des rock an' moan +Ter see huh teahs an' hyuh huh groan; +Dar's somepin' in Sis' Judy's tone +Dat melt all ha'ts dough med ur stone +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Salvation's light comes pourin' down-- +Hit fill de chu'ch an' all de town-- +Why, angels' robes go rustlin' 'roun', +An' hebben on de Yurf am foun', +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +My soul go sweepin' up on wings, +An' loud de chu'ch wid "Glory!" rings, +An' wide de gates ur Jahsper swings +Twel you hyuh ha'ps wid golding strings, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + + +COMPENSATION + +O, rich young lord, thou ridest by +With looks of high disdain; +It chafes me not thy title high, +Thy blood of oldest strain. +The lady riding at thy side +Is but in name thy promised bride, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +Her father wills and she obeys, +The custom of her class; +'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways-- +For Land he sells his lass. +Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine, +Her _soul_, proud fool, her _soul_ is mine, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +No title high my father bore; +The tenant of thy farm, +He left me what I value more: +Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm +And love for bird and beast and bee +And song of lark and hymn of sea, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +The boundless sky to me belongs, +The paltry acres thine; +The painted beauty sings thy songs, +The lavrock lilts me mine; +The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee, +The gorse and heather bloom for me, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + + + + + James D. Corrothers + + +AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow, +Betrayed, like him whose woe dimmed eyes gave bliss + Still must one succor those who brought one low, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands rare patience--patience that can wait +In utter darkness. 'Tis the path to miss, + And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag +Which is to us white freedom's emphasis. + Ah! one must love when Truth and Justice lag, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this-- + Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done? +Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst, + But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon, +"Merely a Negro"--in a day like this! + + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + +He came, a youth, singing in the dawn + Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre, + Refining, as with great Apollo's fire, + His people's gift of song. And thereupon, +This Negro singer, come to Helicon + Constrained the masters, listening to admire, + And roused a race to wonder and aspire, + Gazing which way their honest voice was gone, +With ebon face uplit of glory's crest. + Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, + Who brought the cabin's mirth, the tuneful night, +But faced the morning, beautiful with light, + To die while shadows yet fell toward the west, + And leave his laurels at his people's feet. + +Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now; + None rises, singing, from your race like you. + Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew + Fell early on the bays upon your brow, +And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow + And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you threw + Flowerets of love. Or, if an envious few + Of your own people brought no garlands, how +Could Malice smite him whom the gods had crowned? + If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low + Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned; +A wide world heard you, and it loved you so + It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, + And o'er your happy songs its plaudits rang. + + +THE NEGRO SINGER + +O'er all my song the image of a face + Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers. + The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers; + The golden lyre's delights bring little grace +To bless the singer of a lowly race. + Long hath this mocked me: aye in marvelous hours, + When Hera's gardens gleamed, or Cynthia's bowers, + Or Hope's red pylons, in their far, hushed place! +But I shall dig me deeper to the gold; + Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles, + From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles +Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold. + So shall men know me, and remember long, + Nor my dark face dishonor any song. + + +THE ROAD TO THE BOW + +Ever and ever anon, + After the black storm, the eternal, beauteous bow! +Brother, to rosy-painted mists that arch beyond, + Blithely I go. + +My brows men laureled and my lyre + Twined with immortal ivy for one little rippling song; +My "House of Golden Leaves" they praised and "passionate fire"-- + But, Friend, the way is long! + +Onward and onward, up! away! + Though Fear flaunt all his banners in my face, +And my feet stumble, lo! the Orphean Day! + Forward by God's grace! + +These signs are still before me: "Fear," + "Danger," "Unprecedented," and I hear black "No" +Still thundering, and "Churl." Good Friend, I rest me here-- + Then to the glittering bow! + +Loometh and cometh Hate in wrath, + Mailed Wrong, swart Servitude and Shame with bitter rue, +Nathless a Negro poet's feet must tread the path + The winged god knew. + +Thus, my true Brother, dream-led, I + Forefend the anathema, following the span. +I hold my head as proudly high + As any man. + + +IN THE MATTER OF TWO MEN + +One does such work as one will not, + And well each knows the right; +Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot, + The black must serve the white. +And it's, oh, for the white man's softening flesh, + While the black man's muscles grow! +Well I know which grows the mightier, + _I_ know; full well I know. + +The white man seeks the soft, fat place, + And he moves and he works by rule. +Ingenious grows the humbler race + In Oppression's prodding school. +And it's, oh, for a white man gone to seed, + While the Negro struggles so! +And I know which race develops most, + I know; yes, well I know. + +The white man rides in a palace car, + And the Negro rides "Jim Crow." +To damn the other with bolt and bar, + One creepeth so low; so low! +And it's, oh, for a master's nose in the mire, + While the humbled hearts o'erflow! +Well I know whose soul grows big at this, + And whose grows small; _I know_! + +The white man leases out his land, + And the Negro tills the same. +One works; one loafs and takes command; + But I know who wins the game! +And it's, oh, for the white man's shrinking soil, + As the black's rich acres grow! +Well I know how the signs point out at last, + I know; ah, well I know! + +The white man votes for his color's sake, + While the black, for his is barred; +(Though "ignorance" is the charge they make), + But the black man studies hard. +And it's, oh, for the white man's sad neglect, + For the power of his light let go! +So, I know which man must win at last, + I know! Ah, Friend, I know! + + +AN INDIGNATION DINNER + +Dey was hard times jes fo' Christmas round our neighborhood one year; +So we held a secret meetin', whah de white folks couldn't hear, +To 'scuss de situation, an' to see what could be done +Towa'd a fust-class Christmas dinneh an' a little Christmas fun. + +Rufus Green, who called de meetin', ris an' said: "In dis here town, +An' throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin' to keep us down." +S' 'e: "Dey's bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey 'buse us 'ca'se we's +free; +But when dey tetch my stomach, dey's done gone too fur foh me! + +"Is I right?" "You sho is, Rufus!" roared a dozen hungry throats. +"Ef you'd keep a mule a-wo'kin', don't you tamper wid his oats. +Dat's sense," continued Rufus. "But dese white folks nowadays +Has done got so close and stingy you can't live on what dey pays. + +"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 'nough to choke. +Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's 'mos' completely broke? +I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a glass o' water. Mad? +Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!" + +Well, dey 'bused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris, +Leanin' on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheumatis', +An' s' 'e: "Chilun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin' th'ough de street +'Bout yo' wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus' eat. + +"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's fahm. +He's a-growin' fat an' sassy, an' a-struttin' to a chahm. +Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters--all de craps is fine dis year; +All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here." + +Well, we lit right in an' voted dat it was a gran idee, +An' de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin' miles to see; +An' we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small, +Not beca'se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's all. + + +DREAM AND THE SONG + +So oft our hearts, belovĆØd lute, +In blossomy haunts of song are mute; +So long we pore, 'mid murmurings dull, +O'er loveliness unutterable. +So vain is all our passion strong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn +Wan ashes. Still, from memory's urn, +The lingering blossoms tenderly +Refute our wilding minstrelsy. +Alas! we work but beauty's wrong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +Yearned Shelley o'er the golden flame? +Left Keats for beauty's lure, a name +But "writ in water"? Woe is me! +To grieve o'er flowerful faĆ«ry. +My Phasian doves are flown so long-- +The dream is lovelier than the song! + +Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, +The golden-wingĆØd bird is gone, +And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves, +Only the swallow-twittering eaves. +What art may house or gold prolong +A dream far lovelier than a song? + +The lilting witchery, the unrest +Of wingĆØd dreams, is in our breast; +But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes +Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, +My lute, must to the gods belong. +The dream is lovelier than the song. + + + + + Daniel Webster Davis + + +'WEH DOWN SOUF + +O, de birds ar' sweetly singin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' de banjer is a-ringin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' my heart it is a-sighin', +Whil' de moments am a-flyin', +Fur my hom' I am a-cryin', + 'Weh down Souf. + +Dar de pickaninnies 's playin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' fur dem I am a-prayin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' when I gits sum munny, +Yo' kin bet I'm goin', my hunny, +Fur de lan' dat am so sunny, + 'Weh down Souf. + +Whil' de win' up here's a-blowin', + 'Weh down Souf +De corn is sweetly growin', + 'Weh down Souf. +Dey tells me here ub freedum, +But I ain't a-gwine to heed um, +But I'se gwine fur to lebe um, + Fur 'weh down Souf. + +I bin up here a-wuckin', + From 'weh down Souf, +An' I ain't a bin a-shurkin'-- + I'm frum 'weh down Souf; +But I'm gittin' mighty werry, +An' de days a-gittin' drerry, +An' I'm hongry, O, so berry, + Fur my hom' down Souf. + +O, de moon dar shines de brighter, + 'Weh down Souf, +An' I know my heart is lighter, + 'Weh down Souf; +An' de berry thought brings pledjur, +I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur, +Fur dar I hab my tredjur, + 'Weh down Souf. + + +HOG MEAT + +Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam', +An' de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel'ry an' wid jam; +Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fine-- +But you' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de time. + +When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar', +I den begin rejoicin'--hog-killin' time is near; +An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, +Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans. + +We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun-- +We don't like city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' done-- +'Dough mutton chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits fine, +To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine. + +Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me pleased, +Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head cheese; +An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house, +Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun "souse." + +I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares-- +Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' fair; +But I forgib my in'miz, my heart is free frum hate, +When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins on my plate. + +'Dough 'possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan, +But put 'longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan'; +Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur mine +Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine. + + + + + William H.A. Moore + + +DUSK SONG + +The garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay a lone ship light +Makes a silver pathway over the bar +Where the sea sings low. + +I follow the light with an earnest eye, +Creeping along to the thick far-away, +Until it fell in the depths of the deep, dark sky +With the haunting dream of the dusk of day +And its lovely glow. + +Long nights, long nights and the whisperings of new ones, +Flame the line of the pathway down to the sea +With the halo of new dreams and the hallow of old ones, +And they bring magic light to my love reverie +And a lover's regret. + +Tender sorrow for loss of a soft murmured word, +Tender measure of doubt in a faint, aching heart, +Tender listening for wind-songs in the tree heights heard +When you and I were of the dusks a part, +Are with me yet. + +I pray for faith to the noble spirit of Space, +I sound the cosmic depths for the measure of glory +Which will bring to this earth the imperishable race +Of whom Beauty dreamed in the soul-toned story +The Prophets told. + +Silence and love and deep wonder of stars +Dust-silver the heavens from west to east, +From south to north, and in a maze of bars +Invisible I wander far from the feast +As night grows old. + +Half blind is my vision I know to the truth, +My ears are half deaf to the voice of the tear +That touches the silences as Autumn's ruth +Steals thru the dusks of each returning year +A goodly friend. + +The Autumn, then Winter and wintertime's grief! +But the weight of the snow is the glistening gift +Which loving brings to the rose and its leaf, +For the days of the roses glow in the drift +And never end. + + * * * * * + +The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she. +The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears, +And the wounds of worn passions she brings to me +With all the tremor of the far-off years +And their mad wrong. + +Yet the garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has long gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay the moon's wan light +Lays a silver pathway beyond the bar, +Dear heart, pale and long. + + +IT WAS NOT FATE + +It was not fate which overtook me, +Rather a wayward, wilful wind +That blew hot for awhile +And then, as the even shadows came, blew cold. +What pity it is that a man grown old in life's dreaming +Should stop, e'en for a moment, to look into a woman's eyes. +And I forgot! +Forgot that one's heart must be steeled against the east wind. +Life and death alike come out of the East: +Life as tender as young grass, +Death as dreadful as the sight of clotted blood. +I shall go back into the darkness, +Not to dream but to seek the light again. +I shall go by paths, mayhap, +On roads that wind around the foothills +Where the plains are bare and wild +And the passers-by come few and far between. +I want the night to be long, the moon blind, +The hills thick with moving memories, +And my heart beating a breathless requiem +For all the dead days I have lived. +When the Dawn comes--Dawn, deathless, dreaming-- +I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate, +I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my heart, +I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know shelter, comfort, +beauty. +And then may I look into a woman's eyes +And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth understanding. + + + + + W.E. Burghardt Du Bois + + +A LITANY OF ATLANTA + +Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906 + + +O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears +an-hungered in these fearful days-- + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery +in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O God, crying: + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human men. +When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them +as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to +innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home. + _Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_ + +And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them +in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their +mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, and waxed +fat and rich on public iniquity? + _Thou knowest, good God!_ + +Is this Thy justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and +the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty? + _Justice, O judge of men!_ + +Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not seers +seen in Heaven's halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the +black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of +endless dead? + _Awake, Thou that sleepest!_ + +Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru blazing +corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women +strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste +prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! + _Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_ + +From lust of body and lust of blood + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From lust of power and lust of gold, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder +and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and +fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when church spires +pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men +who hide behind the veil of vengeance! + _Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_ + +In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears +and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and +leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime_! The word was +mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one. + _Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_ + +Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man +who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told +him: _Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one +told how some one said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. +Yet for that man's crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife +naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil. + _Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_ + +Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall +the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our +hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do +such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever +and forever! + _Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_ + +Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and +mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we +raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen +fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy +crucified Christ: _What meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the +Sign! + _Keep not thou silence, O God!_ + +Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb +suffering. Surely Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, +heartless thing? + _Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_ + +Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art still +the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul's soul sit some soft +darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night. + +But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to +our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path. + +Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and +without, the liar. Whither? To death? + _Amen! Welcome dark sleep!_ + +Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass +from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and +clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we +must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape. + _Selah!_ + +In yonder East trembles a star. + _Vengeance is mine; I mill repay, saith the Lord!_ + +Thy will, O Lord, be done! + _Kyrie Eleison!_ + +Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little +children. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +Our voices sink in silence and in night. + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +In night, O God of a godless land! + _Amen!_ + +In silence, O Silent God. + _Selah!_ + + + + + George Marion McClellan + + +DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS + +To dreamy languors and the violet mist + Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale +Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, + Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale +Of Summer promises and tender green, + Of a new life and beauty yet unseen. +The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, + Where dying winds of March their branches swing, +While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, + A hand invisible leads on the Spring. + +His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins + With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups, +Where to the warm and passing southern winds, + Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups. +Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, + The fields will spread with every brilliant hue. +But high o'er all the early floral train, + Where softness all the arching sky resumes, +The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, + In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms. + + +A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH + +What dost thou here, thou shining, sinless thing, +With many colored hues and shapely wing? +Why quit the open field and summer air +To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer. + +'Tis meet that we, who this great structure built, +Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, +For we this gilded edifice within +Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin. + +But thou art free from guilt as God on high; +Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, +And leave us here our secret woes to bear, +Confessionals and agonies of prayer. + + +THE HILLS OF SEWANEE + +Sewanee Hills of dear delight, + Prompting my dreams that used to be, +I know you are waiting me still to-night + By the Unika Range of Tennessee. + +The blinking stars in endless space, + The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, +To-night caress your wind-swept face, + And fold you in a thousand dreams. + +Your far outlines, less seen than felt, + Which wind with hill propensities, +In moonlight dreams I see you melt + Away in vague immensities. + +And, far away, I still can feel + Your mystery that ever speaks +Of vanished things, as shadows steal + Across your breast and rugged peaks. + +O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, + And wait so patiently down there, +Your peace takes hold upon my heart + And makes its burden less to bear. + + +THE FEET OF JUDAS + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +The dark and evil passions of his soul, +His secret plot, and sordidness complete, +His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, +And still in love he stooped and washed his feet. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, +His bargain with the priest, and more than this, +In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, +Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And so ineffable his love 'twas meet, +That pity fill his great forgiving heart, +And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, +Who in his Lord had basely sold his part. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And thus a girded servant, self-abased, +Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven +Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, +And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. + +And so if we have ever felt the wrong +Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, +What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, +Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: +Christ washed the feet of Judas. + + + + + William Stanley Braithwaite + + +SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee, +Count 'em two, you make 'em three: +Pluck the man and boy apart +And you'll see into my heart. + + +SANDY STAR + +I + +_Sculptured Worship_ + +The zones of warmth around his heart, + No alien airs had crossed; +But he awoke one morn to feel + The magic numbness of autumnal frost. + +His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, + And tangled emotions, vague and dim; +And sacrificing what he loved + He lost the dearest part of him. + +In sculptured worship now he lives, + His one desire a prisoned ache; +If he can never melt again + His very heart will break. + +II + +_Laughing It Out_ + +He had a whim and laughed it out + Upon the exit of a chance; +He floundered in a sea of doubt-- + If life was real--or just romance. + +Sometimes upon his brow would come + A little pucker of defiance; +He totalled in a word the sum + Of all man made of facts and science. + +And then a hearty laugh would break, + A reassuring shrug of shoulder; +And we would from his fancy take + A faith in death which made life bolder. + +III + +_Exit_ + +No, his exit by the gate + Will not leave the wind ajar; +He will go when it is late + With a misty star. + +One will call, he cannot see; + One will call, he will not hear; +He will take no company + Nor a hope or fear. + +We shall smile who loved him so-- + They who gave him hate will weep; +But for us the winds will blow + Pulsing through his sleep. + +IV + +_The Way_ + +He could not tell the way he came, + Because his chart was lost: +Yet all his way was paved with flame + From the bourne he crossed. + +He did not know the way to go, + Because he had no map: +He followed where the winds blow,-- + And the April sap. + +He never knew upon his brow + The secret that he bore,-- +And laughs away the mystery now + The dark's at his door. + +V + +_Onus Probandi_ + +No more from out the sunset, + No more across the foam, +No more across the windy hills + Will Sandy Star come home. + +He went away to search it + With a curse upon his tongue: +And in his hand the staff of life, + Made music as it swung. + +I wonder if he found it, + And knows the mystery now-- +Our Sandy Star who went away, + With the secret on his brow. + + +DEL CASCAR + +Del Cascar, Del Cascar, +Stood upon a flaming star, +Stood, and let his feet hang down +Till in China the toes turned brown. + +And he reached his fingers over +The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, +And caught a Mandarin at prayer, +And tickled his nose in Orion's hair. + +The sun went down through crimson bars, +And left his blind face battered with stars-- +But the brown toes in China kept +Hot the tears Del Cascar wept. + + +TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES + +Turn me to my yellow leaves, +I am better satisfied; +There is something in me grieves-- +That was never born, and died. +Let me be a scarlet flame +On a windy autumn morn, +I who never had a name, +Nor from breathing image born. +From the margin let me fall +Where the farthest stars sink down, +And the void consumes me,--all +In nothingness to drown. +Let me dream my dream entire, +Withered as an autumn leaf-- +Let me have my vain desire, +Vain--as it is brief. + + +IRONIC: LL.D. + +There are no hollows any more +Between the mountains; the prairie floor +Is like a curtain with the drape +Of the winds' invisible shape; +And nowhere seen and nowhere heard +The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird. + +Now we're traveling, what holds back +Arrival, in the very track +Where the urge put forth; so we stay +And move a thousand miles a day. +Time's a Fancy ringing bells +Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells! + + +SCINTILLA + +I kissed a kiss in youth + Upon a dead man's brow; +And that was long ago,-- + And I'm a grown man now. + +It's lain there in the dust, + Thirty years and more;-- +My lips that set a light + At a dead man's door. + + +SIC VITA + +Heart free, hand free, + Blue above, brown under, +All the world to me + Is a place of wonder. +Sun shine, moon shine, + Stars, and winds a-blowing, +All into this heart of mine + Flowing, flowing, flowing! + +Mind free, step free, + Days to follow after, +Joys of life sold to me + For the price of laughter. +Girl's love, man's love, + Love of work and duty, +Just a will of God's to prove + Beauty, beauty, beauty! + + +RHAPSODY + +I am glad daylong for the gift of song, +For time and change and sorrow; +For the sunset wings and the world-end things +Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. +I am glad for my heart whose gates apart +Are the entrance-place of wonders, +Where dreams come in from the rush and din +Like sheep from the rains and thunders. + + + + + George Reginald Margetson + + +STANZAS FROM THE FLEDGLING BARD AND THE POETRY SOCIETY + +_Part I_ + +I'm out to find the new, the modern school, +Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, +Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, +To write the stuff the editors would buy; +It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,-- +Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown +And build up one instead decked with a new renown. + +A thought is haunting me by night and day, +And in some safe archive I seek to lay it; +I have some startling thing I wish to say, +And they can put me wise just how to say it. +Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, +Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, +And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense. + +Will some kind one direct me to that college +Where every budding genius now is headed, +The only source to gain poetic knowledge, +Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, +Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded,-- +The factory where they shape new feet and meters +That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters. + + * * * * * + +I hope I'll be an eligible student, +E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, +But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,-- +A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance +Who thinks that he can make the muses dance +By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, +To win some fool's applause and please his own desire. + +Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect +That I am not a true, a genuine poet; +If in the poet's colors I am decked +They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it. +I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it, +But be content to gaze with open mind; +I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind. + + * * * * * + +_Part II_ + +I have a problem all alone to solve, +A problem how to find the poetry club, +It makes my sky piece like a top revolve, +For fear that they might mark me for a snob. +They'll call me poetry monger and then dub +Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose, +Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse. + +Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, +In which he sang of all his lovely dears, +Called forth hot condemnation and cold look, +From lesser mortals who were not his peers. +They chided him for telling his affairs, +Because they could not tell their own so well, +They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell. + +They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight, +And all because he dared to tell the truth, +Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,-- +A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. +They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; +Because he blended human with divine, +They branded him "the bard of women and of wine." + +Of course I soak the booze once in a while, +But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it; +I love the girls, they win me with a smile, +But no one knows, for I won't write about it. +And so the fools may never think to doubt it, +When I declare I am a moral man, +As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan. + + * * * * * + +Every man has got a hobby, +Every poet has some fault, +Every sweet contains its bitter, +Every fresh thing has its salt. + +Every mountain has a valley, +Every valley has a hill, +Every ravine is a river, +Every river is a rill. + +Every fool has got some wisdom, +Every wise man is a fool, +Every scholar is a block-head, +Every dunce has been to school. + +Every bad man is a good man, +Every fat man is not stout, +Every good man is a bad man +But 'tis hard to find him out. + +Every strong man is a weak man, +You may doubt it as you please, +Every well man is a sick man, +Every doctor has disease. + + + + + James Weldon Johnson + + +O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS + +O black and unknown bards of long ago, +How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? +How, in your darkness, did you come to know +The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre? +Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes? +Who first from out the still watch, lone and long, +Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise +Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song? + +Heart of what slave poured out such melody +As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains +His spirit must have nightly floated free, +Though still about his hands he felt his chains. +Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye +Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he +That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, +"Nobody knows de trouble I see"? + +What merely living clod, what captive thing, +Could up toward God through all its darkness grope, +And find within its deadened heart to sing +These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope? +How did it catch that subtle undertone, +That note in music heard not with the ears? +How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown, +Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears. + +Not that great German master in his dream +Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars +At the creation, ever heard a theme +Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars +How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir +The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung +Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were +That helped make history when Time was young. + +There is a wide, wide wonder in it all, +That from degraded rest and servile toil +The fiery spirit of the seer should call +These simple children of the sun and soil. +O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed, +You--you alone, of all the long, long line +Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed, +Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. + +You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings; +No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean +Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings +You touched in chord with music empyrean. +You sang far better than you knew; the songs +That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed +Still live,--but more than this to you belongs: +You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ. + + +SENCE YOU WENT AWAY + +Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, +Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light, +Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue, +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you, +Seems lak to me I don't know what to do, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong, +Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long, +Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh, +Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry, +Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye, + Sence you went away. + + +THE CREATION + +(_A Negro Sermon_) + +And God stepped out on space, +And He looked around and said, +_"I'm lonely-- +I'll make me a world."_ + +And far as the eye of God could see +Darkness covered everything, +Blacker than a hundred midnights +Down in a cypress swamp. + +Then God smiled, +And the light broke, +And the darkness rolled up on one side, +And the light stood shining on the other, +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, +And God rolled the light around in His hands +Until He made the sun; +And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. +And the light that was left from making the sun +God gathered it up in a shining ball +And flung it against the darkness, +Spangling the night with the moon and stars. +Then down between +The darkness and the light +He hurled the world; +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God himself stepped down-- +And the sun was on His right hand, +And the moon was on His left; +The stars were clustered about His head, +And the earth was under His feet. +And God walked, and where He trod +His footsteps hollowed the valleys out +And bulged the mountains up. + +Then He stopped and looked and saw +That the earth was hot and barren. +So God stepped over to the edge of the world +And He spat out the seven seas; +He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; +He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; +And the waters above the earth came down, +The cooling waters came down. + +Then the green grass sprouted, +And the little red flowers blossomed, +The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, +And the oak spread out his arms, +The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, +And the rivers ran down to the sea; +And God smiled again, +And the rainbow appeared, +And curled itself around His shoulder. + +Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand +Over the sea and over the land, +And He said, _"Bring forth! Bring forth!"_ +And quicker than God could drop His hand, +Fishes and fowls +And beasts and birds +Swam the rivers and the seas, +Roamed the forests and the woods, +And split the air with their wings. +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God walked around, +And God looked around +On all that He had made. +He looked at His sun, +And He looked at His moon, +'And He looked at His little stars; +He looked on His world +With all its living things, +And God said, _"I'm lonely still."_ + +Then God sat down +On the side of a hill where He could think; +By a deep, wide river He sat down; +With His head in His hands, +God thought and thought, +Till He thought, _"I'll make me a man!"_ + +Up from the bed of the river +God scooped the clay; +And by the bank of the river +He kneeled Him down; +And there the great God Almighty +Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, +Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, +Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; +This Great God, +Like a mammy bending over her baby, +Kneeled down in the dust +Toiling over a lump of clay +Till He shaped it in His own image; + +Then into it He blew the breath of life, +And man became a living soul. +Amen. Amen. + + +THE WHITE WITCH + +O brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +Trust not your prowess nor your strength, +Your only safety lies in flight; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + +The great white witch you have not seen? +Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, +Like nursery children you have looked +For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; +But no, not so; the witch appears +In all the glowing charms of youth. + +Her lips are like carnations, red, +Her face like new-born lilies, fair, +Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, +She moves with subtle grace and air, +And all about her head there floats +The golden glory of her hair. + +But though she always thus appears +In form of youth and mood of mirth, +Unnumbered centuries are hers, +The infant planets saw her birth; +The child of throbbing Life is she, +Twin sister to the greedy earth. + +And back behind those smiling lips, +And down within those laughing eyes, +And underneath the soft caress +Of hand and voice and purring sighs, +The shadow of the panther lurks, +The spirit of the vampire lies. + +For I have seen the great white witch, +And she has led me to her lair, +And I have kissed her red, red lips +And cruel face so white and fair; +Around me she has twined her arms, +And bound me with her yellow hair. + +I felt those red lips burn and sear +My body like a living coal; +Obeyed the power of those eyes +As the needle trembles to the pole; +And did not care although I felt +The strength go ebbing from my soul. + +Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, +And heard your laughter loud and gay, +And in your voices she has caught +The echo of a far-off day, +When man was closer to the earth; +And she has marked you for her prey. + +She feels the old Antaean strength +In you, the great dynamic beat +Of primal passions, and she sees +In you the last besieged retreat +Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, +Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet. + +O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +O, younger brothers mine, beware! +Look not upon her beauty bright; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + + +MOTHER NIGHT + +Eternities before the first-born day, + Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, + Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, + A brooding mother over chaos lay. +And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, + Shall run their fiery courses and then claim + The haven of the darkness whence they came; + Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. + +So when my feeble sun of life burns out, + And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, + I shall, full weary of the feverish light, +Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, + And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep + Into the quiet bosom of the Night. + + +O SOUTHLAND! + +O Southland! O Southland! + Have you not heard the call, +The trumpet blown, the word made known + To the nations, one and all? +The watchword, the hope-word, + Salvation's present plan? +A gospel new, for all--for you: + Man shall be saved by man. + +O Southland! O Southland! + Do you not hear to-day +The mighty beat of onward feet, + And know you not their way? +'Tis forward, 'tis upward, + On to the fair white arch +Of Freedom's dome, and there is room + For each man who would march. + +O Southland, fair Southland! + Then why do you still cling +To an idle age and a musty page, + To a dead and useless thing? +'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time! + The world is young again! +And God's above, and God is love, + And men are only men. + +O Southland! my Southland! + O birthland! do not shirk +The toilsome task, nor respite ask, + But gird you for the work. +Remember, remember + That weakness stalks in pride; +That he is strong who helps along + The faint one at his side. + + +BROTHERS + +See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air +Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he +Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye! +No light is there; none, save the glint that shines +In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs +Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap. + + How came this beast in human shape and form? +Speak, man!--We call you man because you wear +His shape--How are you thus? Are you not from +That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race +Which we have known three centuries? Not from +That more than faithful race which through three wars +Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes +Without a single breach of trust? Speak out! + + I am, and am not. + + Then who, why are you? + + I am a thing not new, I am as old +As human nature. I am that which lurks, +Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed; +The ancient trait which fights incessantly +Against restraint, balks at the upward climb; +The weight forever seeking to obey +The law of downward pull;--and I am more: +The bitter fruit am I of planted seed; +The resultant, the inevitable end +Of evil forces and the powers of wrong. + + Lessons in degradation, taught and learned, +The memories of cruel sights and deeds, +The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate +Filtered through fifteen generations have +Sprung up and found in me sporadic life. +In me the muttered curse of dying men, +On me the stain of conquered women, and +Consuming me the fearful fires of lust, +Lit long ago, by other hands than mine. +In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers +Of wretches now long dead,--their dire bequests,-- +In me the echo of the stifled cry +Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts. + + I claim no race, no race claims me; I am +No more than human dregs; degenerate; +The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin; +I am--just what I am. . . . The race that fed +Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same +To-day, but I-- + Enough, the brute must die! +Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist +The fire much longer than this slender pine. +Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him! Wait! +Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose +The agony and terror in his face. + +And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames +Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek! +And there's another! Wilder than the first. +Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on +The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so! +Now let it slowly blaze again. See there! +He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out, +Searching around in vain appeal for help! +Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh +Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts +Down through the coils of chain that hold erect +The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree. + + Stop! to each man no more than one man's share. +You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain-- +Let us divide its links; this skull, of course, +In fair division, to the leader comes. + + And now his fiendish crime has been avenged; +Let us back to our wives and children.--Say, +What did he mean by those last muttered words, +_"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?_ + + +FIFTY YEARS +(1863-1913) + +_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation +Proclamation._ + +O brothers mine, to-day we stand + Where half a century sweeps our ken, +Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, + Struck off our bonds and made us men. + +Just fifty years--a winter's day-- + As runs the history of a race; +Yet, as we look back o'er the way, + How distant seems our starting place! + +Look farther back! Three centuries! + To where a naked, shivering score, +Snatched from their haunts across the seas, + Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. + +This land is ours by right of birth, + This land is ours by right of toil; +We helped to turn its virgin earth, + Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. + +Where once the tangled forest stood,-- + Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,-- +Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, + The cotton white, the yellow corn. + +To gain these fruits that have been earned, + To hold these fields that have been won, +Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, + Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. + +That Banner which is now the type + Of victory on field and flood-- +Remember, its first crimson stripe + Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. + +And never yet has come the cry-- + When that fair flag has been assailed-- +For men to do, for men to die, + That we have faltered or have failed. + +We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, + Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze +Held in our hands, it has been borne + And planted far across the seas. + +And never yet,--O haughty Land, + Let us, at least, for this be praised-- +Has one black, treason-guided hand + Ever against that flag been raised. + +Then should we speak but servile words, + Or shall we hang our heads in shame? +Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, + And fear our heritage to claim? + +No! stand erect and without fear, + And for our foes let this suffice-- +We've bought a rightful sonship here, + And we have more than paid the price. + +And yet, my brothers, well I know + The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, +The spirit bowed beneath the blow, + The heart grown faint from wounds and stings; + +The staggering force of brutish might, + That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; +The long, vain waiting through the night + To hear some voice for justice raised. + +Full well I know the hour when hope + Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere +Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope + With hands uplifted in despair. + +Courage! Look out, beyond, and see + The far horizon's beckoning span! +Faith in your God-known destiny! + We are a part of some great plan. + +Because the tongues of Garrison + And Phillips now are cold in death, +Think you their work can be undone? + Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? + +Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? + That Lovejoy was but idly slain? +Or do you think those precious drops + From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain? + +That for which millions prayed and sighed, + That for which tens of thousands fought, +For which so many freely died, + God cannot let it come to naught. + + + + + John Wesley Holloway + + +MISS MELERLEE + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Oh, you're pretty sight to see! +Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face, +An' willowy form chuck full o' grace-- +De sweetes' gal Ah evah see, +An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +You're de berry gal fo' me! +Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, +An' silky arm so plump an' bare! +Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes, +An' de way Ah love you,--goodness knows! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! +Ah nevah seed yo' face befo' +An' lakly won't again no mo'; +But yo' sweet smile will follow me +Cla'r into eternity! + Farewell, Miss Melerlee! + + +CALLING THE DOCTOR + +Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + +Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f; +Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f; +Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do, + An' so Ah sent fo' you. + +"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: +Firs',--horhound drops an' catnip tea; +Den rock candy soaked in rum, +An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum; +Next Ah tried was castor oil, +An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil; +Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood; +But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. +Den when home remedies seem to shirk, +Dem pantry bottles was put to work: + +Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, +"Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," +Ready Relief, an' A.B.C., +An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z. +An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, +Dey nevah done no good at all. + +Mah appetite begun to fail; +'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, +Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always said +When yo' can't eat you're almost dead. + +So Ah got scared an' sent for you.-- +Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. +Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + + +THE CORN SONG + +Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,-- + Lis'n to 'im now!-- +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin', at his plow! +In de early mornin', + Thoo de hazy air, +Loud an' clear, sweet an' strong + Comes de music rare: + + "O mah dovee, Who-ah! + Do you love me? Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, + Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; + "Whoa! Har! Come'ere!" + +Don't yo' love a co'n song? + How it stirs yo' blood! +Ever'body list'nin', + In de neighborhood! +Standin' in yo' front do' + In de misty mo'n, +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin' in de co'n: + + "O Miss Julie, Who-ah! + Love me truly, Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, + W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: + "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!" + +O you jolly black boy, + Yod'lin' in de co'n, +Callin' to yo' dawlin', + In de dewy mo'n, +Love 'er, boy, forevah, + Yodel ever' day; +Only le' me lis'n, + As yo' sing away: + + "O mah dawlin'! Who-ah! + Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Tu'n aroun' anothah row, + Holler to yo' mule so: + "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!" + + +BLACK MAMMIES + +If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, +Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- +Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- +Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy. + +You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; +An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; +But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, +An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one. + +Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, +An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: +If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', +Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'. + +If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, +Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; +If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, +Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere. + +She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; +But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; +Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, +She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down. + +She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, +An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; +She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; +She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God! + +She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word," +Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd," +If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, +It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out; + +But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, +An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; +An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',-- +Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'! + + + + + Leslie Pinckney Hill + + +TUSKEGEE + +Wherefore this busy labor without rest? +Is it an idle dream to which we cling, +Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing +Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best. +By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." +So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, +And so the thought is wedded to the thing; +But what shall be the end, and what the test? +Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see +Not many steps ahead, but this we know-- +If all our toilsome building is in vain, +Availing not to set our manhood free, +If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, +The South will wear eternally a stain. + + +CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE + +Come home with me a little space +And browse about our ancient place, +Lay by your wonted troubles here +And have a turn of Christmas cheer. +These sober walls of weathered stone +Can tell a romance of their own, +And these wide rooms of devious line +Are kindly meant in their design. +Sometimes the north wind searches through, +But he shall not be rude to you. +We'll light a log of generous girth +For winter comfort, and the mirth +Of healthy children you shall see +About a sparkling Christmas tree. +Eleanor, leader of the fold, +Hermione with heart of gold, +Elaine with comprehending eyes, +And two more yet of coddling size, +Natalie pondering all that's said, +And Mary with the cherub head-- +All these shall give you sweet content +And care-destroying merriment, +While one with true madonna grace +Moves round the glowing fire-place +Where father loves to muse aside +And grandma sits in silent pride. +And you may chafe the wasting oak, +Or freely pass the kindly joke +To mix with nuts and home-made cake +And apples set on coals to bake. +Or some fine carol we will sing +In honor of the Manger-King, +Or hear great Milton's organ verse +Or Plato's dialogue rehearse +What Socrates with his last breath +Sublimely said of life and death. +These dear delights we fain would share +With friend and kinsman everywhere, +And from our door see them depart +Each with a little lighter heart. + + +SUMMER MAGIC + +So many cares to vex the day, + So many fears to haunt the night, +My heart was all but weaned away + From every lure of old delight. +Then summer came, announced by June, + With beauty, miracle and mirth. +She hung aloft the rounding moon, + She poured her sunshine on the earth, +She drove the sap and broke the bud, + She set the crimson rose afire. +She stirred again my sullen blood, + And waked in me a new desire. +Before my cottage door she spread + The softest carpet nature weaves, +And deftly arched above my head + A canopy of shady leaves. +Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, + Her days were bowers rife with song, +And many a scheme did she devise + To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong. +For on the hill or in the dell, + Or where the brook went leaping by +Or where the fields would surge and swell + With golden wheat or bearded rye, +I felt her heart against my own, + I breathed the sweetness of her breath, +Till all the cark of time had flown, + And I was lord of life and death. + + +THE TEACHER + +Lord, who am I to teach the way +To little children day by day, +So prone myself to go astray? + +I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know +How faint they flicker and how low +The candles of my knowledge glow. + +I teach them POWER to will and do, +But only now to learn anew +My own great weakness through and through. + +I teach them LOVE for all mankind +And all God's creatures, but I find +My love comes lagging far behind. + +Lord, if their guide I still must be, +Oh let the little children see +The teacher leaning hard on Thee. + + + + + Edward Smyth Jones + + +A SONG OF THANKS + +For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, +For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, +For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, +For her coffers filled with their countless worth, +For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, +For the rippling streams which turn the mills, +For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, +For the songs of gladness on the gale,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, +For the bounty which the rich soil yields, +For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, +For the sun which ripens the golden grains, +For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, +For the stallĆØd ox and the fruitful vine, +For the tubers large and cotton white, +For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, +For the swan which floats near the river-banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, +For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, +For the plum and the peach and the apple red, +For the dear old press where the wine is tread, +For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, +And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, +For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, +For the game which hide in the shady nooks,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, +For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines, +For the silver ores of a thousand fold, +For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, +For the river boat and the flying train, +For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, +For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, +For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, +For the peace and plenty together share, +For the Hand which guides us from above, +For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, +For the blessed home with its children gay, +For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, +For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, +We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + + + + + Ray G. Dandridge + + +TIME TO DIE + +Black brother, think you life so sweet +That you would live at any price? +Does mere existence balance with +The weight of your great sacrifice? +Or can it be you fear the grave +Enough to live and die a slave? +O Brother! be it better said, +When you are gone and tears are shed, +That your death was the stepping stone +Your children's children cross'd upon. +Men have died that men might live: +Look every foeman in the eye! +If necessary, your life give +For something, ere in vain you die. + + +'ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD + +(_To R. V.P._) + +Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings +Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, +Truint Angel, wifout wings, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, +Bekaze I foul de time an' key, +Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head? + +O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, +Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, +Is sho a God gib natchel prize, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, +Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, +Jes to roun' you out, complete, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, +Knows yore evah A, B, C, +Plum on down to X, Y, Z, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +De man doan know how much he miss, +Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; +Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head! + +I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, +(By charm or craf'--doan mattah how) +You stay jes lak you is right now, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + + +ZALKA PEETRUZA + +(_Who Was Christened Lucy Jane_) + +She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, +With swaying arms and flying feet, +'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, +Her all was dancing--save her face. + +A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, +Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; +A body, marshalled by the will, +Kept dancing while a heart stood still: + +And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, +Looked over heads to empty air, +As though they sought to find therein +Redemption for a maiden sin. + +'Twas thus, amid force driven grace, +We found the lost look on her face; +And then, to us, did it occur +That, though we saw--we saw not her. + + +SPRIN' FEVAH + +Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy +Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; +An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; +Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, +Dough de task et han' is easy, +An' de day am fair an' breezy, +Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'. + +Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, +Kaze it jes won't be denied; +Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; +Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; +Doctahs fail to analyze it; +So I yiel's (dough I despise it) +To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'. + + +DE DRUM MAJAH + +He's struttin' sho ernuff, +Wearin' a lady's muff +En' ways erpon his head, +Red coat ob reddest red, +Purtty white satin ves', +Gole braid ercross de ches'; +Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, +Prancin' out dar in frunt, + Leadin' his ban'. + +Wen dat ah whistle blows, +Each man behine him knows +'Zacklee whut he mus' do; +You bet! he dues it, too. +W'en dat brass stick he twirls, +Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls +Looks on wid longin' eyes, +Dey simpley idolize + Dat han'sum man. + +Sweet fife an' piccalo, +Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' +Slide ho'n an' saxophones, +Jazz syncopated tones, +Snare drum an' lead cornet, +Alto an' clarinet, +Las', but not least, dar cum +Cymbals an' big bass drum-- + O! whut a ban'! + +Cose, we all undahstan' +Each piece he'ps maik de ban', +But dey all mus' be led, +Sum one mus' be de head: +No doubt, de centipede +Has all de laigs he need, +But take erway de head, +Po' centipede am dead; + So am de ban'. + + + + + Fenton Johnson + + +CHILDREN OF THE SUN + +We are children of the sun, + Rising sun! +Weaving Southern destiny, +Waiting for the mighty hour +When our Shiloh shall appear +With the flaming sword of right, +With the steel of brotherhood, +And emboss in crimson die +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We are the star-dust folk, + Striving folk! +Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; +Seething passions wrought through wrongs, +Led us where the moon rays dip +In the night of dull despair, +Showed us where the star gleams shine, +And the mystic symbols glow-- +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We have come through cloud and mist, + Mighty men! +Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, +Reared for us a mystic throne +In the splendor of the skies, +That shall always be for us, +Children of the Nazarene, +Children who shall ever sing +Liberty! Fraternity! + + +THE NEW DAY + +From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince + of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. +Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was + drowned by the happy shouting of the people. +From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant + from the throats of white-robed angels: + + Blow your trumpets, little children! + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Blow your blast that Peace might know + She is Queen of God's great army. + With the crying blood of millions + We have written deep her name + In the Book of all the Ages; + With the lilies in the valley, + With the roses by the Mersey, + With the golden flower of Jersey + We have crowned her smooth young temples. + Where her footsteps cease to falter + Golden grain will greet the morning, + Where her chariot descends + Shall be broken down the altars + Of the gods of dark disturbance. + Nevermore shall men know suffering, + Nevermore shall women wailing + Shake to grief the God of Heaven. + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Little children, blow your trumpets! + +From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I + heard the music of the old slave songs. +I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly + fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. +I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the + crimson in my veins leapt furiously. + + Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought + In No Man's Land that peace might come again! + Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave + Red blood to save the freedom of the world! + We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; + But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared + Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. + So when the bugle blast had called us forth + We went not like the surly brute of yore + But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world + The freedom that we never knew nor shared. + These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down + As Samson in the temple of the gods; + Unloosen them and let us breathe the air + That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. + For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, + Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself; + And now we ask of thee our liberty, + Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes. + +I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land. + + +TIRED + +I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's +civilization. + +Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane. + +I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, +shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of +Mike's barrels. + +You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to +dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit. + +You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting +the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon. + +Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It +is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored. + +Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars +marked my destiny. + +I am tired of civilization. + + +THE BANJO PLAYER + +There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. +I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing + my songs of the cabin and the field. At the + Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets + in March; there is always food and drink for me + there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. + Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap + their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle. + +But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman +called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? + + +THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife. + +My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two +days after his insurance expired. + +I had nothing, so I had to go to work. + +All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted +the men of both races. + +Starvation danced with me. + +So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales +of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to +Vice. + +Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around. + +Gin is better than all the water in Lethe. + + + + + R. Nathaniel Dett + + +THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE + +Staccato! Staccato! +Leggier agitato! + In and out does the melody twist-- +Unique proposition +Is this composition. + (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) +Now in the dominant +Theme ringing prominent, + Bass still repeating its one monotone, +Double notes crying, +Up keyboard go flying, + The change to the minor comes in like a groan. +Without a cessation +A chaste modulation + Hastens adown to subdominant key, +Where melody mellow-like +Singing so 'cello-like + Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. +Scarce is this finished +When chords all diminished + Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, +A pedal-point wonder +Rivaling thunder. + Now all is mad agitation again. +Like laughter jolly +Begins the finale; + Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend +Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. + Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end! + + + + + Georgia Douglas Johnson + + +THE HEART OF A WOMAN + +The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, +As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, +Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam +In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. + +The heart of a woman falls back with the night, +And enters some alien cage in its plight, +And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars +While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. + + +YOUTH + +The dew is on the grasses, dear, + The blush is on the rose, +And swift across our dial-youth, + A shifting shadow goes. + +The primrose moments, lush with bliss, + Exhale and fade away, +Life may renew the Autumn time, + But nevermore the May! + + +LOST ILLUSIONS + +Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, +Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, +Why did I stray from their shelter and grow +Into the sadness that follows--to know! + +Impotent atom with desolate gaze +Threading the tumult of hazardous ways-- +Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth +Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth! + + +I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME + +I want to die while you love me, + While yet you hold me fair, +While laughter lies upon my lips + And lights are in my hair. + +I want to die while you love me, + And bear to that still bed, +Your kisses turbulent, unspent + To warm me when I'm dead. + +I want to die while you love me + Oh, who would care to live +Till love has nothing more to ask + And nothing more to give! + +I want to die while you love me + And never, never see +The glory of this perfect day + Grow dim or cease to be. + + +WELT + +Would I might mend the fabric of my youth +That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, +Would I might compromise awhile with truth +Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies. + +For I would go a further while with you, +And drain this cup so tantalant and fair +Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew, +Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair! + + +MY LITTLE DREAMS + +I'm folding up my little dreams +Within my heart to-night, +And praying I may soon forget +The torture of their sight. + +For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow +With fell relentless art-- +I'm folding up my little dreams +To-night, within my heart! + + + + + Claude McKay + + +THE LYNCHING + +His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. +His father, by the crudest way of pain, +Had bidden him to his bosom once again; +The awful sin remained still unforgiven. +All night a bright and solitary star +(Perchance the one that ever guided him, +Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) +Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. +Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view +The ghastly body swaying in the sun: +The women thronged to look, but never a one +Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; +And little lads, lynchers that were to be, +Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. + + +IF WE MUST DIE + +If we must die--let it not be like hogs +Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, +While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, +Making their mock at our accursed lot. +If we must die--oh, let us nobly die, +So that our precious blood may not be shed +In vain; then even the monsters we defy +Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! + +Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; +Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, +And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! +What though before us lies the open grave? +Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, +Pressed to the wall, dying, but--fighting back! + + +TO THE WHITE FIENDS + +Think you I am not fiend and savage too? +Think you I could not arm me with a gun +And shoot down ten of you for every one +Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? +Be not deceived, for every deed you do +I could match--out-match: am I not Africa's son, +Black of that black land where black deeds are done? + +But the Almighty from the darkness drew +My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light +Awhile to burn on the benighted earth, +Thy dusky face I set among the white +For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; +Before the world is swallowed up in night, +To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth! + + +THE HARLEM DANCER + +Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes +And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; +Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes +Blown by black players upon a picnic day. +She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, +The light gauze hanging loose about her form; +To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm +Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. +Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls +Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, +The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, +Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; +But, looking at her falsely-smiling face +I knew her self was not in that strange place. + + +HARLEM SHADOWS + +I hear the halting footsteps of a lass + In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall +Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass + Eager to heed desire's insistent call: +Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet + Go prowling through the night from street to street. + +Through the long night until the silver break + Of day the little gray feet know no rest, +Through the lone night until the last snow-flake + Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, +The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet + Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. + +Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way + Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, +Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. + The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! +Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet + In Harlem wandering from street to street. + + +AFTER THE WINTER + +Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, + And against the morning's white +The shivering birds beneath the eaves + Have sheltered for the night, +We'll turn our faces southward, love, + Toward the summer isle +Where bamboos spire the shafted grove + And wide-mouthed orchids smile. + +And we will seek the quiet hill + Where towers the cotton tree, +And leaps the laughing crystal rill, + And works the droning bee. +And we will build a lonely nest + Beside an open glade, +And there forever will we rest, + O love--O nut-brown maid! + + +SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE + +Too green the springing April grass, +Too blue the silver speckled sky, +For me to linger here, alas, +While happy winds go laughing by, +Wasting the golden hours indoors, +Washing windows and scrubbing floors. + +Too wonderful the April night, +Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, +The stars too gloriously bright, +For me to spend the evening hours, +When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, +Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping. + + +THE TIRED WORKER + +O whisper, O my soul!--the afternoon +Is waning into evening--whisper soft! +Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon +From out its misty veil will swing aloft! +Be patient, weary body, soon the night +Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, +And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite +To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. +The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; +Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. +But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? +O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! +Weary my veins, my brain, my life,--have pity! +No! Once again the hard, the ugly city. + + +THE BARRIER + +I must not gaze at them although + Your eyes are dawning day; +I must not watch you as you go + Your sun-illumined way; + +I hear but I must never heed + The fascinating note, +Which, fluting like a river-reed, + Comes from your trembling throat; + +I must not see upon your face + Love's softly glowing spark; +For there's the barrier of race, + You're fair and I am dark. + + +TO O. E. A. + +Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, + And there's a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in the night. +Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, + The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight +Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. + I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold, + Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. +But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the +eucharis +Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss, + You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness, +Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth, +All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your +birth: + O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong, + But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with +flesh, +Forever, life-long. + + +FLAME-HEART + +So much have I forgotten in ten years, + So much in ten brief years; I have forgot +What time the purple apples come to juice + And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; +Forgotten is the special, startling season + Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting, +What time of year the ground doves brown the fields + And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: +I have forgotten much, but still remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +I still recall the honey-fever grass, + But I cannot bring back to mind just when +We rooted them out of the ping-wing path + To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. +I often try to think in what sweet month + The languid painted ladies used to dapple +The yellow bye road mazing from the main, + Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: +I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year + We cheated school to have our fling at tops? +What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy + Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? +Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, + Even the sacred moments, when we played, +All innocent of passion uncorrupt, + At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade: +We were so happy, happy,--I remember +Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. + + +TWO-AN'-SIX + +Merry voices chatterin', +Nimble feet dem patterin', +Big an' little, faces gay, +Happy day dis market day. + +Sateday, de marnin' break, +Soon, soon market-people wake; +An' de light shine from de moon +While dem boy, wid pantaloon +Roll up ober dem knee-pan, +'Tep across de buccra lan' +To de pastur whe' de harse +Feed along wid de jackass, +An' de mule cant' in de track +Wid him tail up in him back, +All de ketchin' to defy, +No ca' how dem boy might try. + +In de early marnin'-tide, +When de cocks crow on de hill +An' de stars are shinin' still, +Mirrie by de fireside +Hots de coffee for de lads +Comin' ridin' on de pads +T'rown across dem animul-- +Donkey, harse too, an' de mule, +Which at last had come do'n cool. +On de bit dem hol' dem full: +Racin' ober pastur' lan', +See dem comin' ebery man, +Comin' fe de steamin' tea +Ober hilly track an' lea. + +Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road +Trottin' wid him ushal load, +Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, +Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane. + +Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, +Drivin' 'long de market way; +Whole week grindin' sugar cane +T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain, +Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, +He goes seekin' his reward, +While he's thinkin' in him min' +Of de dear ones lef behin', +Of de loved though ailin' wife, +Darlin' treasure of his life, +An' de picknies, six in all, +Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall: +Seben lovin' ones in need, +Seben hungry mouths fe feed; +On deir wants he thinks alone, +Neber dreamin' of his own, +But gwin' on wid joyful face +Till him re'ch de market-place. + +Sugar bears no price to-day, +Though it is de mont' o' May, +When de time is hellish hot, +An' de water cocoanut +An' de cane bebridge is nice, +Mix' up wid a lilly ice. +Big an' little, great an' small, +Afou yam is all de call; +Sugar tup an' gill a quart, +Yet de people hab de heart +Wantin' brater top o' i', +Want de sweatin' higgler fe +Ram de pan an' pile i' up, +Yet sell i' fe so-so tup. + +Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, +As de market is so bad; +'Pon him han' him res' him chin, +Quietly sit do'n thinkin' +Of de loved wife sick in bed, +An' de children to be fed-- +What de laborers would say +When dem know him couldn' pay; +Also what about de mill +Whe' him hire from ole Bill; +So him think, an' think on so, +Till him t'oughts no more could go. + +Then he got up an' began +Pickin' up him sugar-pan: +In his ears rang t'rough de din +"Only two-an'-six a tin'." +What a tale he'd got to tell, +How bad, bad de sugar sell! +Tekin' out de lee amount, +Him set do'n an' begin count +All de time him min' deh doubt +How expenses would pay out; +Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, +Sugar sell fe two-an'-six! + +So he journeys on de way, +Feelinl sad dis market day; +No e'en buy a little cake +To gi'e baby when she wake,-- +Passin' 'long de candy-shop +'Douten eben mek a stop +To buy drops fe las'y son, +For de lilly cash nea' done. +So him re'ch him own a groun', +An' de children scamper roun', +Each one stretchin' out him han', +Lookin' to de poor sad man. + +Oh, how much he felt de blow, +As he watched dem face fall low, +When dem wait an' nuttin' came +An' drew back deir han's wid shame! +But de sick wife kissed his brow: +"Sun, don't get down-hearted now; +Ef we only pay expense +We mus' wuk we common-sense, +Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, +Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; +We mus' try mek two ends meet +Neber mind how hard be it. +We won't mind de haul an' pull, +While dem pickny belly full." + +An' de shadow lef' him face, +An' him felt an inward peace, +As he blessed his better part +For her sweet an' gentle heart: +"Dear one o' my heart, my breat', +Won't I lub you to de deat'? +When my heart is weak an' sad, +Who but you can mek it glad?" + +So dey kissed an' kissed again, +An' deir t'oughts were not on pain, +But was 'way down in de sout' +Where dey'd wedded in deir yout', +In de marnin' of deir life +Free from all de grief an' strife, +Happy in de marnin' light, +Never thinkin' of de night. + +So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; +An' de profit it could bring, +A'ter all de business fix', +Was a princely two-an'-six. + + + + + Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. + + +A PRAYER + +As I lie in bed, +Flat on my back; +There passes across my ceiling +An endless panorama of things-- +Quick steps of gay-voiced children, +Adolescence in its wondering silences, +Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, +Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, +Old men gazing silently thru the twilight +Into the beyond. +O God, give me words to make my dream-children live. + + +AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? + +Brother, come! +And let us go unto our God. +And when we stand before Him +I shall say-- +"Lord, I do not hate, +I am hated. +I scourge no one, +I am scourged. +I covet no lands, +My lands are coveted. +I mock no peoples, +My people are mocked." +And, brother, what shall you say? + + +IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK? + +Why do men smile when I speak, +And call my speech +The whimperings of a babe +That cries but knows not what it wants? +Is it because I am black? + +Why do men sneer when I arise +And stand in their councils, +And look them eye to eye, +And speak their tongue? +Is it because I am black? + + +THE BAND OF GIDEON + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, +The howling wind is their war-cry, +The thunder's roll is their trump's peal, +And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men below rear temples high +And mock their God with reasons why, +And live in arrogance, sin and shame, +And rape their souls for the world's good name. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The band of Gideon roam the sky +And view the earth with baleful eye; +In holy wrath they scourge the land +With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, +And "Lord have mercy on my soul," +Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, +In agony searching for their God. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men repent and then forget +That heavenly wrath they ever met, +The band of Gideon yet will come +And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + + +RAIN MUSIC + +On the dusty earth-drum + Beats the falling rain; +Now a whispered murmur, + Now a louder strain. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks, + On an ancient drum, +Beat the mellow music + Bidding life to come. + +Chords of earth awakened, + Notes of greening spring, +Rise and fall triumphant + Over every thing. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks + Beat the long tattoo-- +God, the Great Musician, + Calling life anew. + + +SUPPLICATION + +I am so tired and weary, + So tired of the endless fight, +So weary of waiting the dawn + And finding endless night. + +That I ask but rest and quiet-- + Rest for days that are gone, +And quiet for the little space + That I must journey on. + + + + + Roscoe C. Jamison + +THE NEGRO SOLDIERS + +These truly are the Brave, +These men who cast aside +Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave +Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide +That moves away, to suffer and to die +For Freedom--when their own is yet denied! +O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, +Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified! + +These truly are the Free, +These souls that grandly rise +Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, +Who march to war with visions in their eyes +Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, +Aforetime, while they front the firing line. +Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, +Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, +That those who mock might find a better way! + + + + + Jessie Fauset + + +LA VIE C'EST LA VIE + +On summer afternoons I sit +Quiescent by you in the park, +And idly watch the sunbeams gild +And tint the ash-trees' bark. + +Or else I watch the squirrels frisk +And chaffer in the grassy lane; +And all the while I mark your voice +Breaking with love and pain. + +I know a woman who would give +Her chance of heaven to take my place; +To see the love-light in your eyes, +The love-glow on your face! + +And there's a man whose lightest word +Can set my chilly blood afire; +Fulfilment of his least behest +Defines my life's desire. + +But he will none of me, Nor I +Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said +The world is full of jests like these.-- +I wish that I were dead. + + +CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE + +Oh little Christ, why do you sigh + As you look down to-night +On breathless France, on bleeding France, + And all her dreadful plight? +What bows your childish head so low? + What turns your cheek so white? + +Oh little Christ, why do you moan, + What is it that you see +In mourning France, in martyred France, + And her great agony? +Does she recall your own dark day, + Your own Gethsemane? + +Oh little Christ, why do you weep, + Why flow your tears so sore +For pleading France, for praying France, + A suppliant at God's door? +"God sweetened not my cup," you say, + "Shall He for France do more?" + +Oh little Christ, what can this mean, + Why must this horror be +For fainting France, for faithful France, + And her sweet chivalry? +"I bled to free all men," you say + "France bleeds to keep men free." + +Oh little, lovely Christ--you smile! + What guerdon is in store +For gallant France, for glorious France, + And all her valiant corps? +"Behold I live, and France, like me, + Shall live for evermore." + + +DEAD FIRES + +If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, + Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. +Better the wound forever seeking balm + Than this gray calm! + +Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, + The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, +Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath + Than passion's death! + + +ORIFLAMME + +"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would +sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I +would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am +groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I +don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the +stars!'"--_Sojourner Truth_. + +I think I see her sitting bowed and black, + Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, +Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet + Still looking at the stars. + +Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, + Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, +Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, + Still visioning the stars! + + +OBLIVION + +_From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)_ + +I hope when I am dead that I shall lie + In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why, +But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot + Unknown to every one, by every one forgot. + +There lying I should taste with my dead breath + The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; +And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, + The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state. + +To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears + That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; +There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless + Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness. + + + + + Anne Spencer + + +BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN + +Garden of Shushan! +After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: +Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, +Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; +Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when +Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; +And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay +Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to +Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine +Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind-- +Slave, send Vashti to her King! + +The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame +The marbled towers of Shushan: +So at each day's wane, two peers--the one in +Heaven, the other on earth--welcome with their +Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen. + +Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee +Finding glory for mine head,--still, nearly shamed +Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp +Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; +Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, +Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; +Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder +Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; +Then--Sharon's Rose in my arms. + +And I am hard to force the petals wide; +And you are fast to suffer and be sad. +Is any prophet come to teach a new thing +Now in a more apt time? +Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; +How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; +How to the altar may not come to break and drink, +Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit! + +I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; +I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when +I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. +I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. +No woman in all Persia sets out strange action +To confuse Persia's lord-- +Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; +I, thy King, so say! + + +AT THE CARNIVAL + +Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, +I desire a name for you, +Nice, as a right glove fits; +For you--who amid the malodorous +Mechanics of this unlovely thing, +Are darling of spirit and form. +I know you--a glance, and what you are +Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. +My Limousine-Lady knows you, or +Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark +Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? +Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. +The bull-necked man knows you--this first time +His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health +And thinks not of his avocation. +I came incuriously-- +Set on no diversion save that my mind +Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds +In the presence of a blind crowd. +The color of life was gray. +Everywhere the setting seemed right +For my mood. +Here the sausage and garlic booth +Sent unholy incense skyward; +There a quivering female-thing +Gestured assignations, and lied +To call it dancing; +There, too, were games of chance +With chances for none; +But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! +Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free +The gaze you send the crowd, +As though you know the dearth of beauty +In its sordid life. +We need you--my Limousine-Lady, +The bull-necked man and I. +Seeing you here brave and water-clean, +Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, +I am swift to feel that what makes +The plodder glad is good; and +Whatever is good is God. +The wonder is that you are here; +I have seen the queer in queer places, +But never before a heaven-fed +Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! +Little Diver, Destiny for you, +Like as for me, is shod in silence; +Years may seep into your soul +The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; +I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day! + + +THE WIFE-WOMAN + +Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things +From earth to star; +Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and +Over the border the bar. +Though rank and fierce the mariner +Sailing the seven seas, +He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, +Coaxing the Pleiades. + +I cannot love them; and I feel your glad +Chiding from the grave, +That my all was only worth at all, what +Joy to you it gave. +These seven links the _Law_ compelled +For the human chain-- +I cannot love _them_; and _you_, oh, +Seven-fold months in Flanders slain! + +A jungle there, a cave here, bred six +And a million years, +Sure and strong, mate for mate, such +Love as culture fears; +I gave you clear the oil and wine; +You saved me your hob and hearth-- +See how _even_ life may be ere the +Sickle comes and leaves a swath. + +But I can wait the seven of moons, +Or years I spare, +Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend +A drop, nor share-- +So long but outlives a smile and +A silken gown; +Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, +And you, glory-clad, reach down. + + +TRANSLATION + +We trekked into a far country, +My friend and I. +Our deeper content was never spoken, +But each knew all the other said. +He told me how calm his soul was laid +By the lack of anvil and strife. +"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note +To please the harmony of this sweet silence." +And when at the day's end +We laid tired bodies 'gainst +The loose warm sands, +And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; +When star after star came out +To guard their lovers in oblivion-- +My soul so leapt that my evening prayer +Stole my morning song! + + +DUNBAR + +Ah, how poets sing and die! +Make one song and Heaven takes it; +Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; +Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I-- +Ah, how poets sing and die! + + + + + Alex Rogers + + +WHY ADAM SINNED + +"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night +'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. +Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right +An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." +I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, +'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made Adam sin: + +Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart--he'd-a let dat apple be +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + +He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', +He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. +He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', +He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. +Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin +An' she'd a come an' tole him +"Son, don' eat dat--dat's a sin." + +But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + + +THE RAIN SONG + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Walk right in Brother Wilson--how you feelin' today?" + +_Bro. Wilson_ + +"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels dat way." + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's all you gent'men's +been?", + +_Bro. White_ + +"My health is good but my bus'ness slack." + +_Bro. Black_ + +"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"My ole 'ooman's sick, but I'se alright--" + +_Bro. Green_ + +"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night--" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!" + +_Bro. Turner_ + +"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here--but here I is!" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, +Dare's nothin' to fear--my ole 'ooman's gone-- +My stars; da weather's pow'ful warm-- +I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say-- +'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day +Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain +An' any time you sees 'em you kin look fuh rain: +Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack +An' da folks wid rheumatics--dare jints is on da rack--" + +_All_ + +"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain. + +"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, +An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, +Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain! + +"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws +'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, +Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain! + +"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, +An' in his brown suit he is dressed, +Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain! + +"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, +An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, +Dat am da time fuh rain. + +"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', +An' when you see him eatin'; he's eatin' grass: +Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain!" + +_Refrain_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, +'Tain't gwine tuh be no rain to-day, +Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, +An' you ain't seen no spiders fum dare cobwebs creep; +Las' night da sun went bright to bed, +An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her head; +If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, +Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day." + + + + + Waverley Turner Carmichael + + +KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME + +Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +Help me praise Thy Holy name, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Save me, Jesus, save me. + +Hear me as I cry to Thee; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +May I that bright glory see; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, my good Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. + + +WINTER IS COMING + +De winter days are drawin' nigh +An' by the fire I sets an' sigh; +De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', +Fur summer days is been an' pas'; +The air is blowin' mighty cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De frost is fallin' on de gras' +An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"-- +De air is blowin' mighty cold +Like it done in days of old. + + + + + Alice Dunbar-Nelson + + +SONNET + +I had no thought of violets of late, +The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet +In wistful April days, when lovers mate +And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. +The thought of violets meant florists' shops, +And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; +And garish lights, and mincing little fops +And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. +So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, +I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; +The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- +Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. +And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream +Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam. + + + + + Charles Bertram Johnson + + +A LITTLE CABIN + +Des a little cabin +Big ernuff fur two. +Des awaitin', honey, +Cozy fixt fur you; +Down dah by de road, +Not ve'y far from town, +Waitin' fur de missis, +When she's ready to come down. + +Des a little cabin, +An' er acre o' groun', +Vines agrowin' on it, +Fruit trees all aroun', +Hollyhawks a-bloomin' +In de gyahden plot-- +Honey, would you like to +Own dat little spot? + +Make dat little cabin +Cheery, clean an' bright, +With an' angel in it +Like a ray of light? +Make dat little palace +Somethin' fine an' gran', +Make it like an Eden, +Fur a lonely man? + +Des you listen, Honey, +While I 'splain it all, +How some lady's go'nter +Boss dat little hall; +Des you take my ban' +Dat's de way it's writ, +Des you take my heart, +Dat's de deed to it. + + +NEGRO POETS + +Full many lift and sing +Their sweet imagining; +Not yet the Lyric Seer, +The one bard of the throng, +With highest gift of song, +Breaks on our sentient ear. + +Not yet the gifted child, +With notes enraptured, wild, +That storm and throng the heart, +To make his rage our own, +Our hearts his lyric throne; +Hard won by cosmic art. + +I hear the sad refrain, +Of slavery's sorrow-strain; +The broken half-lispt speech +Of freedom's twilit hour; +The greater growing reach +Of larger latent power. + +Here and there a growing note +Swells from a conscious throat; +Thrilled with a message fraught +The pregnant hour is near; +We wait our Lyric Seer, +By whom our wills are caught. + +Who makes our cause and wrong +The motif of his song; +Who sings our racial good, +Bestows us honor's place, +The cosmic brotherhood +Of genius--not of race. + +Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, +Of fame's immortal few +Would still be deathless born; +Frail Dunbar, black or white, +In Fame's eternal light, +Would shine a Star of Morn. + +An unhorizoned range, +Our hour of doubt and change, +Gives song a nightless day, +Whose pen with pregnant mirth +Will give our longings birth, +And point our souls the way? + + + + + Otto Leland Bohanan + + +THE DAWN'S AWAKE! + +The Dawn's awake! + A flash of smoldering flame and fire +Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, + O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, + The torch of gold is borne. + +The Dawn's awake! + The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. +And music singing in the hills + A paean of eternal spring + Voices the new awakening. + +The Dawn's awake! + Whispers of pent-up harmonies, +With the mingled fragrance of the trees; + Faint snatches of half-forgotten song-- + Fathers! torn and numb,-- + The boon of light we craved, awaited long, + Has come, has come! + + +THE WASHER-WOMAN + +A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, +The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, +And all day long the rub and scrub +With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. +Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years +And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? +In silence she rubbed... But her face I had seen, +Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean. + + + + + Theodore Henry Shackelford + + +THE BIG BELL IN ZION + +Come, children, hear the joyful sound, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Go spread the glad news all around, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +I've been abused and tossed about, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But glory to the Lamb, I shout! + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +My bruthah jus' sent word to me, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +That he'd done set his own self free. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ole massa said he could not go, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But he's done reached Ohio sho'. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Den I'll run away myself nex' week. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ + +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong Ding. + + + + + Lucian B. Watkins + + +STAR OF ETHIOPIA + +Out in the Night thou art the sun +Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, + The faith-high height whereon they see + The glory of their Day To Be-- +The peace at last when all is done. + +The night is dark but, one by one, +Thy signals, ever and anon, + Smile beacon answers to their plea, + Out in the Night. + +Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; +Give them a hope to rest upon, + A dream to dream eternally, + The strength of men who would be free +And win the battle race begun, + Out in the Night! + + +TWO POINTS OF VIEW + +From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet +And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, +There on yon mountain-throne--that sun-gold crest! + +From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: +How bright and still and warm and soft and green +Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest! + + +TO OUR FRIENDS + +We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams + Untouched by bondage and its rod, +Burn on! and on! and on! It seems + We shall have FRIENDS--while God is God! + + + + + Benjamin Brawley + + +MY HERO + +(_To Robert Gould Shaw_) + +Flushed with the hope of high desire, + He buckled on his sword, +To dare the rampart ranged with fire, + Or where the thunder roared; +Into the smoke and flame he went, + For God's great cause to die-- +A youth of heaven's element, + The flower of chivalry. + +This was the gallant faith, I trow, + Of which the sages tell; +On such devotion long ago + The benediction fell; +And never nobler martyr burned, + Or braver hero died, +Than he who worldly honor spurned + To serve the Crucified. + +And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere + May pass beyond the pale, +And wander over moor and mere + To find the Holy Grail; + +But ever yet the prize forsooth + My hero holds in fee; +And he is Blameless Knight in truth, + And Galahad to me. + + +CHAUCER + +Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, +Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; +Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold +Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; +Across the night of ages strike the gleams, +And leading on the gilded host appears +An old man writing in a book of dreams, +And telling tales of lovers for the years; +Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay; +In Nature's garden what a mad rout sings! +Let's hear these motley pilgrims wile away +The tedious hours with stories of old things; +Or might some shining eagle claim +These lowly numbers for the House of Fame! + + + + + Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. + + +TO A SKULL + +Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, +Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, +Why your smirk and empty smile +As the hours away you wile? +Has the earth become such bore +That it pleases nevermore? +Whence your joy through sun and rain? +Is 't because of loss of pain? +Have you learned what men learn not +That earth's substance turns to rot? +After learning now you scan +Vain endeavors man by man? +Do you mind that you as they +Once was held by mystic sway; +Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, +Lolled and with the minutes played? +Sighed for honors; battles planned; +Sipped of cups that wisdom banned +But would please the weak frail flesh; +Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? +Now that you are but a skull +Glimpse you life as life is, full +Of beauties that we miss +Till time withers with his kiss? +Do you laugh in cynic vein +Since you cannot try again? +And you know that we, like you, +Will too late our failings rue? +Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull +What deep broodings, o'er you mull? +Tell me why you smirk and smile +Ere I pass life's sunset stile. + + + + +APPENDIX + + +PLĆCIDO'S SONNET TO HIS MOTHER + + +DESPIDA A MI MADRE + +_(En La Capilla)_ + + Si la suerte fatal que me ha cabido, +Y el triste fin de mi sangrienta historia, +Al salir de esta vida transitoria +Deja tu corazon de muerte herido; + Baste de Ilanto: el Ć”nimo afligido +Recobre su quietud; moro en la gloria, +Y mi plĆ”cida lira Ć” tu memoria +Lanza en la tumba su postrer sonido. + + Sonido dulce, melodioso y santo, +Glorioso, espiritual, puro y divino, +Inocente, espontĆ”neo como el llanto + Que vertiera al nacer: ya el cuello inclino! +Ya de la religion me cubre el manto! +Adios, mi madre! adios--El Peligrino. + + +FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER + +_(In the Chapel)_ + + The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, +The mournful ending of my years of strife, +This changing world I leave, and to another +In blood and terror goes my spirit's life. + But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping +And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; +I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping +Across my lyre to wake its dying strains. + A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing +All glorious and holy, pure, divine, +And innocent, unconscious as the wailing + I uttered on my birth; and I resign +Even now, my life, even now descending slowly, +Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. +Mother, farewell! God keep thee--and forever! + +_Translated by William Cullen Bryant._ + + +PLĆCIDO'S FAREWELL TO HIS MOTHER + +(_Written in the Chapel of the Hospital de Santa Cristina on the Night +Before His Execution_) + + If the unfortunate fate engulfing me, +The ending of my history of grief, +The closing of my span of years so brief, +Mother, should wake a single pang in thee, +Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote; +I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled, +My lyre before it is forever stilled +Breathes out to thee its last and dying note. + +A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh, +Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere-- +Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry +I gave at birth--And now the hour is here-- +O God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins! +Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins. + +_Translated by James Weldon Johnson_. + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS + + +BOHANAN, OTTO LELAND. Born in Washington, D.C. Educated in the public +schools in Washington. He is a graduate of Howard University, School of +Liberal Arts, Washington, D.C., and did special work in English at the +Catholic University in that city. At present he is engaged in the musical +profession in New York. + +BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Born in Boston, 1878. Mainly self-educated. +A critic of poetry and the friend of poets. Author of _Lyrics-of Life, +The House of Falling Leaves, The Poetic Year, The Story of the Great +War,_ etc. Editor and compiler of _The Book of Elizabethan Verse, The +Book of Georgian Verse, The Book of Restoration Verse_ and a series of +yearly anthologies of magazine verse. One of the literary editors of the +Boston _Transcript_. + +BRAWLEY, BENJAMIN. Born at Columbia, S.C., 1882. Educated at the Atlanta +Baptist College, the University of Chicago and Harvard University. For two +years he was professor of English at Howard University, Washington, D.C. +Later he became dean of Morehouse College, Atlanta, Ga. Author of _A +Short History of the American Negro, The Negro in Literature and Art, A +Short History of the English Drama, A Social History of the American +Negro_, etc. Now living in Boston and engaged in research and writing. + +CAMPBELL, JAMES EDWIN. Was born at Pomeroy, Ohio, in the early sixties. +His early life was somewhat shrouded in mystery; he never referred to it +even to his closest associates. He was educated in the public schools of +his native city. Later he spent a while at Miami College. In the late +eighties and early nineties he was engaged in newspaper work in Chicago. +He wrote regularly on the various dailies of that city. He was also one of +a group that issued the _Four O'Clock Magazine_, a literary +publication which flourished for several years. He died, perhaps, twenty +years ago. He was the author of _Echoes from The Cabin and +Elsewhere_, a volume of poems. + +CARMICHAEL, WAVERLEY TURNER. A young man who had never been out of his +native state of Alabama until several years ago when he entered one of the +summer courses at Harvard University. His education to that time had been +very limited and he had endured poverty and hard work. His verses came to +the attention of one of the Harvard professors. He has since published a +volume, _From the Heart of a Folk_. He served with the 367th +Regiment, "The Buffaloes," during the World War and saw active service in +France. At present he is employed as a postal clerk in Boston, Mass. + +CORROTHERS, JAMES D., 1869-1919. Born in Cass County, Michigan. Student in +Northwestern University, minister and poet. Many of his poems appeared in +_The Century Magazine_. + +COTTER, JOSEPH S., JR., 1895-1919. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, in the +room in which Paul Laurence Dunbar first read his dialect poems in the +South. He was precocious as a child, having read a number of books before +he was six years old. All through his boyhood he had the advantage and +inspiration of the full library of poetic books belonging to his father, +himself a poet of considerable talent. Young Cotter attended Fisk +University but left in his second year because he had developed +tuberculosis. A volume of verse, _The Band of Gideon_, and a number +of unpublished poems were written during the six years in which he was an +invalid. + +DANDRIDGE, RAY G. Born at Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882. Educated in the grammar +and high school of his native city. In 1912, as the result of illness, he +lost the use of both legs and his right arm. He does most of his writing +lying flat in bed and using his left hand. He is the author of _The Poet +and Other Poems_. + +DAVIS, DANIEL WEBSTER. Born in Virginia, near Richmond. For a number of +years he was a minister and principal of the largest public school in +Richmond. He died in that city some years ago. He was the author of +_'Weh Down Souf_, a volume of verse. He was very popular as an orator +and a reader of his own poems. + +DETT, R. NATHANIEL. Born at Drummondville, Canada, 1882. Graduate of the +Oberlin Conservatory of Music. He is a composer, most of his compositions +being based on themes from the old "slave songs." His "Listen to de Lambs" +is widely used by choral societies. He is director of music at Hampton +Institute. He is also the author of _The Album of a Heart_, a volume +of verse. + +DU BOIS, W. E. BURGHARDT. Born at Great Barrington, Mass., 1868. Educated +at Fisk University, Harvard University and the University of Berlin. For a +number of years professor of economics and history at Atlanta University. +Author of the _Suppression of the Slave Trade, The Philadelphia Negro, +The Souls of Black Folk, John Brown, Darkwater_, etc. He is the editor +of _The Crisis_. + +DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE. Born at Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died 1906. Dunbar was +educated in the public schools. He wrote his early poems while working as +an elevator boy. His first volume of poems, _Oak and Ivy_, was +published in 1893 and sold largely through his own efforts. This was +followed by _Majors and Minors, Lyrics of Lowly Life, Lyrics of the +Hearthside, Lyrics of Love and Laughter, Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_ +and _Howdy, Honey, Howdy_. _Lyrics of Lowly Life_, published in +New York in 1896 with an introduction written by William Dean Howells, +gained national recognition for Dunbar. In addition to poetical works, +Dunbar was the author of four novels, _The Uncalled, The Love of Landry, +The Sport of the Gods_, and _The Fanatics_. He also published +several volumes of short stories. Partly because of his magnificent voice +and refined manners, he was a very successful reader of his own poems and +was able to add greatly to their popularity. + +FAUSET, JESSIE REDMON. Born at Snow Hill, New Jersey. She was educated in +the public schools of Philadelphia, at Cornell University and the +University of Pennsylvania. For a while she was teacher of French in the +Dunbar High School, Washington, D.C. Author of a number of uncollected +poems and several short stories. She is literary editor of _The +Crisis_. + +HILL, LESLIE PINCKNEY. Born at Lynchburg, Va., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools at Lynchburg and at Harvard University. On graduation +he became a teacher of English and methods at Tuskegee. Author of the +_Wings of Oppression_, a volume of verse. He is principal of the +Cheyney Training School for Teachers at Cheyney, Pa. + +HOLLOWAY, JOHN WESLEY. Born in Merriweather County, Ga, 1865. His father, +who learned to read and write in slavery, became one of the first colored +teachers in Georgia after the Civil War. Mr. Holloway was educated at +Clark University, Atlanta, Ga., and at Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn. +He was for a while a member of the Fisk Jubilee Singers. Has been a +teacher and is now a preacher. He is the author of _From the Desert_, +a volume of verse. + +JAMISON, ROSCOE C. Born at Winchester, Tenn., 1888; died 1918. He was a +graduate of Fisk University. + +JOHNSON, CHARLES BERTRAM. Born at Callao, Mo., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools of his home town and at Western College, Lincoln +Institute and at Chicago University. He was a teacher for a number of +years and is now a pastor of a church at Moberly, Mo. He is the author of +_Songs of My People_. + +JOHNSON, FENTON. Born at Chicago, 1888. He was educated in the public +schools and at the University of Chicago and Northwestern University. The +author of _A Little Dreaming, Songs of the Soil_ and _Visions of +the Dusk_. He has devoted much time to journalism and the editing of a +magazine. + +JOHNSON, GEORGIA DOUGLAS. Born in Atlanta, Ga., 1886. She was educated in +the public schools of that city and at Atlanta University. She is the +author of a volume of verse, _The Heart of a Woman_ and other poems. + +JOHNSON, JAMES WELDON. Born at Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. He was educated +in the public schools of Jacksonville, at Atlanta University and at +Columbia University. He taught school in his native town for several +years. Later he came to New York with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, +and began writing for the musical comedy stage. He served seven years as +U. S. Consul in Venezuela and Nicaragua. Author of _The Autobiography of +an Ex-colored Man, Fifty Years and Other Poems_, and the English +libretto to _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera, produced at the +Metropolitan Opera House in 1915. + +JONES, EDWARD SMYTH. Attracted national attention about ten years ago by +walking some hunderds of miles from his home in the South to Harvard +University. Arriving there, he was arrested on a charge of vagrancy. While +in jail, he wrote a poem, "Harvard Square." The poem created a sentiment +that led to his quick release. He is the author of _The Sylvan +Cabin_. + +JONES, JOSHUA HENRY, JR. He is engaged in newspaper work in Boston and is +the author of a volume of poems, _The Heart of the World_. + +MARGETSON, GEORGE REGINALD. Was born at St. Kitts, British West Indies, in +1877. He was educated at the Moravian school in his district. He came to +the United States in 1897. Mr. Margetson has found it necessary to work +hard to support a large family and his poems have been written in his +spare moments. He is the author of two volumes of verses, _Songs of +Life_ and _The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society_ and, in +addition, a large number of uncollected poems. Mr. Margetson lives in +Boston. + +McCLELLAN, GEORGE MARION. Born at Belfast, Tenn., 1860. Graduate of Fisk +University and Hartford Theological Seminary, teacher, principal and +author. He is the author of _The Path of Dreams_. + +McKAY, CLAUDE. Born in Jamaica, West Indies, 1889. Such education as he +gained in boyhood he received from his brother. He served for a while as a +member of the Kingston Constabulary. In 1912 he came to the United States. +For two years he was a student of agriculture at the Kansas State College. +Since leaving school Mr. McKay has turned his hand to any kind of work to +earn a living. He has worked in hotels and on the Pullman cars. He is +to-day associate editor of _The Liberator_. He is the author of two +volumes of poems, _Songs of Jamaica_ and _Spring in New +Hampshire_, the former published in Jamaica and the latter in London. + +MOORE; WILLIAM H. A. Was born in New York City and received his education +in the public schools and at the City College. He also did some special +work at Columbia University. He has had a long career as a newspaper man, +working on both white and colored publications. He now lives in Chicago. +He is the author of _Dusk Songs_, a volume of poems. + +NELSON, ALICE MOORE (DUNBAR). Born at New Orleans, La., 1875. She was +educated in the schools of New Orleans and has taken special courses at +Cornell University, Columbia University, and the University of +Pennsylvania. Author of _Violets and Other Tales, The Goodness of St. +Rocque, Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence_, and _The Dunbar +Speaker_. She was married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. She has been +a teacher and is well known on the lecture platform and as an editor. + +ROGERS, ALEX. Born at Nashville, Tenn., 1876. Educated in the public +schools of that city. For many years a writer of words for popular songs. +He wrote many of the songs for the musical comedies in which Williams and +Walker appeared. He is the author of _The Jonah Man, Nobody_ and +other songs made popular by Mr. Bert Williams. + +SHACKELFORD, THEODORE HENRY. Author of _Mammy's Cracklin' Bread and +Other Poems_, and _My Country and Other Poems_. + +SPENCER, ANNE. Born in Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated at the Virginia +Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. She lives at Lynchburg and takes great pride and +pleasure in her garden. + +WATKINS, LUCIAN B., was born in Virginia. He served overseas in the great +war and lost his health. He died in 1921. He was the author of a large +number of uncollected poems. + + + + +INDEX OF TITLES + +After the Winter +And What Shall You Say? +At the Carnival +At the Closed Gate of Justice + +Band of Gideon, The +Banjo Player, The +Barrier, The +Before the Feast of Shushan +Big Bell in Zion, The +Black Mammies +Brothers +Butterfly in Church, A + +Calling the Doctor +Chaucer +Children of the Sun +Christmas at Melrose +Christmas Eve in France +Compensation +Corn Song, The +Creation, The +Cunjah Man, De + +Dawn's Awake! The +Dead Fires +Death Song, A +Debt, The +Del Cascar +Dogwood Blossoms +Dream and the Song +Drum Majah, De +Dunbar +Dusk Song + +Feet of Judas, The +Fifty Years +Flame-Heart + +Harlem Dancer, The +Harlem Shadows +Haunted Oak, The +Heart of a Woman, The +Hills of Sewanee, The +Hog Meat + +If We Must Die +Indignation Dinner, An +In the Matter of Two Men +Ironic: LL.D. +Is It Because I Am Black? +'Ittle Touzle Head +It Was Not Fate +I Want to Die While You Love Me + +Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + +La Vie C'est la Vie +Litany of Atlanta, A +Little Brown Baby +Little Cabin, A +Lost Illusions +Lover's Lane +Lynching, The + +Miss Melerlee +Mother Night +My Hero +My Little Dreams + +Negro Love Song, A +Negro Poets +Negro Serenade +Negro Singer, The +Negro Soldiers, The +New Day, The + +O Black and Unknown Bards +Oblivion +Ol' Doc' Hyar +Oriflamme +O Southland + +Paul Laurence Dunbar +Prayer, A + +Rain Music +Rain Song, The +Rhapsody +Road to the Bow, The +Rubinstein Staccato Etude, The + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee +Scarlet Woman, The +Scintilla +Sence You Went Away +Ships That Pass in the Night +Sic Vita +Song of Thanks, A +Sonnet +Sprin' Fevah +Spring in New Hampshire +Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society +Star of Ethiopia +Summer Magic +Supplication + +Teacher, The +Time to Die +Tired +Tired Worker, The +To a Skull +To O. E. A +To Our Friends +To the White Fiends +Translation +Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves +Tuskegee +Two-an'-Six +Two Points of View + +Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + +Washer-Woman, The +'Weh Down Souf +Welt +When de Co'n Pone's Hot +When Ol' Sis Judy Pray +White Witch, The +Why Adam Sinned +Wife-Woman, The +Winter Is Coming + +Youth + +Zalka Peetruza + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of American Negro Poetry +by Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11986 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9f13ef --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #11986 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11986) diff --git a/old/11986-8.txt b/old/11986-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2094939 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11986-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6488 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of American Negro Poetry +by Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of American Negro Poetry + +Author: Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +Release Date: April 10, 2004 [EBook #11986] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Charles M. Bidwell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + +Chosen and Edited +With An Essay On The Negro's Creative Genius + +by +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + +Author of "Fifty Years and Other Poems" + + + + +1922 +Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., New York + +Printed in the U.S.A. by the Quinn & Boden Company, Rahway, N.J. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PREFACE + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + A Negro Love Song + Little Brown Baby + Ships That Pass in the Night + Lover's Lane + The Debt + The Haunted Oak + When de Co'n Pone's Hot + A Death Song + +JAMES EDWIN CAMPBELL + Negro Serenade + De Cunjah Man + Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + Ol' Doc' Hyar + When Ol' Sis' Judy Pray + Compensation + +JAMES D. CORROTHERS + At the Closed Gate of Justice + Paul Laurence Dunbar + The Negro Singer + The Road to the Bow + In the Matter of Two Men + An Indignation Dinner + Dream and the Song + +DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS + 'Weh Down Souf + Hog Meat + +WILLIAM H. A. MOORE + Dusk Song + It Was Not Fate + +W. E. BURGHARDT DU BOIS + A Litany of Atlanta + +GEORGE MARION McCLELLAN + Dogwood Blossoms + A Butterfly in Church + The Hills of Sewanee + The Feet of Judas + +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + Sandy Star and Willie Gee + I. Sculptured Worship + II. Laughing It Out + III. The Exit + IV. The Way + V. Onus Probandi + Del Cascar + Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves + Ironic: LL.D + Scintilla + Sic Vita + Rhapsody + +GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON + Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society + +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + O Black and Unknown Bards + Sence You Went Away + The Creation + The White Witch + Mother Night + O Southland + Brothers + Fifty Years + +JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY + Miss Melerlee + Calling the Doctor + The Corn Song + Black Mammies + +LESLIE PINCKNEY HILL + Tuskegee + Christmas at Melrose + Summer Magic + The Teacher + +EDWARD SMYTH JONES + A Song of Thanks + +RAY G. DANDRIDGE + Time to Die + 'Ittle Touzle Head + Zalka Peetruza + Sprin' Fevah + De Drum Majah + +FENTON JOHNSON + Children of the Sun + The New Day + Tired + The Banjo Player + The Scarlet Woman + +R. NATHANIEL DETT + The Rubinstein Staccato Etude + +GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + The Heart of a Woman + Youth + Lost Illusions + I Want to Die While You Love Me + Welt + My Little Dreams + +CLAUDE McKAY + The Lynching + If We Must Die + To the White Fiends + The Harlem Dancer + Harlem Shadows + After the Winter + Spring in New Hampshire + The Tired Worker + The Barrier + To O. E. A + Flame-Heart + Two-an'-Six + +JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + A Prayer + And What Shall You Say + Is It Because I Am Black? + The Band of Gideon + Rain Music + Supplication + +ROSCOE C. JAMISON + The Negro Soldiers + +JESSIE FAUSET + La Vie C'est la Vie + Christmas Eve in France + Dead Fires + Oriflamme + Oblivion + +ANNE SPENCER + Before the Feast of Shushan + At the Carnival + The Wife-Woman + Translation + Dunbar + +ALEX ROGERS + Why Adam Sinned + The Rain Song + +WAVERLEY TURNER CARMICHAEL + Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + Winter Is Coming + +ALICE DUNBAR-NELSON + Sonnet + +CHARLES BERTRAM JOHNSON + A Little Cabin + Negro Poets + +OTTO LEYLAND BOHANAN + The Dawn's Awake! + The Washer-Woman + +THEODORE HENRY SHACKLEFORD + The Big Bell in Zion + +LUCIAN B. WATKINS + Star of Ethiopia + Two Points of View + To Our Friends + +BENJAMIN BRAWLEY + My Hero + Chaucer + +JOSHUA HENRY JONES, JR. + To a Skull + + + + +PREFACE + +There is, perhaps, a better excuse for giving an Anthology of American +Negro Poetry to the public than can be offered for many of the anthologies +that have recently been issued. The public, generally speaking, does not +know that there are American Negro poets--to supply this lack of +information is, alone, a work worthy of somebody's effort. + +Moreover, the matter of Negro poets and the production of literature by +the colored people in this country involves more than supplying +information that is lacking. It is a matter which has a direct bearing on +the most vital of American problems. + +A people may become great through many means, but there is only one +measure by which its greatness is recognized and acknowledged. The final +measure of the greatness of all peoples is the amount and standard of the +literature and art they have produced. The world does not know that a +people is great until that people produces great literature and art. No +people that has produced great literature and art has ever been looked +upon by the world as distinctly inferior. + +The status of the Negro in the United States' is more a question of +national mental attitude toward the race than of actual conditions. And +nothing will do more to change that mental attitude and raise his status +than a demonstration of intellectual parity by the Negro through the +production of literature and art. + +Is there likelihood that the American Negro will be able to do this? There +is, for the good reason that he possesses the innate powers. He has the +emotional endowment, the originality and artistic conception, and, what is +more important, the power of creating that which has universal appeal and +influence. + +I make here what may appear to be a more startling statement by saying +that the Negro has already proved the possession of these powers by being +the creator of the only things artistic that have yet sprung from American +soil and been universally acknowledged as distinctive American products. + +These creations by the American Negro may be summed up under four heads. +The first two are the Uncle Remus stories, which were collected by Joel +Chandler Harris, and the "spirituals" or slave songs, to which the Fisk +Jubilee Singers made the public and the musicians of both the United +States and Europe listen. The Uncle Remus stories constitute the greatest +body of folklore that America has produced, and the "spirituals" the +greatest body of folk-song. I shall speak of the "spirituals" later +because they are more than folk-songs, for in them the Negro sounded the +depths, if he did not scale the heights, of music. + +The other two creations are the Cakewalk and ragtime. We do not need to go +very far back to remember when cakewalking was the rage in the United +States, Europe and South America. Society in this country and royalty +abroad spent time in practicing the intricate steps. Paris pronounced it +the "poetry of motion." The popularity of the cakewalk passed away but its +influence remained. The influence can be seen to-day on any American stage +where there is dancing. + +The influence which the Negro has exercised on the art of dancing in this +country has been almost absolute. For generations the "buck and wing" and +the "stop-time" dances, which are strictly Negro, have been familiar to +American theatre audiences. A few years ago the public discovered the +"turkey trot," the "eagle rock," "ballin' the jack," and several other +varieties that started the modern dance craze. These dances were quickly +followed by the "tango," a dance originated by the Negroes of Cuba and +later transplanted to South America. (This fact is attested by no less +authority than Vincente Blasco Ibańez in his "Four Horsemen of the +Apocalypse.") Half the floor space in the country was then turned over to +dancing, and highly paid exponents sprang up everywhere. The most noted, +Mr. Vernon Castle, and, by the way, an Englishman, never danced except to +the music of a colored band, and he never failed to state to his audiences +that most of his dances had long been done by "your colored people," as he +put it. + +Any one who witnesses a musical production in which there is dancing +cannot fail to notice the Negro stamp on all the movements; a stamp which +even the great vogue of Russian dances that swept the country about the +time of the popular dance craze could not affect. That peculiar swaying of +the shoulders which you see done everywhere by the blond girls of the +chorus is nothing more than a movement from the Negro dance referred to +above, the "eagle rock." Occasionally the movement takes on a suggestion +of the, now outlawed, "shimmy." + +As for Ragtime, I go straight to the statement that it is the one +artistic production by which America is known the world over. It has been +all-conquering. Everywhere it is hailed as "American music." + +For a dozen years or so there has been a steady tendency to divorce +Ragtime from the Negro; in fact, to take from him the credit of having +originated it. Probably the younger people of the present generation do +not know that Ragtime is of Negro origin. The change wrought in Ragtime +and the way in which it is accepted by the country have been brought about +chiefly through the change which has gradually been made in the words and +stories accompanying the music. Once the text of all Ragtime songs was +written in Negro dialect, and was about Negroes in the cabin or in the +cotton field or on the levee or at a jubilee or on Sixth Avenue or at a +ball, and about their love affairs. To-day, only a small proportion of +Ragtime songs relate at all to the Negro. The truth is, Ragtime is now +national rather than racial. But that does not abolish in any way the +claim of the American Negro as its originator. + +Ragtime music was originated by colored piano players in the questionable +resorts of St. Louis, Memphis, and other Mississippi River towns. These +men did not know any more about the theory of music than they did about +the theory of the universe. They were guided by their natural musical +instinct and talent, but above all by the Negro's extraordinary sense of +rhythm. Any one who is familiar with Ragtime may note that its chief charm +is not in melody, but in rhythms. These players often improvised crude +and, at times, vulgar words to fit the music. This was the beginning of +the Ragtime song. + +Ragtime music got its first popular hearing at Chicago during the world's +fair in that city. From Chicago it made its way to New York, and then +started on its universal triumph. + +The earliest Ragtime songs, like Topsy, "jes' grew." Some of these +earliest songs were taken down by white men, the words slightly altered or +changed, and published under the names of the arrangers. They sprang into +immediate popularity and earned small fortunes. The first to become widely +known was "The Bully," a levee song which had been long used by +roustabouts along the Mississippi. It was introduced in New York by Miss +May Irwin, and gained instant popularity. Another one of these "jes' grew" +songs was one which for a while disputed for place with Yankee Doodle; +perhaps, disputes it even to-day. That song was "A Hot Time in the Old +Town To-night"; introduced and made popular by the colored regimental +bands during the Spanish-American War. + +Later there came along a number of colored men who were able to transcribe +the old songs and write original ones. I was, about that time, writing +words to music for the music show stage in New York. I was collaborating +with my brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, and the late Bob Cole. I remember +that we appropriated about the last one of the old "jes' grew" songs. It +was a song which had been sung for years all through the South. The words +were unprintable, but the tune was irresistible, and belonged to nobody. +We took it, re-wrote the verses, telling an entirely different story from +the original, left the chorus as it was, and published the song, at first +under the name of "Will Handy." It became very popular with college boys, +especially at football games, and perhaps still is. The song was, "Oh, +Didn't He Ramble!" + +In the beginning, and for quite a while, almost all of the Ragtime songs +that were deliberately composed were the work of colored writers. Now, the +colored composers, even in this particular field, are greatly outnumbered +by the white. + +The reader might be curious to know if the "jes' grew" songs have ceased +to grow. No, they have not; they are growing all the time. The country has +lately been flooded with several varieties of "The Blues." These "Blues," +too, had their origin in Memphis, and the towns along the Mississippi. +They are a sort of lament of a lover who is feeling "blue" over the loss +of his sweetheart. The "Blues" of Memphis have been adulterated so much on +Broadway that they have lost their pristine hue. But whenever you hear a +piece of music which has a strain like this in it: + +[Illustration: Music] + +you will know you are listening to something which belonged originally to +Beale Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. The original "Memphis Blues," so far as +it can be credited to a composer, must be credited to Mr. W. C. Handy, a +colored musician of Memphis. + +As illustrations of the genuine Ragtime song in the making, I quote the +words of two that were popular with the Southern colored soldiers in +France. Here is the first: + + "Mah mammy's lyin' in her grave, + Mah daddy done run away, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray. + Yes, I've done gone astray, po' boy, + An' I've done gone astray, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray, po' boy." + +These lines are crude, but they contain something of real poetry, of that +elusive thing which nobody can define and that you can only tell that it +is there when you feel it. You cannot read these lines without becoming +reflective and feeling sorry for "Po' Boy." + +Now, take in this word picture of utter dejection: + + "I'm jes' as misabul as I can be, + I'm unhappy even if I am free, + I'm feelin' down, I'm feelin' blue; + I wander 'round, don't know what to do. + I'm go'n lay mah haid on de railroad line, + Let de B. & O. come and pacify mah min'." + +These lines are, no doubt, one of the many versions of the famous "Blues." +They are also crude, but they go straight to the mark. The last two lines +move with the swiftness of all great tragedy. + +In spite of the bans which musicians and music teachers have placed on it, +the people still demand and enjoy Ragtime. In fact, there is not a corner +of the civilized world in which it is not known and liked. And this proves +its originality, for if it were an imitation, the people of Europe, at +least, would not have found it a novelty. And it is proof of a more +important thing, it is proof that Ragtime possesses the vital spark, the +power to appeal universally, without which any artistic production, no +matter how approved its form may be, is dead. + +Of course, there are those who will deny that Ragtime is an artistic +production. American musicians, especially, instead of investigating +Ragtime, dismiss it with a contemptuous word. But this has been the course +of scholasticism in every branch of art. Whatever new thing the people +like is pooh-poohed; whatever is popular is regarded as not worth while. +The fact is, nothing great or enduring in music has ever sprung +full-fledged from the brain of any master; the best he gives the world he +gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through the alembic of +his genius. + +Ragtime deserves serious attention. There is a lot of colorless and +vicious imitation, but there is enough that is genuine. In one composition +alone, "The Memphis Blues," the musician will find not only great melodic +beauty, but a polyphonic structure that is amazing. + +It is obvious that Ragtime has influenced, and in a large measure, +become our popular music; but not many would know that it has influenced +even our religious music. Those who are familiar with gospel hymns can at +once see this influence if they will compare the songs of thirty years +ago, such as "In the Sweet Bye and Bye," "The Ninety and Nine," etc., with +the up-to-date, syncopated tunes that are sung in Sunday Schools, +Christian Endeavor Societies, Y.M.C.A.'s and like gatherings to-day. + +Ragtime has not only influenced American music, it has influenced American +life; indeed, it has saturated American life. It has become the popular +medium for our national expression musically. And who can say that it does +not express the blare and jangle and the surge, too, of our national +spirit? + +Any one who doubts that there is a peculiar heel-tickling, +smile-provoking, joy-awakening, response-compelling charm in Ragtime needs +only to hear a skilful performer play the genuine article, needs only to +listen to its bizarre harmonies, its audacious resolutions often +consisting of an abrupt jump from one key to another, its intricate +rhythms in which the accents fall in the most unexpected places but in +which the fundamental beat is never lost in order to be convinced. I +believe it has its place as well as the music which draws from us sighs +and tears. + +Now, these dances which I have referred to and Ragtime music may be lower +forms of art, but they are evidence of a power that will some day be +applied to the higher forms. And even now we need not stop at the Negro's +accomplishment through these lower forms. In the "spirituals," or slave +songs, the Negro has given America not only its only folksongs, but a mass +of noble music. I never think of this music but that I am struck by the +wonder, the miracle of its production. How did the men who originated +these songs manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they +are, for the most part, taken from the Bible. But the melodies, where did +they come from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully +strong. Take, for instance, "Go Down, Moses"; I doubt that there is a +stronger theme in the whole musical literature of the world. + +[Illustration: Music (Oppressed so hard they could not stand, Let my +people go. Go down, Mo-ses, way down in E-gypt land, Tell ole Pha-raoh, +Let my people go.)] + +It is to be noted that whereas the chief characteristic of Ragtime is +rhythm, the chief characteristic of the "spirituals" is melody. The +melodies of "Steal Away to Jesus," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Nobody +Knows de Trouble I See," "I Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray," "Deep River," "O, +Freedom Over Me," and many others of these songs possess a beauty that +is--what shall I say? poignant. In the riotous rhythms of Ragtime the +Negro expressed his irrepressible buoyancy, his keen response to the sheer +joy of living; in the "spirituals" he voiced his sense of beauty and his +deep religious feeling. + +Naturally, not as much can be said for the words of these songs as for the +music. Most of the songs are religious. Some of them are songs expressing +faith and endurance and a longing for freedom. In the religious songs, the +sentiments and often the entire lines are taken bodily from the Bible. +However, there is no doubt that some of these religious songs have a +meaning apart from the Biblical text. It is evident that the opening lines +of "Go Down, Moses," + + "Go down, Moses, + 'Way down in Egypt land; + Tell old Pharoah, + Let my people go." + +have a significance beyond the bondage of Israel in Egypt. + +The bulk of the lines to these songs, as is the case in all communal +music, is made up of choral iteration and incremental repetition of the +leader's lines. If the words are read, this constant iteration and +repetition are found to be tiresome; and it must be admitted that the +lines themselves are often very trite. And, yet, there is frequently +revealed a flash of real, primitive poetry. I give the following examples: + + "Sometimes I feel like an eagle in de air." + + "You may bury me in de East, + You may bury me in de West, + But I'll hear de trumpet sound + In-a dat mornin'." + + "I know de moonlight, I know de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I know de graveyard, I know de graveyard, + When I lay dis body down. + I walk in de graveyard, I walk troo de graveyard + To lay dis body down. + + I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms; + I lay dis body down. + I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day + When I lay dis body down. + An' my soul an' yo' soul will meet in de day + When I lay dis body down." + +Regarding the line, "I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms," Col. +Thomas Wentworth Higginson of Boston, one of the first to give these slave +songs serious study, said: "Never it seems to me, since man first lived +and suffered, was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively +than in that line." + +These Negro folksongs constitute a vast mine of material that has been +neglected almost absolutely. The only white writers who have in recent +years given adequate attention and study to this music, that I know of, +are Mr. H.E. Krehbiel and Mrs. Natalie Curtis Burlin. We have our native +composers denying the worth and importance of this music, and trying to +manufacture grand opera out of so-called Indian themes. + +But there is a great hope for the development of this music, and that hope +is the Negro himself. A worthy beginning has already been made by +Burleigh, Cook, Johnson, and Dett. And there will yet come great Negro +composers who will take this music and voice through it not only the soul +of their race, but the soul of America. + +And does it not seem odd that this greatest gift of the Negro has been the +most neglected of all he possesses? Money and effort have been expended +upon his development in every direction except this. This gift has been +regarded as a kind of side show, something for occasional exhibition; +wherein it is the touchstone, it is the magic thing, it is that by which +the Negro can bridge all chasms. No persons, however hostile, can listen +to Negroes singing this wonderful music without having their hostility +melted down. + +This power of the Negro to suck up the national spirit from the soil and +create something artistic and original, which, at the same time, possesses +the note of universal appeal, is due to a remarkable racial gift of +adaptability; it is more than adaptability, it is a transfusive quality. +And the Negro has exercised this transfusive quality not only here in +America, where the race lives in large numbers, but in European countries, +where the number has been almost infinitesimal. + +Is it not curious to know that the greatest poet of Russia is Alexander +Pushkin, a man of African descent; that the greatest romancer of France +is Alexander Dumas, a man of African descent; and that one of the greatest +musicians of England is Coleridge-Taylor, a man of African descent? + +The fact is fairly well known that the father of Dumas was a Negro of +the French West Indies, and that the father of Coleridge-Taylor was a +native-born African; but the facts concerning Pushkin's African ancestry +are not so familiar. + +When Peter the Great was Czar of Russia, some potentate presented him with +a full-blooded Negro of gigantic size. Peter, the most eccentric ruler of +modern times, dressed this Negro up in soldier clothes, christened him +Hannibal, and made him a special body-guard. + +But Hannibal had more than size, he had brain and ability. He not only +looked picturesque and imposing in soldier clothes, he showed that he had +in him the making of a real soldier. Peter recognized this, and eventually +made him a general. He afterwards ennobled him, and Hannibal, later, +married one of the ladies of the Russian court. This same Hannibal was +great-grandfather of Pushkin, the national poet of Russia, the man who +bears the same relation to Russian literature that Shakespeare bears to +English literature. + +I know the question naturally arises: If out of the few Negroes who have +lived in France there came a Dumas; and out of the few Negroes who have +lived in England there came a Coleridge-Taylor; and if from the man who +was at the time, probably, the only Negro in Russia there sprang that +country's national poet, why have not the millions of Negroes in the +United States with all the emotional and artistic endowment claimed for +them produced a Dumas, or a Coleridge-Taylor, or a Pushkin? + +The question seems difficult, but there is an answer. The Negro in the +United States is consuming all of his intellectual energy in this +gruelling race-struggle. And the same statement may be made in a general +way about the white South. Why does not the white South produce literature +and art? The white South, too, is consuming all of its intellectual energy +in this lamentable conflict. Nearly all of the mental efforts of the white +South run through one narrow channel. The life of every Southern white man +and all of his activities are impassably limited by the ever present Negro +problem. And that is why, as Mr. H. L. Mencken puts it, in all that vast +region, with its thirty or forty million people and its territory as large +as a half a dozen Frances or Germanys, there is not a single poet, not a +serious historian, not a creditable composer, not a critic good or bad, +not a dramatist dead or alive. + +But, even so, the American Negro has accomplished something in pure +literature. The list of those who have done so would be surprising both by +its length and the excellence of the achievements. One of the great books +written in this country since the Civil War is the work of a colored man, +"The Souls of Black Folk," by W.E.B. Du Bois. + +Such a list begins with Phillis Wheatley. In 1761 a slave ship landed a +cargo of slaves in Boston. Among them was a little girl seven or eight +years of age. She attracted the attention of John Wheatley, a wealthy +gentleman of Boston, who purchased her as a servant for his wife. Mrs. +Wheatley was a benevolent woman. She noticed the girl's quick mind and +determined to give her opportunity for its development. Twelve years later +Phillis published a volume of poems. The book was brought out in London, +where Phillis was for several months an object of great curiosity and +attention. + +Phillis Wheatley has never been given her rightful place in American +literature. By some sort of conspiracy she is kept out of most of the +books, especially the text-books on literature used in the schools. Of +course, she is not a _great_ American poet--and in her day there were +no great American poets--but she is an important American poet. Her +importance, if for no other reason, rests on the fact that, save one, she +is the first in order of time of all the women poets of America. And she +is among the first of all American poets to issue a volume. + +It seems strange that the books generally give space to a mention of Urian +Oakes, President of Harvard College, and to quotations from the crude and +lengthy elegy which he published in 1667; and print examples from the +execrable versified version of the Psalms made by the New England divines, +and yet deny a place to Phillis Wheatley. + +Here are the opening lines from the elegy by Oakes, which is quoted from +in most of the books on American literature: + + "Reader, I am no poet, but I grieve. + Behold here what that passion can do, + That forced a verse without Apollo's leave, + And whether the learned sisters would or no." + +There was no need for Urian to admit what his handiwork declared. But this +from the versified Psalms is still worse, yet it is found in the books: + + "The Lord's song sing can we? being + in stranger's land, then let + lose her skill my right hand if I + Jerusalem forget." + +Anne Bradstreet preceded Phillis Wheatley by a little over twenty years. +She published her volume of poems, "The Tenth Muse," in 1750. Let us +strike a comparison between the two. Anne Bradstreet was a wealthy, +cultivated Puritan girl, the daughter of Thomas Dudley, Governor of Bay +Colony. Phillis, as we know, was a Negro slave girl born in Africa. Let us +take them both at their best and in the same vein. The following stanza is +from Anne's poem entitled "Contemplation": + + "While musing thus with contemplation fed, + And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, + The sweet tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, + And chanted forth a most melodious strain, + Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, + I judged my hearing better than my sight, + And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight." + +And the following is from Phillis' poem entitled "Imagination": + + "Imagination! who can sing thy force? + Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? + Soaring through air to find the bright abode, + The empyreal palace of the thundering God, + We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, + And leave the rolling universe behind, + From star to star the mental optics rove, + Measure the skies, and range the realms above, + There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, + Or with new worlds amaze the unbounded soul." + +We do not think the black woman suffers much by comparison with the white. +Thomas Jefferson said of Phillis: "Religion has produced a Phillis +Wheatley, but it could not produce a poet; her poems are beneath +contempt." It is quite likely that Jefferson's criticism was directed more +against religion than against Phillis' poetry. On the other hand, General +George Washington wrote her with his own hand a letter in which he thanked +her for a poem which she had dedicated to him. He, later, received her +with marked courtesy at his camp at Cambridge. + +It appears certain that Phillis was the first person to apply to George +Washington the phrase, "First in peace." The phrase occurs in her poem +addressed to "His Excellency, General George Washington," written in 1775. +The encomium, "First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his +countrymen" was originally used in the resolutions presented to Congress +on the death of Washington, December, 1799. + +Phillis Wheatley's poetry is the poetry of the Eighteenth Century. She +wrote when Pope and Gray were supreme; it is easy to see that Pope was her +model. Had she come under the influence of Wordsworth, Byron or Keats or +Shelley, she would have done greater work. As it is, her work must not be +judged by the work and standards of a later day, but by the work and +standards of her own day and her own contemporaries. By this method of +criticism she stands out as one of the important characters in the making +of American literature, without any allowances for her sex or her +antecedents. + +According to "A Bibliographical Checklist of American Negro Poetry," +compiled by Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, more than one hundred Negroes in the +United States have published volumes of poetry ranging in size from +pamphlets to books of from one hundred to three hundred pages. About +thirty of these writers fill in the gap between Phillis Wheatley and Paul +Laurence Dunbar. Just here it is of interest to note that a Negro wrote +and published a poem before Phillis Wheatley arrived in this country from +Africa. He was Jupiter Hammon, a slave belonging to a Mr. Lloyd of +Queens-Village, Long Island. In 1760 Hammon published a poem, eighty-eight +lines in length, entitled "An Evening Thought, Salvation by Christ, with +Penettential Cries." In 1788 he published "An Address to Miss Phillis +Wheatley, Ethiopian Poetess in Boston, who came from Africa at eight years +of age, and soon became acquainted with the Gospel of Jesus Christ." These +two poems do not include all that Hammon wrote. + +The poets between Phillis Wheatley and Dunbar must be considered more in +the light of what they attempted than of what they accomplished. Many of +them showed marked talent, but barely a half dozen of them demonstrated +even mediocre mastery of technique in the use of poetic material and +forms. And yet there are several names that deserve mention. George M. +Horton, Frances E. Harper, James M. Bell and Alberry A. Whitman, all merit +consideration when due allowances are made for their limitations in +education, training and general culture. The limitations of Horton were +greater than those of either of the others; he was born a slave in North +Carolina in 1797, and as a young man began to compose poetry without being +able to write it down. Later he received some instruction from professors +of the University of North Carolina, at which institution he was employed +as a janitor. He published a volume of poems, "The Hope of Liberty," in +1829. + +Mrs. Harper, Bell and Whitman would stand out if only for the reason that +each of them attempted sustained work. Mrs. Harper published her first +volume of poems in 1854, but later she published "Moses, a Story of the +Nile," a poem which ran to 52 closely printed pages. Bell in 1864 +published a poem of 28 pages in celebration of President Lincoln's +Emancipation Proclamation. In 1870 he published a poem of 32 pages in +celebration of the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment to the +Constitution. Whitman published his first volume of poems, a book of 253 +pages, in 1877; but in 1884 he published "The Rape of Florida," an epic +poem written in four cantos and done in the Spenserian stanza, and which +ran to 97 closely printed pages. The poetry of both Mrs. Harper and of +Whitman had a large degree of popularity; one of Mrs. Harper's books went +through more than twenty editions. + +Of these four poets, it is Whitman who reveals not only the greatest +imagination but also the more skilful workmanship. His lyric power at its +best may be judged from the following stanza from the "Rape of Florida": + + "'Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; + Upon the waters is my light canoe; + Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make + A music on the parting wave for you. + Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; + Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, + Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!' + This is the song that on the lake was sung, + The boatman sang it when his heart was young." + +Some idea of Whitman's capacity for dramatic narration may be gained from +the following lines taken from "Not a Man, and Yet a Man," a poem of even +greater length than "The Rape of Florida": + + "A flash of steely lightning from his hand, + Strikes down the groaning leader of the band; + Divides his startled comrades, and again + Descending, leaves fair Dora's captors slain. + Her, seizing then within a strong embrace, + Out in the dark he wheels his flying pace; + + He speaks not, but with stalwart tenderness + Her swelling bosom firm to his doth press; + Springs like a stag that flees the eager hound, + And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground. + Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er + His shoulders, streaming to his waist and more; + While on and on, strong as a rolling flood, + His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood." + +It is curious and interesting to trace the growth of individuality and +race consciousness in this group of poets. Jupiter Hammon's verses were +almost entirely religious exhortations. Only very seldom does Phillis +Wheatley sound a native note. Four times in single lines she refers to +herself as "Afric's muse." In a poem of admonition addressed to the +students at the "University of Cambridge in New England" she refers to +herself as follows: + + "Ye blooming plants of human race divine, + An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe." + +But one looks in vain for some outburst or even complaint against the +bondage of her people, for some agonizing cry about her native land. In +two poems she refers definitely to Africa as her home, but in each +instance there seems to be under the sentiment of the lines a feeling of +almost smug contentment at her own escape therefrom. In the poem, "On +Being Brought from Africa to America," she says: + + "'Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, + Taught my benighted soul to understand + That there's a God and there's a Saviour too; + Once I redemption neither sought or knew. + Some view our sable race with scornful eye, + 'Their color is a diabolic dye.' + Remember, Christians, Negroes black as Cain, + May be refined, and join th' angelic train." + +In the poem addressed to the Earl of Dartmouth, she speaks of freedom and +makes a reference to the parents from whom she was taken as a child, a +reference which cannot but strike the reader as rather unimpassioned: + + "Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, + Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, + Whence flow these wishes for the common good, + By feeling hearts alone best understood; + I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate + Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat; + What pangs excruciating must molest, + What sorrows labor in my parents' breast? + Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd + That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd; + Such, such my case. And can I then but pray + Others may never feel tyrannic sway?" + +The bulk of Phillis Wheatley's work consists of poems addressed to people +of prominence. Her book was dedicated to the Countess of Huntington, at +whose house she spent the greater part of her time while in England. On +his repeal of the Stamp Act, she wrote a poem to King George III, whom she +saw later; another poem she wrote to the Earl of Dartmouth, whom she knew. +A number of her verses were addressed to other persons of distinction. +Indeed, it is apparent that Phillis was far from being a democrat. She was +far from being a democrat not only in her social ideas but also in her +political ideas; unless a religious meaning is given to the closing lines +of her ode to General Washington, she was a decided royalist: + + "A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine + With gold unfading, Washington! be thine." + +Nevertheless, she was an ardent patriot. Her ode to General Washington +(1775), her spirited poem, "On Major General Lee" (1776) and her poem, +"Liberty and Peace," written in celebration of the close of the war, +reveal not only strong patriotic feeling but an understanding of the +issues at stake. In her poem, "On Major General Lee," she makes her hero +reply thus to the taunts of the British commander into whose hands he has +been delivered through treachery: + + "O arrogance of tongue! + And wild ambition, ever prone to wrong! + Believ'st thou, chief, that armies such as thine + Can stretch in dust that heaven-defended line? + In vain allies may swarm from distant lands, + And demons aid in formidable bands, + Great as thou art, thou shun'st the field of fame, + Disgrace to Britain and the British name! + When offer'd combat by the noble foe, + (Foe to misrule) why did the sword forego + The easy conquest of the rebel-land? + Perhaps TOO easy for thy martial hand. + + What various causes to the field invite! + For plunder YOU, and we for freedom fight, + Her cause divine with generous ardor fires, + And every bosom glows as she inspires! + Already thousands of your troops have fled + To the drear mansions of the silent dead: + Columbia, too, beholds with streaming eyes + Her heroes fall--'tis freedom's sacrifice! + So wills the power who with convulsive storms + Shakes impious realms, and nature's face deforms; + Yet those brave troops, innum'rous as the sands, + One soul inspires, one General Chief commands; + Find in your train of boasted heroes, one + To match the praise of Godlike Washington. + Thrice happy Chief in whom the virtues join, + And heaven taught prudence speaks the man divine." + +What Phillis Wheatley failed to achieve is due in no small degree to her +education and environment. Her mind was steeped in the classics; her +verses are filled with classical and mythological allusions. She knew Ovid +thoroughly and was familiar with other Latin authors. She must have known +Alexander Pope by heart. And, too, she was reared and sheltered in a +wealthy and cultured family,--a wealthy and cultured Boston family; she +never had the opportunity to learn life; she never found out her own true +relation to life and to her surroundings. And it should not be forgotten +that she was only about thirty years old when she died. The impulsion or +the compulsion that might have driven her genius off the worn paths, out +on a journey of exploration, Phillis Wheatley never received. But, +whatever her limitations, she merits more than America has accorded her. + +Horton, who was born three years after Phillis Wheatley's death, expressed +in all of his poetry strong complaint at his condition of slavery and a +deep longing for freedom. The following verses are typical of his style +and his ability: + + "Alas! and am I born for this, + To wear this slavish chain? + Deprived of all created bliss, + Through hardship, toil, and pain? + + * * * * * + + Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound, + Roll through my ravished ears; + Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, + And drive away my fears." + +In Mrs. Harper we find something more than the complaint and the longing +of Horton. We find an expression of a sense of wrong and injustice. The +following stanzas are from a poem addressed to the white women of America: + + "You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian + Who weeps in her desolate home. + You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia + From kindred and friends doomed to roam. + + * * * * * + + But hark! from our Southland are floating + Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain, + And women heart-stricken are weeping + O'er their tortured and slain. + + * * * * * + + Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, + Just a plea, a prayer or a tear + For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows + Of agony, hatred and fear? + + * * * * * + + Weep not, oh my well sheltered sisters, + Weep not for the Negro alone, + But weep for your sons who must gather + The crops which their fathers have sown." + +Whitman, in the midst of "The Rape of Florida," a poem in which he related +the taking of the State of Florida from the Seminoles, stops and discusses +the race question. He discusses it in many other poems; and he discusses +it from many different angles. In Whitman we find not only an expression +of a sense of wrong and injustice, but we hear a note of faith and a note +also of defiance. For example, in the opening to Canto II of "The Rape of +Florida": + + "Greatness by nature cannot be entailed; + It is an office ending with the man,-- + Sage, hero, Saviour, tho' the Sire be hailed, + The son may reach obscurity in the van: + Sublime achievements know no patent plan, + Man's immortality's a book with seals, + And none but God shall open--none else can-- + But opened, it the mystery reveals,-- + Manhood's conquest of man to heaven's respect appeals. + + "Is manhood less because man's face is black? + Let thunders of the loosened seals reply! + Who shall the rider's restive steed turn back, + Or who withstand the arrows he lets fly + Between the mountains of eternity? + Genius ride forth! Thou gift and torch of heav'n! + The mastery is kindled in thine eye; + To conquest ride! thy bow of strength is giv'n-- + The trampled hordes of caste before thee shall be driv'n! + + * * * * * + + "'Tis hard to judge if hatred of one's race, + By those who deem themselves superior-born, + Be worse than that quiescence in disgrace, + Which only merits--and should only--scorn. + Oh, let me see the Negro night and morn, + Pressing and fighting in, for place and power! + All earth is place--all time th' auspicious hour, + While heaven leans forth to look, oh, will he quail or cower? + + "Ah! I abhor his protest and complaint! + His pious looks and patience I despise! + He can't evade the test, disguised as saint; + The manly voice of freedom bids him rise, + And shake himself before Philistine eyes! + And, like a lion roused, no sooner than + A foe dare come, play all his energies, + And court the fray with fury if he can; + For hell itself respects a fearless, manly man." + +It may be said that none of these poets strike a deep native strain or +sound a distinctively original note, either in matter or form. That is +true; but the same thing may be said of all the American poets down to the +writers of the present generation, with the exception of Poe and Walt +Whitman. The thing in which these black poets are mostly excelled by their +contemporaries is mere technique. + + +Paul Laurence Dunbar stands out as the first poet from the Negro race in +the United States to show a combined mastery over poetic material and +poetic technique, to reveal innate literary distinction in what he wrote, +and to maintain a high level of performance. He was the first to rise to a +height from which he could take a perspective view of his own race. He was +the first to see objectively its humor, its superstitions, its +shortcomings; the first to feel sympathetically its heart-wounds, its +yearnings, its aspirations, and to voice them all in a purely literary +form. + +Dunbar's fame rests chiefly on his poems in Negro dialect. This appraisal +of him is, no doubt, fair; for in these dialect poems he not only carried +his art to the highest point of perfection, but he made a contribution to +American literature unlike what any one else had made, a contribution +which, perhaps, no one else could have made. Of course, Negro dialect +poetry was written before Dunbar wrote, most of it by white writers; but +the fact stands out that Dunbar was the first to use it as a medium for +the true interpretation of Negro character and psychology. And, yet, +dialect poetry does not constitute the whole or even the bulk of Dunbar's +work. In addition to a large number of poems of a very high order done in +literary English, he was the author of four novels and several volumes of +short stories. + +Indeed, Dunbar did not begin his career as a writer of dialect. I may be +pardoned for introducing here a bit of reminiscence. My personal +friendship with Paul Dunbar began before he had achieved recognition, and +continued to be close until his death. When I first met him he had +published a thin volume, "Oak and Ivy," which was being sold chiefly +through his own efforts. "Oak and Ivy" showed no distinctive Negro +influence, but rather the influence of James Whitcomb Riley. At this time +Paul and I were together every day for several months. He talked to me a +great deal about his hopes and ambitions. In these talks he revealed that +he had reached a realization of the possibilities of poetry in the +dialect, together with a recognition of the fact that it offered the +surest way by which he could get a hearing. Often he said to me: "I've +got to write dialect poetry; it's the only way I can get them to listen +to me." I was with Dunbar at the beginning of what proved to be his last +illness. He said to me then: "I have not grown. I am writing the same +things I wrote ten years ago, and am writing them no better." His +self-accusation was not fully true; he had grown, and he had gained a +surer control of his art, but he had not accomplished the greater things +of which he was constantly dreaming; the public had held him to the things +for which it had accorded him recognition. If Dunbar had lived he would +have achieved some of those dreams, but even while he talked so dejectedly +to me he seemed to feel that he was not to live. He died when he was only +thirty-three. + +It has a bearing on this entire subject to note that Dunbar was of unmixed +Negro blood; so, as the greatest figure in literature which the colored +race in the United States has produced, he stands as an example at once +refuting and confounding those who wish to believe that whatever +extraordinary ability an Aframerican shows is due to an admixture of white +blood. + +As a man, Dunbar was kind and tender. In conversation he was brilliant and +polished. His voice was his chief charm, and was a great element in his +success as a reader of his own works. In his actions he was impulsive as a +child, sometimes even erratic; indeed, his intimate friends almost looked +upon him as a spoiled boy. He was always delicate in health. +Temperamentally, he belonged to that class of poets who Taine says are +vessels too weak to contain the spirit of poetry, the poets whom poetry +kills, the Byrons, the Burns's, the De Mussets, the Poes. + +To whom may he be compared, this boy who scribbled his early verses while +he ran an elevator, whose youth was a battle against poverty, and who, in +spite of almost insurmountable obstacles, rose to success? A comparison +between him and Burns is not unfitting. The similarity between many phases +of their lives is remarkable, and their works are not incommensurable. +Burns took the strong dialect of his people and made it classic; Dunbar +took the humble speech of his people and in it wrought music. + +Mention of Dunbar brings up for consideration the fact that, although he +is the most outstanding figure in literature among the Aframericans of the +United States, he does not stand alone among the Aframericans of the whole +Western world. There are Plįcido and Manzano in Cuba; Vieux and Durand in +Haiti, Machado de Assis in Brazil; Leon Laviaux in Martinique, and others +still that might be mentioned, who stand on a plane with or even above +Dunbar. Plįcido and Machado de Assis rank as great in the literatures of +their respective countries without any qualifications whatever. They are +world figures in the literature of the Latin languages. Machado de Assis +is somewhat handicapped in this respect by having as his tongue and medium +the lesser known Portuguese, but Plįcido, writing in the language of +Spain, Mexico, Cuba and of almost the whole of South America, is +universally known. His works have been republished in the original in +Spain, Mexico and in most of the Latin-American countries; several +editions have been published in the United States; translations of his +works have been made into French and German. + +Plįcido is in some respects the greatest of all the Cuban poets. In sheer +genius and the fire of inspiration he surpasses even the more finished +Heredia. Then, too, his birth, his life and his death ideally contained +the tragic elements that go into the making of a halo about a poet's head. +Plįcido was born in Habana in 1809. The first months of his life were +passed in a foundling asylum; indeed, his real name, Gabriel de la +Concepcion Valdés, was in honor of its founder. His father took him out of +the asylum, but shortly afterwards went to Mexico and died there. His +early life was a struggle against poverty; his youth and manhood was a +struggle for Cuban independence. His death placed him in the list of Cuban +martyrs. On the 27th of June, 1844, he was lined up against a wall with +ten others and shot by order of the Spanish authorities on a charge of +conspiracy. In his short but eventful life he turned out work which bulks +more than six hundred pages. During the few hours preceding his execution +he wrote three of his best known poems, among them his famous sonnet, +"Mother, Farewell!" + +Plįcido's sonnet to his mother has been translated into every important +language; William Cullen Bryant did it in English; but in spite of its +wide popularity, it is, perhaps, outside of Cuba the least understood of +all Plįcido's poems. It is curious to note how Bryant's translation +totally misses the intimate sense of the delicate subtility of the poem. +The American poet makes it a tender and loving farewell of a son who is +about to die to a heart-broken mother; but that is not the kind of a +farewell that Plįcido intended to write or did write. + +The key to the poem is in the first word, and the first word is the +Spanish conjunction _Si_ (if). The central idea, then, of the sonnet +is, "If the sad fate which now overwhelms me should bring a pang to your +heart, do not weep, for I die a glorious death and sound the last note of +my lyre to you." Bryant either failed to understand or ignored the opening +word, "If," because he was not familiar with the poet's history. + +While Plįcido's father was a Negro, his mother was a Spanish white woman, +a dancer in one of the Habana theatres. At his birth she abandoned him to +a foundling asylum, and perhaps never saw him again, although it is known +that she outlived her son. When the poet came down to his last hours he +remembered that somewhere there lived a woman who was his mother; that +although she had heartlessly abandoned him; that although he owed her no +filial duty, still she might, perhaps, on hearing of his sad end feel some +pang of grief or sadness; so he tells her in his last words that he dies +happy and bids her not to weep. This he does with nobility and dignity, +but absolutely without affection. Taking into account these facts, and +especially their humiliating and embittering effect upon a soul so +sensitive as Plįcido's, this sonnet, in spite of the obvious weakness of +the sestet as compared with the octave, is a remarkable piece of work.[1] + +[Footnote 1: Plįcido's sonnet and two English versions will be found in +the Appendix.] + +In considering the Aframerican poets of the Latin languages I am impelled +to think that, as up to this time the colored poets of greater +universality have come out of the Latin-American countries rather than out +of the United States, they will continue to do so for a good many years. +The reason for this I hinted at in the first part of this preface. The +colored poet in the United States labors within limitations which he +cannot easily pass over. He is always on the defensive or the offensive. +The pressure upon him to be propagandic is well nigh irresistible. These +conditions are suffocating to breadth and to real art in poetry. In +addition he labors under the handicap of finding culture not entirely +colorless in the United States. On the other hand, the colored poet of +Latin-America can voice the national spirit without any reservations. And +he will be rewarded without any reservations, whether it be to place him +among the great or declare him the greatest. + +So I think it probable that the first world-acknowledged Aframerican poet +will come out of Latin-America. Over against this probability, of course, +is the great advantage possessed by the colored poet in the United States +of writing in the world-conquering English language. + +This preface has gone far beyond what I had in mind when I started. It was +my intention to gather together the best verses I could find by Negro +poets and present them with a bare word of introduction. It was not my +plan to make this collection inclusive nor to make the book in any sense a +book of criticism. I planned to present only verses by contemporary +writers; but, perhaps, because this is the first collection of its kind, I +realized the absence of a starting-point and was led to provide one and to +fill in with historical data what I felt to be a gap. + +It may be surprising to many to see how little of the poetry being written +by Negro poets to-day is being written in Negro dialect. The newer Negro +poets show a tendency to discard dialect; much of the subject-matter which +went into the making of traditional dialect poetry, 'possums, watermelons, +etc., they have discarded altogether, at least, as poetic material. This +tendency will, no doubt, be regretted by the majority of white readers; +and, indeed, it would be a distinct loss if the American Negro poets threw +away this quaint and musical folk-speech as a medium of expression. And +yet, after all, these poets are working through a problem not realized by +the reader, and, perhaps, by many of these poets themselves not realized +consciously. They are trying to break away from, not Negro dialect itself, +but the limitations on Negro dialect imposed by the fixing effects of long +convention. + +The Negro in the United States has achieved or been placed in a certain +artistic niche. When he is thought of artistically, it is as a +happy-go-lucky, singing, shuffling, banjo-picking being or as a more or +less pathetic figure. The picture of him is in a log cabin amid fields of +cotton or along the levees. Negro dialect is naturally and by long +association the exact instrument for voicing this phase of Negro life; and +by that very exactness it is an instrument with but two full stops, humor +and pathos. So even when he confines himself to purely racial themes, the +Aframerican poet realizes that there are phases of Negro life in the +United States which cannot be treated in the dialect either adequately or +artistically. Take, for example, the phases rising out of life in Harlem, +that most wonderful Negro city in the world. I do not deny that a Negro in +a log cabin is more picturesque than a Negro in a Harlem flat, but the +Negro in the Harlem flat is here, and he is but part of a group growing +everywhere in the country, a group whose ideals are becoming increasingly +more vital than those of the traditionally artistic group, even if its +members are less picturesque. + +What the colored poet in the United States needs to do is something like +what Synge did for the Irish; he needs to find a form that will express +the racial spirit by symbols from within rather than by symbols from +without, such as the mere mutilation of English spelling and +pronunciation. He needs a form that is freer and larger than dialect, but +which will still hold the racial flavor; a form expressing the imagery, +the idioms, the peculiar turns of thought, and the distinctive humor and +pathos, too, of the Negro, but which will also be capable of voicing the +deepest and highest emotions and aspirations, and allow of the widest +range of subjects and the widest scope of treatment. + +Negro dialect is at present a medium that is not capable of giving +expression to the varied conditions of Negro life in America, and much +less is it capable of giving the fullest interpretation of Negro character +and psychology. This is no indictment against the dialect as dialect, but +against the mould of convention in which Negro dialect in the United +States has been set. In time these conventions may become lost, and the +colored poet in the United States may sit down to write in dialect without +feeling that his first line will put the general reader in a frame of mind +which demands that the poem be humorous or pathetic. In the meantime, +there is no reason why these poets should not continue to do the beautiful +things that can be done, and done best, in the dialect. + +In stating the need for Aframerican poets in the United States to work out +a new and distinctive form of expression I do not wish to be understood to +hold any theory that they should limit themselves to Negro poetry, to +racial themes; the sooner they are able to write _American_ poetry +spontaneously, the better. Nevertheless, I believe that the richest +contribution the Negro poet can make to the American literature of the +future will be the fusion into it of his own individual artistic gifts. + +Not many of the writers here included, except Dunbar, are known at all to +the general reading public; and there is only one of these who has a +widely recognized position in the American literary world, he is William +Stanley Braithwaite. Mr. Braithwaite is not only unique in this respect, +but he stands unique among all the Aframerican writers the United States +has yet produced. He has gained his place, taking as the standard and +measure for his work the identical standard and measure applied to +American writers and American literature. He has asked for no allowances +or rewards, either directly or indirectly, on account of his race. + +Mr. Braithwaite is the author of two volumes of verses, lyrics of delicate +and tenuous beauty. In his more recent and uncollected poems he shows +himself more and more decidedly the mystic. But his place in American +literature is due more to his work as a critic and anthologist than to his +work as a poet. There is still another role he has played, that of friend +of poetry and poets. It is a recognized fact that in the work which +preceded the present revival of poetry in the United States, no one +rendered more unremitting and valuable service than Mr. Braithwaite. And +it can be said that no future study of American poetry of this age can be +made without reference to Braithwaite. + +Two authors included in the book are better known for their work in prose +than in poetry: W.E.B. Du Bois whose well-known prose at its best is, +however, impassioned and rhythmical; and Benjamin Brawley who is the +author, among other works, of one of the best handbooks on the English +drama that has yet appeared in America. + +But the group of the new Negro poets, whose work makes up the bulk of this +anthology, contains names destined to be known. Claude McKay, although +still quite a young man, has already demonstrated his power, breadth and +skill as a poet. Mr. McKay's breadth is as essential a part of his +equipment as his power and skill. He demonstrates mastery of the three +when as a Negro poet he pours out the bitterness and rebellion in his +heart in those two sonnet-tragedies, "If We Must Die" and "To the White +Fiends," in a manner that strikes terror; and when as a cosmic poet he +creates the atmosphere and mood of poetic beauty in the absolute, as he +does in "Spring in New Hampshire" and "The Harlem Dancer." Mr. McKay gives +evidence that he has passed beyond the danger which threatens many of the +new Negro poets--the danger of allowing the purely polemical phases of the +race problem to choke their sense of artistry. + +Mr. McKay's earliest work is unknown in this country. It consists of poems +written and published in his native Jamaica. I was fortunate enough to run +across this first volume, and I could not refrain from reproducing here +one of the poems written in the West Indian Negro dialect. I have done +this not only to illustrate the widest range of the poet's talent and to +offer a comparison between the American and the West Indian dialects, but +on account of the intrinsic worth of the poem itself. I was much tempted +to introduce several more, in spite of the fact that they might require a +glossary, because however greater work Mr. McKay may do he can never do +anything more touching and charming than these poems in the Jamaica +dialect. + +Fenton Johnson is a young poet of the ultra-modern school who gives +promise of greater work than he has yet done. Jessie Fauset shows that she +possesses the lyric gift, and she works with care and finish. Miss Fauset +is especially adept in her translations from the French. Georgia Douglas +Johnson is a poet neither afraid nor ashamed of her emotions. She limits +herself to the purely conventional forms, rhythms and rhymes, but through +them she achieves striking effects. The principal theme of Mrs. Johnson's +poems is the secret dread down in every woman's heart, the dread of the +passing of youth and beauty, and with them love. An old theme, one which +poets themselves have often wearied of, but which, like death, remains one +of the imperishable themes on which is made the poetry that has moved +men's hearts through all ages. In her ingenuously wrought verses, through +sheer simplicity and spontaneousness, Mrs. Johnson often sounds a note of +pathos or passion that will not fail to waken a response, except in those +too sophisticated or cynical to respond to natural impulses. Of the half +dozen or so of colored women writing creditable verse, Anne Spencer is the +most modern and least obvious in her methods. Her lines are at times +involved and turgid and almost cryptic, but she shows an originality which +does not depend upon eccentricities. In her "Before the Feast of Shushan" +she displays an opulence, the love of which has long been charged against +the Negro as one of his naļve and childish traits, but which in art may +infuse a much needed color, warmth and spirit of abandon into American +poetry. + +John W. Holloway, more than any Negro poet writing in the dialect to-day, +summons to his work the lilt, the spontaneity and charm of which Dunbar +was the supreme master whenever he employed that medium. It is well to say +a word here about the dialect poems of James Edwin Campbell. In dialect, +Campbell was a precursor of Dunbar. A comparison of his idioms and +phonetics with those of Dunbar reveals great differences. Dunbar is a +shade or two more sophisticated and his phonetics approach nearer to a +mean standard of the dialects spoken in the different sections. Campbell +is more primitive and his phonetics are those of the dialect as spoken by +the Negroes of the sea islands off the coasts of South Carolina and +Georgia, which to this day remains comparatively close to its African +roots, and is strikingly similar to the speech of the uneducated Negroes +of the West Indies. An error that confuses many persons in reading or +understanding Negro dialect is the idea that it is uniform. An ignorant +Negro of the uplands of Georgia would have almost as much difficulty in +understanding an ignorant sea island Negro as an Englishman would have. +Not even in the dialect of any particular section is a given word always +pronounced in precisely the same way. Its pronunciation depends upon the +preceding and following sounds. Sometimes the combination permits of a +liaison so close that to the uninitiated the sound of the word is almost +completely lost. + +The constant effort in Negro dialect is to elide all troublesome +consonants and sounds. This negative effort may be after all only positive +laziness of the vocal organs, but the result is a softening and smoothing +which makes Negro dialect so delightfully easy for singers. + +Daniel Webster Davis wrote dialect poetry at the time when Dunbar was +writing. He gained great popularity, but it did not spread beyond his own +race. Davis had unctuous humor, but he was crude. For illustration, note +the vast stretch between his "Hog Meat" and Dunbar's "When de Co'n Pone's +Hot," both of them poems on the traditional ecstasy of the Negro in +contemplation of "good things" to eat. + +It is regrettable that two of the most gifted writers included were cut +off so early in life. R. C. Jamison and Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., died +several years ago, both of them in their youth. Jamison was barely thirty +at the time of his death, but among his poems there is one, at least, +which stamps him as a poet of superior talent and lofty inspiration. "The +Negro Soldiers" is a poem with the race problem as its theme, yet it +transcends the limits of race and rises to a spiritual height that makes +it one of the noblest poems of the Great War. Cotter died a mere boy of +twenty, and the latter part of that brief period he passed in an invalid +state. Some months before his death he published a thin volume of verses +which were for the most part written on a sick bed. In this little volume +Cotter showed fine poetic sense and a free and bold mastery over his +material. A reading of Cotter's poems is certain to induce that mood in +which one will regretfully speculate on what the young poet might have +accomplished had he not been cut off so soon. + +As intimated above, my original idea for this book underwent a change in +the writing of the introduction. I first planned to select twenty-five to +thirty poems which I judged to be up to a certain standard, and offer them +with a few words of introduction and without comment. In the collection, +as it grew to be, that "certain standard" has been broadened if not +lowered; but I believe that this is offset by the advantage of the wider +range given the reader and the student of the subject. + +I offer this collection without making apology or asking allowance. I feel +confident that the reader will find not only an earnest for the future, +but actual achievement. The reader cannot but be impressed by the distance +already covered. It is a long way from the plaints of George Horton to the +invectives of Claude McKay, from the obviousness of Frances Harper to the +complexness of Anne Spencer. Much ground has been covered, but more will +yet be covered. It is this side of prophecy to declare that the undeniable +creative genius of the Negro is destined to make a distinctive and +valuable contribution to American poetry. + +I wish to extend my thanks to Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, who placed his +valuable collection of books by Negro authors at my disposal. I wish also +to acknowledge with thanks the kindness of Dodd, Mead & Co. for permitting +the reprint of poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar; of the Cornhill Publishing +Company for permission to reprint poems of Georgia Douglas Johnson, Joseph +S. Cotter, Jr., Bertram Johnson and Waverley Carmichael; and of Neale & +Co. for permission to reprint poems of John W. Holloway. I wish to thank +Mr. Braithwaite for permission to use the included poems from his +forthcoming volume, "Sandy Star and Willie Gee." And to acknowledge the +courtesy of the following magazines: _The Crisis, The Century Magazine, +The Liberator, The Freeman, The Independent, Others_, and _Poetry: A +Magazine of Verse_. + +James Weldon Johnson. +New York City, 1921. + + + + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + + + + + Paul Laurence Dunbar + + +A NEGRO LOVE SONG[1] + +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 could n'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. + +[Footnote 1: Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company.] + + +LITTLE BROWN BABY + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, + Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. +What you been doin', suh--makin' san' pies? + Look at dat bib--You's ez du'ty ez me. +Look at dat mouf--dat's merlasses, I bet; + Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's. +Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, + Bein' so sticky an' sweet--goodness lan's! + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes + Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile? +Who is it all de day nevah once tries + Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? +Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp! + Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin? +Pappy do' know you--I b'lieves you's a tramp; + Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in! + +Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san', + We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; +Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man; + I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. +Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', + Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. +Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', + Swaller him down f'om his haid to his feet! + +Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close. + Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. +He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se; + He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy. +Come to you' pallet now--go to you' res'; + Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies; +Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'-- + Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes! + + +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. + +O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, + O heart of mine, O 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? + + +LOVER'S LANE + +Summah night an' sighin' breeze, + 'Long de lovah's lane; +Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, + 'Long de lovah's lane. +White folks' wo'k all done up gran'-- +Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' +Struttin' lak we owned de lan', + 'Long de lovah's lane. + +Owl a-settin' 'side de road, + 'Long de lovah's lane, +Lookin' at us lak he knowed + Dis uz lovah's lane. +Go on, hoot yo' Mou'nful tune, +You ain' nevah loved in June, +An' come hidin' f'om de moon + Down in lovah's lane. + +Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, + Down in lovah's lane, +Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say + 'Long de lovah's lane. +But I whispahs low lak dis, +An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss-- +Mistah Bush he shek his fis', + Down in lovah's lane. + +Whut I keer ef day is long, + Down in lovah's lane. +I kin allus sing a song + 'Long de lovah's lane. +An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say +Meks up fu' de weary day +Wen I's strollin' by de way, + Down in lovah's lane. + +An' dis t'ought will allus rise + Down in lovah's lane; +Wondah whethah in de skies + Dey's a lovah's lane. +Ef dey ain't, I tell you true, +'Ligion do look mighty blue, +'Cause I do' know whut I'd do + 'Dout a lovah's lane. + + +THE DEBT + +This is the debt I pay +Just for one riotous day, +Years of regret and grief. +Sorrow without relief. + +Pay it I will to the end-- +Until the grave, my friend, +Gives me a true release-- +Gives me the clasp of peace. + +Slight was the thing I bought, +Small was the debt I thought, +Poor was the loan at best-- +God! but the interest! + + +THE HAUNTED OAK + +Pray why are you so bare, so bare, + Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; +And why, when I go through the shade you throw, + Runs a shudder over me? + +My leaves were green as the best, I trow, + And sap ran free in my veins, +But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird + A guiltless victim's pains. + +I bent me down to hear his sigh; + I shook with his gurgling moan, +And I trembled sore when they rode away, + And left him here alone. + +They'd charged him with the old, old crime, + And set him fast in jail: +Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, + And why does the night wind wail? + +He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, + And he raised his hand to the sky; +But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, + And the steady tread drew nigh. + +Who is it rides by night, by night, + Over the moonlit road? +And what is the spur that keeps the pace, + What is the galling goad? + +And now they beat at the prison door, + "Ho, keeper, do not stay! +We are friends of him whom you hold within, + And we fain would take him away + +From those who ride fast on our heels + With mind to do him wrong; +They have no care for his innocence, + And the rope they bear is long." + +They have fooled the jailer with lying words, + They have fooled the man with lies; +The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, + And the great door open flies. + +Now they have taken him from the jail, + And hard and fast they ride, +And the leader laughs low down in his throat, + As they halt my trunk beside. + +Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, + And the doctor one of white, +And the minister, with his oldest son, + Was curiously bedight. + +Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? + 'Tis but a little space, +And the time will come when these shall dread + The mem'ry of your face. + +I feel the rope against my bark, + And the weight of him in my grain, +I feel in the throe of his final woe + The touch of my own last pain. + +And never more shall leaves come forth + On a bough that bears the ban; +I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, + From the curse of a guiltless man. + +And ever the judge rides by, rides by, + And goes to hunt the deer, +And ever another rides his soul + In the guise of a mortal fear. + +And ever the man he rides me hard, + And never a night stays he; +For I feel his curse as a haunted bough + On the trunk of a haunted tree. + + +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 Mastah'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. + + +A DEATH SONG + +Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, +Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass + An' w'en I's a-layin' low, + I kin hyeah it as it go +Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." + +Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, +An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool, + Whah de little birds in spring, + Ust to come an' drink an' sing, +An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. + +Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load +Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; + Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' + Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' +If I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed. + + + + + James Edwin Campbell + + +NEGRO SERENADE + +O, de light-bugs glimmer down de lane, + Merlindy! Merlindy! +O, de whip'-will callin' notes ur pain-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +O, honey lub, my turkle dub, + Doan' you hyuh my bawnjer ringin', +While de night-dew falls an' de ho'n owl calls + By de ol' ba'n gate Ise singin'. + +O, Miss 'Lindy, doan' you hyuh me, chil', + Merlindy! Merlindy! +My lub fur you des dribe me wil'-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +I'll sing dis night twel broad day-light, + Ur bu's' my froat wid tryin', +'Less you come down, Miss 'Lindy Brown, + An' stops dis ha't f'um sighin'! + + +DE CUNJAH MAN + +O chillen, run, de Cunjah man, +Him mouf ez beeg ez fryin' pan, +Him yurs am small, him eyes am raid, +Him hab no toof een him ol' haid, +Him hab him roots, him wu'k him trick, +Him roll him eye, him mek you sick-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Him hab ur ball ob raid, raid ha'r, +Him hide it un' de kitchen sta'r, +Mam Jude huh pars urlong dat way, +An' now huh hab ur snaik, de say. +Him wrop ur roun' huh buddy tight, +Huh eyes pop out, ur orful sight-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Miss Jane, huh dribe him f'um huh do', +An' now huh hens woan' lay no mo'; +De Jussey cow huh done fall sick, +Hit all done by de Cunjah trick. +Him put ur root un' 'Lijah's baid, +An' now de man he sho' am daid-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Me see him stan' de yudder night +Right een de road een white moon-light; +Him toss him arms, him whirl him 'roun', +Him stomp him foot urpon de groun'; +De snaiks come crawlin', one by one, +Me hyuh um hiss, me break an' run-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + + +UNCLE EPH'S BANJO SONG + +Clean de ba'n an' sweep de flo', + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +We's gwine ter dawnce dis eb'nin' sho', + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits up de road an' down de lane, +Hurry, niggah, you miss de train; +De yaller gal she dawnce so neat, +De yaller gal she look so sweet, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + +De moon come up, de sun go down, + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +De niggahs am all come f'um town, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits roun' de hill an' froo de fiel'-- +Lookout dar, niggah, doan' you steal! +De milyuns on dem vines am green, +De moon am bright, O you'll be seen, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + + +OL' DOC' HYAR + +Ur ol' Hyar lib in ur house on de hill, +He hunner yurs ol' an' nebber wuz ill; +He yurs dee so long an' he eyes so beeg, +An' he laigs so spry dat he dawnce ur jeeg; +He lib so long dat he know ebbry tings +'Bout de beas'ses dat walks an' de bu'ds dat sings-- + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +He doctah fur all de beas'ses an' bu'ds-- +He put on he specs an' he use beeg wu'ds, +He feel dee pu's' den he look mighty wise, +He pull out he watch an' he shet bofe eyes; +He grab up he hat an' grab up he cane, +Den--"blam!" go de do'--he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah Ba'r fall sick--dee sont fur Doc' Hyar, +"O, Doctah, come queeck, an' see Mr. B'ar; +He mighty nigh daid des sho' ez you b'on!" +"Too much ur young peeg, too much ur green co'n," +Ez he put on he hat, said Ol' Doc' Hyar; +"I'll tek 'long meh lawnce, an' lawnce Mistah B'ar," + Said Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah B'ar he groaned, Mistah B'ar he growled, +W'ile de ol' Miss B'ar an' de chillen howled; +Doctah Hyar tuk out he sha'p li'l lawnce, +An' pyu'ced Mistah B'ar twel he med him prawnce +Den grab up he hat an' grab up he cane +"Blam!" go de do' an' he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +But de vay naix day Mistah B'ar he daid; +Wen dee tell Doc' Hyar, he des scratch he haid: +"Ef pahsons git well ur pahsons git wu's, +Money got ter come een de Ol' Hyar's pu's; +Not wut folkses does, but fur wut dee know +Does de folkses git paid"--an' Hyar larfed low, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een de mighty fine house on de mighty high hill! + + +WHEN OL' SIS' JUDY PRAY + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De teahs come stealin' down my cheek, +De voice ur God widin me speak'; +I see myse'f so po' an' weak, +Down on my knees de cross I seek, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De thun'ers ur Mount Sin-a-i +Comes rushin' down f'um up on high-- +De Debbil tu'n his back an' fly +While sinnahs loud fur pa'don cry, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Ha'd sinnahs trimble in dey seat +Ter hyuh huh voice in sorro 'peat; +(While all de chu'ch des sob an' weep) +"O Shepa'd, dese, dy po' los' sheep!" +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De whole house hit des rock an' moan +Ter see huh teahs an' hyuh huh groan; +Dar's somepin' in Sis' Judy's tone +Dat melt all ha'ts dough med ur stone +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Salvation's light comes pourin' down-- +Hit fill de chu'ch an' all de town-- +Why, angels' robes go rustlin' 'roun', +An' hebben on de Yurf am foun', +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +My soul go sweepin' up on wings, +An' loud de chu'ch wid "Glory!" rings, +An' wide de gates ur Jahsper swings +Twel you hyuh ha'ps wid golding strings, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + + +COMPENSATION + +O, rich young lord, thou ridest by +With looks of high disdain; +It chafes me not thy title high, +Thy blood of oldest strain. +The lady riding at thy side +Is but in name thy promised bride, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +Her father wills and she obeys, +The custom of her class; +'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways-- +For Land he sells his lass. +Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine, +Her _soul_, proud fool, her _soul_ is mine, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +No title high my father bore; +The tenant of thy farm, +He left me what I value more: +Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm +And love for bird and beast and bee +And song of lark and hymn of sea, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +The boundless sky to me belongs, +The paltry acres thine; +The painted beauty sings thy songs, +The lavrock lilts me mine; +The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee, +The gorse and heather bloom for me, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + + + + + James D. Corrothers + + +AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow, +Betrayed, like him whose woe dimmed eyes gave bliss + Still must one succor those who brought one low, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands rare patience--patience that can wait +In utter darkness. 'Tis the path to miss, + And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag +Which is to us white freedom's emphasis. + Ah! one must love when Truth and Justice lag, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this-- + Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done? +Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst, + But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon, +"Merely a Negro"--in a day like this! + + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + +He came, a youth, singing in the dawn + Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre, + Refining, as with great Apollo's fire, + His people's gift of song. And thereupon, +This Negro singer, come to Helicon + Constrained the masters, listening to admire, + And roused a race to wonder and aspire, + Gazing which way their honest voice was gone, +With ebon face uplit of glory's crest. + Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, + Who brought the cabin's mirth, the tuneful night, +But faced the morning, beautiful with light, + To die while shadows yet fell toward the west, + And leave his laurels at his people's feet. + +Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now; + None rises, singing, from your race like you. + Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew + Fell early on the bays upon your brow, +And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow + And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you threw + Flowerets of love. Or, if an envious few + Of your own people brought no garlands, how +Could Malice smite him whom the gods had crowned? + If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low + Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned; +A wide world heard you, and it loved you so + It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, + And o'er your happy songs its plaudits rang. + + +THE NEGRO SINGER + +O'er all my song the image of a face + Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers. + The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers; + The golden lyre's delights bring little grace +To bless the singer of a lowly race. + Long hath this mocked me: aye in marvelous hours, + When Hera's gardens gleamed, or Cynthia's bowers, + Or Hope's red pylons, in their far, hushed place! +But I shall dig me deeper to the gold; + Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles, + From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles +Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold. + So shall men know me, and remember long, + Nor my dark face dishonor any song. + + +THE ROAD TO THE BOW + +Ever and ever anon, + After the black storm, the eternal, beauteous bow! +Brother, to rosy-painted mists that arch beyond, + Blithely I go. + +My brows men laureled and my lyre + Twined with immortal ivy for one little rippling song; +My "House of Golden Leaves" they praised and "passionate fire"-- + But, Friend, the way is long! + +Onward and onward, up! away! + Though Fear flaunt all his banners in my face, +And my feet stumble, lo! the Orphean Day! + Forward by God's grace! + +These signs are still before me: "Fear," + "Danger," "Unprecedented," and I hear black "No" +Still thundering, and "Churl." Good Friend, I rest me here-- + Then to the glittering bow! + +Loometh and cometh Hate in wrath, + Mailed Wrong, swart Servitude and Shame with bitter rue, +Nathless a Negro poet's feet must tread the path + The winged god knew. + +Thus, my true Brother, dream-led, I + Forefend the anathema, following the span. +I hold my head as proudly high + As any man. + + +IN THE MATTER OF TWO MEN + +One does such work as one will not, + And well each knows the right; +Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot, + The black must serve the white. +And it's, oh, for the white man's softening flesh, + While the black man's muscles grow! +Well I know which grows the mightier, + _I_ know; full well I know. + +The white man seeks the soft, fat place, + And he moves and he works by rule. +Ingenious grows the humbler race + In Oppression's prodding school. +And it's, oh, for a white man gone to seed, + While the Negro struggles so! +And I know which race develops most, + I know; yes, well I know. + +The white man rides in a palace car, + And the Negro rides "Jim Crow." +To damn the other with bolt and bar, + One creepeth so low; so low! +And it's, oh, for a master's nose in the mire, + While the humbled hearts o'erflow! +Well I know whose soul grows big at this, + And whose grows small; _I know_! + +The white man leases out his land, + And the Negro tills the same. +One works; one loafs and takes command; + But I know who wins the game! +And it's, oh, for the white man's shrinking soil, + As the black's rich acres grow! +Well I know how the signs point out at last, + I know; ah, well I know! + +The white man votes for his color's sake, + While the black, for his is barred; +(Though "ignorance" is the charge they make), + But the black man studies hard. +And it's, oh, for the white man's sad neglect, + For the power of his light let go! +So, I know which man must win at last, + I know! Ah, Friend, I know! + + +AN INDIGNATION DINNER + +Dey was hard times jes fo' Christmas round our neighborhood one year; +So we held a secret meetin', whah de white folks couldn't hear, +To 'scuss de situation, an' to see what could be done +Towa'd a fust-class Christmas dinneh an' a little Christmas fun. + +Rufus Green, who called de meetin', ris an' said: "In dis here town, +An' throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin' to keep us down." +S' 'e: "Dey's bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey 'buse us 'ca'se we's +free; +But when dey tetch my stomach, dey's done gone too fur foh me! + +"Is I right?" "You sho is, Rufus!" roared a dozen hungry throats. +"Ef you'd keep a mule a-wo'kin', don't you tamper wid his oats. +Dat's sense," continued Rufus. "But dese white folks nowadays +Has done got so close and stingy you can't live on what dey pays. + +"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 'nough to choke. +Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's 'mos' completely broke? +I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a glass o' water. Mad? +Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!" + +Well, dey 'bused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris, +Leanin' on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheumatis', +An' s' 'e: "Chilun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin' th'ough de street +'Bout yo' wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus' eat. + +"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's fahm. +He's a-growin' fat an' sassy, an' a-struttin' to a chahm. +Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters--all de craps is fine dis year; +All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here." + +Well, we lit right in an' voted dat it was a gran idee, +An' de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin' miles to see; +An' we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small, +Not beca'se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's all. + + +DREAM AND THE SONG + +So oft our hearts, belovčd lute, +In blossomy haunts of song are mute; +So long we pore, 'mid murmurings dull, +O'er loveliness unutterable. +So vain is all our passion strong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn +Wan ashes. Still, from memory's urn, +The lingering blossoms tenderly +Refute our wilding minstrelsy. +Alas! we work but beauty's wrong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +Yearned Shelley o'er the golden flame? +Left Keats for beauty's lure, a name +But "writ in water"? Woe is me! +To grieve o'er flowerful faėry. +My Phasian doves are flown so long-- +The dream is lovelier than the song! + +Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, +The golden-wingčd bird is gone, +And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves, +Only the swallow-twittering eaves. +What art may house or gold prolong +A dream far lovelier than a song? + +The lilting witchery, the unrest +Of wingčd dreams, is in our breast; +But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes +Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, +My lute, must to the gods belong. +The dream is lovelier than the song. + + + + + Daniel Webster Davis + + +'WEH DOWN SOUF + +O, de birds ar' sweetly singin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' de banjer is a-ringin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' my heart it is a-sighin', +Whil' de moments am a-flyin', +Fur my hom' I am a-cryin', + 'Weh down Souf. + +Dar de pickaninnies 's playin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' fur dem I am a-prayin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' when I gits sum munny, +Yo' kin bet I'm goin', my hunny, +Fur de lan' dat am so sunny, + 'Weh down Souf. + +Whil' de win' up here's a-blowin', + 'Weh down Souf +De corn is sweetly growin', + 'Weh down Souf. +Dey tells me here ub freedum, +But I ain't a-gwine to heed um, +But I'se gwine fur to lebe um, + Fur 'weh down Souf. + +I bin up here a-wuckin', + From 'weh down Souf, +An' I ain't a bin a-shurkin'-- + I'm frum 'weh down Souf; +But I'm gittin' mighty werry, +An' de days a-gittin' drerry, +An' I'm hongry, O, so berry, + Fur my hom' down Souf. + +O, de moon dar shines de brighter, + 'Weh down Souf, +An' I know my heart is lighter, + 'Weh down Souf; +An' de berry thought brings pledjur, +I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur, +Fur dar I hab my tredjur, + 'Weh down Souf. + + +HOG MEAT + +Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam', +An' de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel'ry an' wid jam; +Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fine-- +But you' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de time. + +When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar', +I den begin rejoicin'--hog-killin' time is near; +An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, +Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans. + +We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun-- +We don't like city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' done-- +'Dough mutton chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits fine, +To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine. + +Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me pleased, +Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head cheese; +An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house, +Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun "souse." + +I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares-- +Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' fair; +But I forgib my in'miz, my heart is free frum hate, +When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins on my plate. + +'Dough 'possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan, +But put 'longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan'; +Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur mine +Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine. + + + + + William H.A. Moore + + +DUSK SONG + +The garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay a lone ship light +Makes a silver pathway over the bar +Where the sea sings low. + +I follow the light with an earnest eye, +Creeping along to the thick far-away, +Until it fell in the depths of the deep, dark sky +With the haunting dream of the dusk of day +And its lovely glow. + +Long nights, long nights and the whisperings of new ones, +Flame the line of the pathway down to the sea +With the halo of new dreams and the hallow of old ones, +And they bring magic light to my love reverie +And a lover's regret. + +Tender sorrow for loss of a soft murmured word, +Tender measure of doubt in a faint, aching heart, +Tender listening for wind-songs in the tree heights heard +When you and I were of the dusks a part, +Are with me yet. + +I pray for faith to the noble spirit of Space, +I sound the cosmic depths for the measure of glory +Which will bring to this earth the imperishable race +Of whom Beauty dreamed in the soul-toned story +The Prophets told. + +Silence and love and deep wonder of stars +Dust-silver the heavens from west to east, +From south to north, and in a maze of bars +Invisible I wander far from the feast +As night grows old. + +Half blind is my vision I know to the truth, +My ears are half deaf to the voice of the tear +That touches the silences as Autumn's ruth +Steals thru the dusks of each returning year +A goodly friend. + +The Autumn, then Winter and wintertime's grief! +But the weight of the snow is the glistening gift +Which loving brings to the rose and its leaf, +For the days of the roses glow in the drift +And never end. + + * * * * * + +The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she. +The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears, +And the wounds of worn passions she brings to me +With all the tremor of the far-off years +And their mad wrong. + +Yet the garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has long gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay the moon's wan light +Lays a silver pathway beyond the bar, +Dear heart, pale and long. + + +IT WAS NOT FATE + +It was not fate which overtook me, +Rather a wayward, wilful wind +That blew hot for awhile +And then, as the even shadows came, blew cold. +What pity it is that a man grown old in life's dreaming +Should stop, e'en for a moment, to look into a woman's eyes. +And I forgot! +Forgot that one's heart must be steeled against the east wind. +Life and death alike come out of the East: +Life as tender as young grass, +Death as dreadful as the sight of clotted blood. +I shall go back into the darkness, +Not to dream but to seek the light again. +I shall go by paths, mayhap, +On roads that wind around the foothills +Where the plains are bare and wild +And the passers-by come few and far between. +I want the night to be long, the moon blind, +The hills thick with moving memories, +And my heart beating a breathless requiem +For all the dead days I have lived. +When the Dawn comes--Dawn, deathless, dreaming-- +I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate, +I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my heart, +I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know shelter, comfort, +beauty. +And then may I look into a woman's eyes +And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth understanding. + + + + + W.E. Burghardt Du Bois + + +A LITANY OF ATLANTA + +Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906 + + +O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears +an-hungered in these fearful days-- + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery +in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O God, crying: + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human men. +When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them +as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to +innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home. + _Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_ + +And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them +in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their +mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, and waxed +fat and rich on public iniquity? + _Thou knowest, good God!_ + +Is this Thy justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and +the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty? + _Justice, O judge of men!_ + +Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not seers +seen in Heaven's halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the +black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of +endless dead? + _Awake, Thou that sleepest!_ + +Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru blazing +corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women +strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste +prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! + _Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_ + +From lust of body and lust of blood + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From lust of power and lust of gold, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder +and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and +fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when church spires +pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men +who hide behind the veil of vengeance! + _Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_ + +In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears +and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and +leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime_! The word was +mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one. + _Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_ + +Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man +who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told +him: _Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one +told how some one said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. +Yet for that man's crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife +naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil. + _Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_ + +Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall +the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our +hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do +such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever +and forever! + _Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_ + +Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and +mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we +raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen +fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy +crucified Christ: _What meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the +Sign! + _Keep not thou silence, O God!_ + +Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb +suffering. Surely Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, +heartless thing? + _Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_ + +Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art still +the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul's soul sit some soft +darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night. + +But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to +our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path. + +Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and +without, the liar. Whither? To death? + _Amen! Welcome dark sleep!_ + +Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass +from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and +clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we +must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape. + _Selah!_ + +In yonder East trembles a star. + _Vengeance is mine; I mill repay, saith the Lord!_ + +Thy will, O Lord, be done! + _Kyrie Eleison!_ + +Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little +children. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +Our voices sink in silence and in night. + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +In night, O God of a godless land! + _Amen!_ + +In silence, O Silent God. + _Selah!_ + + + + + George Marion McClellan + + +DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS + +To dreamy languors and the violet mist + Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale +Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, + Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale +Of Summer promises and tender green, + Of a new life and beauty yet unseen. +The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, + Where dying winds of March their branches swing, +While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, + A hand invisible leads on the Spring. + +His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins + With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups, +Where to the warm and passing southern winds, + Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups. +Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, + The fields will spread with every brilliant hue. +But high o'er all the early floral train, + Where softness all the arching sky resumes, +The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, + In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms. + + +A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH + +What dost thou here, thou shining, sinless thing, +With many colored hues and shapely wing? +Why quit the open field and summer air +To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer. + +'Tis meet that we, who this great structure built, +Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, +For we this gilded edifice within +Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin. + +But thou art free from guilt as God on high; +Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, +And leave us here our secret woes to bear, +Confessionals and agonies of prayer. + + +THE HILLS OF SEWANEE + +Sewanee Hills of dear delight, + Prompting my dreams that used to be, +I know you are waiting me still to-night + By the Unika Range of Tennessee. + +The blinking stars in endless space, + The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, +To-night caress your wind-swept face, + And fold you in a thousand dreams. + +Your far outlines, less seen than felt, + Which wind with hill propensities, +In moonlight dreams I see you melt + Away in vague immensities. + +And, far away, I still can feel + Your mystery that ever speaks +Of vanished things, as shadows steal + Across your breast and rugged peaks. + +O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, + And wait so patiently down there, +Your peace takes hold upon my heart + And makes its burden less to bear. + + +THE FEET OF JUDAS + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +The dark and evil passions of his soul, +His secret plot, and sordidness complete, +His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, +And still in love he stooped and washed his feet. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, +His bargain with the priest, and more than this, +In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, +Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And so ineffable his love 'twas meet, +That pity fill his great forgiving heart, +And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, +Who in his Lord had basely sold his part. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And thus a girded servant, self-abased, +Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven +Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, +And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. + +And so if we have ever felt the wrong +Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, +What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, +Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: +Christ washed the feet of Judas. + + + + + William Stanley Braithwaite + + +SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee, +Count 'em two, you make 'em three: +Pluck the man and boy apart +And you'll see into my heart. + + +SANDY STAR + +I + +_Sculptured Worship_ + +The zones of warmth around his heart, + No alien airs had crossed; +But he awoke one morn to feel + The magic numbness of autumnal frost. + +His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, + And tangled emotions, vague and dim; +And sacrificing what he loved + He lost the dearest part of him. + +In sculptured worship now he lives, + His one desire a prisoned ache; +If he can never melt again + His very heart will break. + +II + +_Laughing It Out_ + +He had a whim and laughed it out + Upon the exit of a chance; +He floundered in a sea of doubt-- + If life was real--or just romance. + +Sometimes upon his brow would come + A little pucker of defiance; +He totalled in a word the sum + Of all man made of facts and science. + +And then a hearty laugh would break, + A reassuring shrug of shoulder; +And we would from his fancy take + A faith in death which made life bolder. + +III + +_Exit_ + +No, his exit by the gate + Will not leave the wind ajar; +He will go when it is late + With a misty star. + +One will call, he cannot see; + One will call, he will not hear; +He will take no company + Nor a hope or fear. + +We shall smile who loved him so-- + They who gave him hate will weep; +But for us the winds will blow + Pulsing through his sleep. + +IV + +_The Way_ + +He could not tell the way he came, + Because his chart was lost: +Yet all his way was paved with flame + From the bourne he crossed. + +He did not know the way to go, + Because he had no map: +He followed where the winds blow,-- + And the April sap. + +He never knew upon his brow + The secret that he bore,-- +And laughs away the mystery now + The dark's at his door. + +V + +_Onus Probandi_ + +No more from out the sunset, + No more across the foam, +No more across the windy hills + Will Sandy Star come home. + +He went away to search it + With a curse upon his tongue: +And in his hand the staff of life, + Made music as it swung. + +I wonder if he found it, + And knows the mystery now-- +Our Sandy Star who went away, + With the secret on his brow. + + +DEL CASCAR + +Del Cascar, Del Cascar, +Stood upon a flaming star, +Stood, and let his feet hang down +Till in China the toes turned brown. + +And he reached his fingers over +The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, +And caught a Mandarin at prayer, +And tickled his nose in Orion's hair. + +The sun went down through crimson bars, +And left his blind face battered with stars-- +But the brown toes in China kept +Hot the tears Del Cascar wept. + + +TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES + +Turn me to my yellow leaves, +I am better satisfied; +There is something in me grieves-- +That was never born, and died. +Let me be a scarlet flame +On a windy autumn morn, +I who never had a name, +Nor from breathing image born. +From the margin let me fall +Where the farthest stars sink down, +And the void consumes me,--all +In nothingness to drown. +Let me dream my dream entire, +Withered as an autumn leaf-- +Let me have my vain desire, +Vain--as it is brief. + + +IRONIC: LL.D. + +There are no hollows any more +Between the mountains; the prairie floor +Is like a curtain with the drape +Of the winds' invisible shape; +And nowhere seen and nowhere heard +The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird. + +Now we're traveling, what holds back +Arrival, in the very track +Where the urge put forth; so we stay +And move a thousand miles a day. +Time's a Fancy ringing bells +Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells! + + +SCINTILLA + +I kissed a kiss in youth + Upon a dead man's brow; +And that was long ago,-- + And I'm a grown man now. + +It's lain there in the dust, + Thirty years and more;-- +My lips that set a light + At a dead man's door. + + +SIC VITA + +Heart free, hand free, + Blue above, brown under, +All the world to me + Is a place of wonder. +Sun shine, moon shine, + Stars, and winds a-blowing, +All into this heart of mine + Flowing, flowing, flowing! + +Mind free, step free, + Days to follow after, +Joys of life sold to me + For the price of laughter. +Girl's love, man's love, + Love of work and duty, +Just a will of God's to prove + Beauty, beauty, beauty! + + +RHAPSODY + +I am glad daylong for the gift of song, +For time and change and sorrow; +For the sunset wings and the world-end things +Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. +I am glad for my heart whose gates apart +Are the entrance-place of wonders, +Where dreams come in from the rush and din +Like sheep from the rains and thunders. + + + + + George Reginald Margetson + + +STANZAS FROM THE FLEDGLING BARD AND THE POETRY SOCIETY + +_Part I_ + +I'm out to find the new, the modern school, +Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, +Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, +To write the stuff the editors would buy; +It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,-- +Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown +And build up one instead decked with a new renown. + +A thought is haunting me by night and day, +And in some safe archive I seek to lay it; +I have some startling thing I wish to say, +And they can put me wise just how to say it. +Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, +Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, +And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense. + +Will some kind one direct me to that college +Where every budding genius now is headed, +The only source to gain poetic knowledge, +Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, +Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded,-- +The factory where they shape new feet and meters +That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters. + + * * * * * + +I hope I'll be an eligible student, +E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, +But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,-- +A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance +Who thinks that he can make the muses dance +By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, +To win some fool's applause and please his own desire. + +Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect +That I am not a true, a genuine poet; +If in the poet's colors I am decked +They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it. +I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it, +But be content to gaze with open mind; +I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind. + + * * * * * + +_Part II_ + +I have a problem all alone to solve, +A problem how to find the poetry club, +It makes my sky piece like a top revolve, +For fear that they might mark me for a snob. +They'll call me poetry monger and then dub +Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose, +Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse. + +Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, +In which he sang of all his lovely dears, +Called forth hot condemnation and cold look, +From lesser mortals who were not his peers. +They chided him for telling his affairs, +Because they could not tell their own so well, +They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell. + +They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight, +And all because he dared to tell the truth, +Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,-- +A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. +They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; +Because he blended human with divine, +They branded him "the bard of women and of wine." + +Of course I soak the booze once in a while, +But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it; +I love the girls, they win me with a smile, +But no one knows, for I won't write about it. +And so the fools may never think to doubt it, +When I declare I am a moral man, +As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan. + + * * * * * + +Every man has got a hobby, +Every poet has some fault, +Every sweet contains its bitter, +Every fresh thing has its salt. + +Every mountain has a valley, +Every valley has a hill, +Every ravine is a river, +Every river is a rill. + +Every fool has got some wisdom, +Every wise man is a fool, +Every scholar is a block-head, +Every dunce has been to school. + +Every bad man is a good man, +Every fat man is not stout, +Every good man is a bad man +But 'tis hard to find him out. + +Every strong man is a weak man, +You may doubt it as you please, +Every well man is a sick man, +Every doctor has disease. + + + + + James Weldon Johnson + + +O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS + +O black and unknown bards of long ago, +How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? +How, in your darkness, did you come to know +The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre? +Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes? +Who first from out the still watch, lone and long, +Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise +Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song? + +Heart of what slave poured out such melody +As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains +His spirit must have nightly floated free, +Though still about his hands he felt his chains. +Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye +Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he +That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, +"Nobody knows de trouble I see"? + +What merely living clod, what captive thing, +Could up toward God through all its darkness grope, +And find within its deadened heart to sing +These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope? +How did it catch that subtle undertone, +That note in music heard not with the ears? +How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown, +Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears. + +Not that great German master in his dream +Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars +At the creation, ever heard a theme +Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars +How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir +The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung +Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were +That helped make history when Time was young. + +There is a wide, wide wonder in it all, +That from degraded rest and servile toil +The fiery spirit of the seer should call +These simple children of the sun and soil. +O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed, +You--you alone, of all the long, long line +Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed, +Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. + +You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings; +No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean +Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings +You touched in chord with music empyrean. +You sang far better than you knew; the songs +That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed +Still live,--but more than this to you belongs: +You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ. + + +SENCE YOU WENT AWAY + +Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, +Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light, +Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue, +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you, +Seems lak to me I don't know what to do, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong, +Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long, +Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh, +Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry, +Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye, + Sence you went away. + + +THE CREATION + +(_A Negro Sermon_) + +And God stepped out on space, +And He looked around and said, +_"I'm lonely-- +I'll make me a world."_ + +And far as the eye of God could see +Darkness covered everything, +Blacker than a hundred midnights +Down in a cypress swamp. + +Then God smiled, +And the light broke, +And the darkness rolled up on one side, +And the light stood shining on the other, +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, +And God rolled the light around in His hands +Until He made the sun; +And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. +And the light that was left from making the sun +God gathered it up in a shining ball +And flung it against the darkness, +Spangling the night with the moon and stars. +Then down between +The darkness and the light +He hurled the world; +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God himself stepped down-- +And the sun was on His right hand, +And the moon was on His left; +The stars were clustered about His head, +And the earth was under His feet. +And God walked, and where He trod +His footsteps hollowed the valleys out +And bulged the mountains up. + +Then He stopped and looked and saw +That the earth was hot and barren. +So God stepped over to the edge of the world +And He spat out the seven seas; +He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; +He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; +And the waters above the earth came down, +The cooling waters came down. + +Then the green grass sprouted, +And the little red flowers blossomed, +The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, +And the oak spread out his arms, +The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, +And the rivers ran down to the sea; +And God smiled again, +And the rainbow appeared, +And curled itself around His shoulder. + +Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand +Over the sea and over the land, +And He said, _"Bring forth! Bring forth!"_ +And quicker than God could drop His hand, +Fishes and fowls +And beasts and birds +Swam the rivers and the seas, +Roamed the forests and the woods, +And split the air with their wings. +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God walked around, +And God looked around +On all that He had made. +He looked at His sun, +And He looked at His moon, +'And He looked at His little stars; +He looked on His world +With all its living things, +And God said, _"I'm lonely still."_ + +Then God sat down +On the side of a hill where He could think; +By a deep, wide river He sat down; +With His head in His hands, +God thought and thought, +Till He thought, _"I'll make me a man!"_ + +Up from the bed of the river +God scooped the clay; +And by the bank of the river +He kneeled Him down; +And there the great God Almighty +Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, +Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, +Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; +This Great God, +Like a mammy bending over her baby, +Kneeled down in the dust +Toiling over a lump of clay +Till He shaped it in His own image; + +Then into it He blew the breath of life, +And man became a living soul. +Amen. Amen. + + +THE WHITE WITCH + +O brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +Trust not your prowess nor your strength, +Your only safety lies in flight; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + +The great white witch you have not seen? +Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, +Like nursery children you have looked +For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; +But no, not so; the witch appears +In all the glowing charms of youth. + +Her lips are like carnations, red, +Her face like new-born lilies, fair, +Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, +She moves with subtle grace and air, +And all about her head there floats +The golden glory of her hair. + +But though she always thus appears +In form of youth and mood of mirth, +Unnumbered centuries are hers, +The infant planets saw her birth; +The child of throbbing Life is she, +Twin sister to the greedy earth. + +And back behind those smiling lips, +And down within those laughing eyes, +And underneath the soft caress +Of hand and voice and purring sighs, +The shadow of the panther lurks, +The spirit of the vampire lies. + +For I have seen the great white witch, +And she has led me to her lair, +And I have kissed her red, red lips +And cruel face so white and fair; +Around me she has twined her arms, +And bound me with her yellow hair. + +I felt those red lips burn and sear +My body like a living coal; +Obeyed the power of those eyes +As the needle trembles to the pole; +And did not care although I felt +The strength go ebbing from my soul. + +Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, +And heard your laughter loud and gay, +And in your voices she has caught +The echo of a far-off day, +When man was closer to the earth; +And she has marked you for her prey. + +She feels the old Antaean strength +In you, the great dynamic beat +Of primal passions, and she sees +In you the last besieged retreat +Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, +Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet. + +O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +O, younger brothers mine, beware! +Look not upon her beauty bright; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + + +MOTHER NIGHT + +Eternities before the first-born day, + Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, + Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, + A brooding mother over chaos lay. +And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, + Shall run their fiery courses and then claim + The haven of the darkness whence they came; + Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. + +So when my feeble sun of life burns out, + And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, + I shall, full weary of the feverish light, +Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, + And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep + Into the quiet bosom of the Night. + + +O SOUTHLAND! + +O Southland! O Southland! + Have you not heard the call, +The trumpet blown, the word made known + To the nations, one and all? +The watchword, the hope-word, + Salvation's present plan? +A gospel new, for all--for you: + Man shall be saved by man. + +O Southland! O Southland! + Do you not hear to-day +The mighty beat of onward feet, + And know you not their way? +'Tis forward, 'tis upward, + On to the fair white arch +Of Freedom's dome, and there is room + For each man who would march. + +O Southland, fair Southland! + Then why do you still cling +To an idle age and a musty page, + To a dead and useless thing? +'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time! + The world is young again! +And God's above, and God is love, + And men are only men. + +O Southland! my Southland! + O birthland! do not shirk +The toilsome task, nor respite ask, + But gird you for the work. +Remember, remember + That weakness stalks in pride; +That he is strong who helps along + The faint one at his side. + + +BROTHERS + +See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air +Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he +Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye! +No light is there; none, save the glint that shines +In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs +Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap. + + How came this beast in human shape and form? +Speak, man!--We call you man because you wear +His shape--How are you thus? Are you not from +That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race +Which we have known three centuries? Not from +That more than faithful race which through three wars +Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes +Without a single breach of trust? Speak out! + + I am, and am not. + + Then who, why are you? + + I am a thing not new, I am as old +As human nature. I am that which lurks, +Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed; +The ancient trait which fights incessantly +Against restraint, balks at the upward climb; +The weight forever seeking to obey +The law of downward pull;--and I am more: +The bitter fruit am I of planted seed; +The resultant, the inevitable end +Of evil forces and the powers of wrong. + + Lessons in degradation, taught and learned, +The memories of cruel sights and deeds, +The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate +Filtered through fifteen generations have +Sprung up and found in me sporadic life. +In me the muttered curse of dying men, +On me the stain of conquered women, and +Consuming me the fearful fires of lust, +Lit long ago, by other hands than mine. +In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers +Of wretches now long dead,--their dire bequests,-- +In me the echo of the stifled cry +Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts. + + I claim no race, no race claims me; I am +No more than human dregs; degenerate; +The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin; +I am--just what I am. . . . The race that fed +Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same +To-day, but I-- + Enough, the brute must die! +Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist +The fire much longer than this slender pine. +Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him! Wait! +Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose +The agony and terror in his face. + +And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames +Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek! +And there's another! Wilder than the first. +Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on +The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so! +Now let it slowly blaze again. See there! +He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out, +Searching around in vain appeal for help! +Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh +Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts +Down through the coils of chain that hold erect +The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree. + + Stop! to each man no more than one man's share. +You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain-- +Let us divide its links; this skull, of course, +In fair division, to the leader comes. + + And now his fiendish crime has been avenged; +Let us back to our wives and children.--Say, +What did he mean by those last muttered words, +_"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?_ + + +FIFTY YEARS +(1863-1913) + +_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation +Proclamation._ + +O brothers mine, to-day we stand + Where half a century sweeps our ken, +Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, + Struck off our bonds and made us men. + +Just fifty years--a winter's day-- + As runs the history of a race; +Yet, as we look back o'er the way, + How distant seems our starting place! + +Look farther back! Three centuries! + To where a naked, shivering score, +Snatched from their haunts across the seas, + Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. + +This land is ours by right of birth, + This land is ours by right of toil; +We helped to turn its virgin earth, + Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. + +Where once the tangled forest stood,-- + Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,-- +Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, + The cotton white, the yellow corn. + +To gain these fruits that have been earned, + To hold these fields that have been won, +Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, + Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. + +That Banner which is now the type + Of victory on field and flood-- +Remember, its first crimson stripe + Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. + +And never yet has come the cry-- + When that fair flag has been assailed-- +For men to do, for men to die, + That we have faltered or have failed. + +We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, + Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze +Held in our hands, it has been borne + And planted far across the seas. + +And never yet,--O haughty Land, + Let us, at least, for this be praised-- +Has one black, treason-guided hand + Ever against that flag been raised. + +Then should we speak but servile words, + Or shall we hang our heads in shame? +Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, + And fear our heritage to claim? + +No! stand erect and without fear, + And for our foes let this suffice-- +We've bought a rightful sonship here, + And we have more than paid the price. + +And yet, my brothers, well I know + The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, +The spirit bowed beneath the blow, + The heart grown faint from wounds and stings; + +The staggering force of brutish might, + That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; +The long, vain waiting through the night + To hear some voice for justice raised. + +Full well I know the hour when hope + Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere +Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope + With hands uplifted in despair. + +Courage! Look out, beyond, and see + The far horizon's beckoning span! +Faith in your God-known destiny! + We are a part of some great plan. + +Because the tongues of Garrison + And Phillips now are cold in death, +Think you their work can be undone? + Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? + +Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? + That Lovejoy was but idly slain? +Or do you think those precious drops + From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain? + +That for which millions prayed and sighed, + That for which tens of thousands fought, +For which so many freely died, + God cannot let it come to naught. + + + + + John Wesley Holloway + + +MISS MELERLEE + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Oh, you're pretty sight to see! +Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face, +An' willowy form chuck full o' grace-- +De sweetes' gal Ah evah see, +An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +You're de berry gal fo' me! +Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, +An' silky arm so plump an' bare! +Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes, +An' de way Ah love you,--goodness knows! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! +Ah nevah seed yo' face befo' +An' lakly won't again no mo'; +But yo' sweet smile will follow me +Cla'r into eternity! + Farewell, Miss Melerlee! + + +CALLING THE DOCTOR + +Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + +Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f; +Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f; +Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do, + An' so Ah sent fo' you. + +"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: +Firs',--horhound drops an' catnip tea; +Den rock candy soaked in rum, +An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum; +Next Ah tried was castor oil, +An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil; +Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood; +But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. +Den when home remedies seem to shirk, +Dem pantry bottles was put to work: + +Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, +"Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," +Ready Relief, an' A.B.C., +An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z. +An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, +Dey nevah done no good at all. + +Mah appetite begun to fail; +'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, +Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always said +When yo' can't eat you're almost dead. + +So Ah got scared an' sent for you.-- +Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. +Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + + +THE CORN SONG + +Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,-- + Lis'n to 'im now!-- +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin', at his plow! +In de early mornin', + Thoo de hazy air, +Loud an' clear, sweet an' strong + Comes de music rare: + + "O mah dovee, Who-ah! + Do you love me? Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, + Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; + "Whoa! Har! Come'ere!" + +Don't yo' love a co'n song? + How it stirs yo' blood! +Ever'body list'nin', + In de neighborhood! +Standin' in yo' front do' + In de misty mo'n, +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin' in de co'n: + + "O Miss Julie, Who-ah! + Love me truly, Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, + W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: + "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!" + +O you jolly black boy, + Yod'lin' in de co'n, +Callin' to yo' dawlin', + In de dewy mo'n, +Love 'er, boy, forevah, + Yodel ever' day; +Only le' me lis'n, + As yo' sing away: + + "O mah dawlin'! Who-ah! + Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Tu'n aroun' anothah row, + Holler to yo' mule so: + "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!" + + +BLACK MAMMIES + +If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, +Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- +Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- +Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy. + +You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; +An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; +But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, +An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one. + +Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, +An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: +If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', +Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'. + +If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, +Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; +If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, +Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere. + +She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; +But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; +Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, +She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down. + +She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, +An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; +She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; +She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God! + +She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word," +Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd," +If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, +It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out; + +But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, +An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; +An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',-- +Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'! + + + + + Leslie Pinckney Hill + + +TUSKEGEE + +Wherefore this busy labor without rest? +Is it an idle dream to which we cling, +Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing +Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best. +By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." +So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, +And so the thought is wedded to the thing; +But what shall be the end, and what the test? +Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see +Not many steps ahead, but this we know-- +If all our toilsome building is in vain, +Availing not to set our manhood free, +If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, +The South will wear eternally a stain. + + +CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE + +Come home with me a little space +And browse about our ancient place, +Lay by your wonted troubles here +And have a turn of Christmas cheer. +These sober walls of weathered stone +Can tell a romance of their own, +And these wide rooms of devious line +Are kindly meant in their design. +Sometimes the north wind searches through, +But he shall not be rude to you. +We'll light a log of generous girth +For winter comfort, and the mirth +Of healthy children you shall see +About a sparkling Christmas tree. +Eleanor, leader of the fold, +Hermione with heart of gold, +Elaine with comprehending eyes, +And two more yet of coddling size, +Natalie pondering all that's said, +And Mary with the cherub head-- +All these shall give you sweet content +And care-destroying merriment, +While one with true madonna grace +Moves round the glowing fire-place +Where father loves to muse aside +And grandma sits in silent pride. +And you may chafe the wasting oak, +Or freely pass the kindly joke +To mix with nuts and home-made cake +And apples set on coals to bake. +Or some fine carol we will sing +In honor of the Manger-King, +Or hear great Milton's organ verse +Or Plato's dialogue rehearse +What Socrates with his last breath +Sublimely said of life and death. +These dear delights we fain would share +With friend and kinsman everywhere, +And from our door see them depart +Each with a little lighter heart. + + +SUMMER MAGIC + +So many cares to vex the day, + So many fears to haunt the night, +My heart was all but weaned away + From every lure of old delight. +Then summer came, announced by June, + With beauty, miracle and mirth. +She hung aloft the rounding moon, + She poured her sunshine on the earth, +She drove the sap and broke the bud, + She set the crimson rose afire. +She stirred again my sullen blood, + And waked in me a new desire. +Before my cottage door she spread + The softest carpet nature weaves, +And deftly arched above my head + A canopy of shady leaves. +Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, + Her days were bowers rife with song, +And many a scheme did she devise + To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong. +For on the hill or in the dell, + Or where the brook went leaping by +Or where the fields would surge and swell + With golden wheat or bearded rye, +I felt her heart against my own, + I breathed the sweetness of her breath, +Till all the cark of time had flown, + And I was lord of life and death. + + +THE TEACHER + +Lord, who am I to teach the way +To little children day by day, +So prone myself to go astray? + +I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know +How faint they flicker and how low +The candles of my knowledge glow. + +I teach them POWER to will and do, +But only now to learn anew +My own great weakness through and through. + +I teach them LOVE for all mankind +And all God's creatures, but I find +My love comes lagging far behind. + +Lord, if their guide I still must be, +Oh let the little children see +The teacher leaning hard on Thee. + + + + + Edward Smyth Jones + + +A SONG OF THANKS + +For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, +For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, +For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, +For her coffers filled with their countless worth, +For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, +For the rippling streams which turn the mills, +For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, +For the songs of gladness on the gale,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, +For the bounty which the rich soil yields, +For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, +For the sun which ripens the golden grains, +For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, +For the stallčd ox and the fruitful vine, +For the tubers large and cotton white, +For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, +For the swan which floats near the river-banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, +For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, +For the plum and the peach and the apple red, +For the dear old press where the wine is tread, +For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, +And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, +For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, +For the game which hide in the shady nooks,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, +For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines, +For the silver ores of a thousand fold, +For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, +For the river boat and the flying train, +For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, +For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, +For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, +For the peace and plenty together share, +For the Hand which guides us from above, +For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, +For the blessed home with its children gay, +For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, +For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, +We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + + + + + Ray G. Dandridge + + +TIME TO DIE + +Black brother, think you life so sweet +That you would live at any price? +Does mere existence balance with +The weight of your great sacrifice? +Or can it be you fear the grave +Enough to live and die a slave? +O Brother! be it better said, +When you are gone and tears are shed, +That your death was the stepping stone +Your children's children cross'd upon. +Men have died that men might live: +Look every foeman in the eye! +If necessary, your life give +For something, ere in vain you die. + + +'ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD + +(_To R. V.P._) + +Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings +Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, +Truint Angel, wifout wings, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, +Bekaze I foul de time an' key, +Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head? + +O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, +Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, +Is sho a God gib natchel prize, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, +Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, +Jes to roun' you out, complete, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, +Knows yore evah A, B, C, +Plum on down to X, Y, Z, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +De man doan know how much he miss, +Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; +Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head! + +I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, +(By charm or craf'--doan mattah how) +You stay jes lak you is right now, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + + +ZALKA PEETRUZA + +(_Who Was Christened Lucy Jane_) + +She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, +With swaying arms and flying feet, +'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, +Her all was dancing--save her face. + +A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, +Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; +A body, marshalled by the will, +Kept dancing while a heart stood still: + +And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, +Looked over heads to empty air, +As though they sought to find therein +Redemption for a maiden sin. + +'Twas thus, amid force driven grace, +We found the lost look on her face; +And then, to us, did it occur +That, though we saw--we saw not her. + + +SPRIN' FEVAH + +Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy +Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; +An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; +Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, +Dough de task et han' is easy, +An' de day am fair an' breezy, +Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'. + +Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, +Kaze it jes won't be denied; +Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; +Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; +Doctahs fail to analyze it; +So I yiel's (dough I despise it) +To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'. + + +DE DRUM MAJAH + +He's struttin' sho ernuff, +Wearin' a lady's muff +En' ways erpon his head, +Red coat ob reddest red, +Purtty white satin ves', +Gole braid ercross de ches'; +Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, +Prancin' out dar in frunt, + Leadin' his ban'. + +Wen dat ah whistle blows, +Each man behine him knows +'Zacklee whut he mus' do; +You bet! he dues it, too. +W'en dat brass stick he twirls, +Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls +Looks on wid longin' eyes, +Dey simpley idolize + Dat han'sum man. + +Sweet fife an' piccalo, +Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' +Slide ho'n an' saxophones, +Jazz syncopated tones, +Snare drum an' lead cornet, +Alto an' clarinet, +Las', but not least, dar cum +Cymbals an' big bass drum-- + O! whut a ban'! + +Cose, we all undahstan' +Each piece he'ps maik de ban', +But dey all mus' be led, +Sum one mus' be de head: +No doubt, de centipede +Has all de laigs he need, +But take erway de head, +Po' centipede am dead; + So am de ban'. + + + + + Fenton Johnson + + +CHILDREN OF THE SUN + +We are children of the sun, + Rising sun! +Weaving Southern destiny, +Waiting for the mighty hour +When our Shiloh shall appear +With the flaming sword of right, +With the steel of brotherhood, +And emboss in crimson die +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We are the star-dust folk, + Striving folk! +Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; +Seething passions wrought through wrongs, +Led us where the moon rays dip +In the night of dull despair, +Showed us where the star gleams shine, +And the mystic symbols glow-- +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We have come through cloud and mist, + Mighty men! +Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, +Reared for us a mystic throne +In the splendor of the skies, +That shall always be for us, +Children of the Nazarene, +Children who shall ever sing +Liberty! Fraternity! + + +THE NEW DAY + +From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince + of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. +Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was + drowned by the happy shouting of the people. +From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant + from the throats of white-robed angels: + + Blow your trumpets, little children! + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Blow your blast that Peace might know + She is Queen of God's great army. + With the crying blood of millions + We have written deep her name + In the Book of all the Ages; + With the lilies in the valley, + With the roses by the Mersey, + With the golden flower of Jersey + We have crowned her smooth young temples. + Where her footsteps cease to falter + Golden grain will greet the morning, + Where her chariot descends + Shall be broken down the altars + Of the gods of dark disturbance. + Nevermore shall men know suffering, + Nevermore shall women wailing + Shake to grief the God of Heaven. + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Little children, blow your trumpets! + +From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I + heard the music of the old slave songs. +I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly + fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. +I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the + crimson in my veins leapt furiously. + + Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought + In No Man's Land that peace might come again! + Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave + Red blood to save the freedom of the world! + We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; + But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared + Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. + So when the bugle blast had called us forth + We went not like the surly brute of yore + But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world + The freedom that we never knew nor shared. + These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down + As Samson in the temple of the gods; + Unloosen them and let us breathe the air + That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. + For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, + Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself; + And now we ask of thee our liberty, + Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes. + +I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land. + + +TIRED + +I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's +civilization. + +Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane. + +I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, +shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of +Mike's barrels. + +You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to +dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit. + +You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting +the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon. + +Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It +is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored. + +Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars +marked my destiny. + +I am tired of civilization. + + +THE BANJO PLAYER + +There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. +I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing + my songs of the cabin and the field. At the + Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets + in March; there is always food and drink for me + there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. + Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap + their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle. + +But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman +called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? + + +THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife. + +My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two +days after his insurance expired. + +I had nothing, so I had to go to work. + +All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted +the men of both races. + +Starvation danced with me. + +So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales +of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to +Vice. + +Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around. + +Gin is better than all the water in Lethe. + + + + + R. Nathaniel Dett + + +THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE + +Staccato! Staccato! +Leggier agitato! + In and out does the melody twist-- +Unique proposition +Is this composition. + (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) +Now in the dominant +Theme ringing prominent, + Bass still repeating its one monotone, +Double notes crying, +Up keyboard go flying, + The change to the minor comes in like a groan. +Without a cessation +A chaste modulation + Hastens adown to subdominant key, +Where melody mellow-like +Singing so 'cello-like + Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. +Scarce is this finished +When chords all diminished + Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, +A pedal-point wonder +Rivaling thunder. + Now all is mad agitation again. +Like laughter jolly +Begins the finale; + Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend +Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. + Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end! + + + + + Georgia Douglas Johnson + + +THE HEART OF A WOMAN + +The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, +As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, +Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam +In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. + +The heart of a woman falls back with the night, +And enters some alien cage in its plight, +And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars +While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. + + +YOUTH + +The dew is on the grasses, dear, + The blush is on the rose, +And swift across our dial-youth, + A shifting shadow goes. + +The primrose moments, lush with bliss, + Exhale and fade away, +Life may renew the Autumn time, + But nevermore the May! + + +LOST ILLUSIONS + +Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, +Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, +Why did I stray from their shelter and grow +Into the sadness that follows--to know! + +Impotent atom with desolate gaze +Threading the tumult of hazardous ways-- +Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth +Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth! + + +I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME + +I want to die while you love me, + While yet you hold me fair, +While laughter lies upon my lips + And lights are in my hair. + +I want to die while you love me, + And bear to that still bed, +Your kisses turbulent, unspent + To warm me when I'm dead. + +I want to die while you love me + Oh, who would care to live +Till love has nothing more to ask + And nothing more to give! + +I want to die while you love me + And never, never see +The glory of this perfect day + Grow dim or cease to be. + + +WELT + +Would I might mend the fabric of my youth +That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, +Would I might compromise awhile with truth +Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies. + +For I would go a further while with you, +And drain this cup so tantalant and fair +Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew, +Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair! + + +MY LITTLE DREAMS + +I'm folding up my little dreams +Within my heart to-night, +And praying I may soon forget +The torture of their sight. + +For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow +With fell relentless art-- +I'm folding up my little dreams +To-night, within my heart! + + + + + Claude McKay + + +THE LYNCHING + +His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. +His father, by the crudest way of pain, +Had bidden him to his bosom once again; +The awful sin remained still unforgiven. +All night a bright and solitary star +(Perchance the one that ever guided him, +Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) +Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. +Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view +The ghastly body swaying in the sun: +The women thronged to look, but never a one +Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; +And little lads, lynchers that were to be, +Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. + + +IF WE MUST DIE + +If we must die--let it not be like hogs +Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, +While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, +Making their mock at our accursed lot. +If we must die--oh, let us nobly die, +So that our precious blood may not be shed +In vain; then even the monsters we defy +Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! + +Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; +Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, +And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! +What though before us lies the open grave? +Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, +Pressed to the wall, dying, but--fighting back! + + +TO THE WHITE FIENDS + +Think you I am not fiend and savage too? +Think you I could not arm me with a gun +And shoot down ten of you for every one +Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? +Be not deceived, for every deed you do +I could match--out-match: am I not Africa's son, +Black of that black land where black deeds are done? + +But the Almighty from the darkness drew +My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light +Awhile to burn on the benighted earth, +Thy dusky face I set among the white +For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; +Before the world is swallowed up in night, +To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth! + + +THE HARLEM DANCER + +Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes +And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; +Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes +Blown by black players upon a picnic day. +She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, +The light gauze hanging loose about her form; +To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm +Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. +Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls +Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, +The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, +Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; +But, looking at her falsely-smiling face +I knew her self was not in that strange place. + + +HARLEM SHADOWS + +I hear the halting footsteps of a lass + In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall +Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass + Eager to heed desire's insistent call: +Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet + Go prowling through the night from street to street. + +Through the long night until the silver break + Of day the little gray feet know no rest, +Through the lone night until the last snow-flake + Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, +The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet + Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. + +Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way + Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, +Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. + The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! +Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet + In Harlem wandering from street to street. + + +AFTER THE WINTER + +Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, + And against the morning's white +The shivering birds beneath the eaves + Have sheltered for the night, +We'll turn our faces southward, love, + Toward the summer isle +Where bamboos spire the shafted grove + And wide-mouthed orchids smile. + +And we will seek the quiet hill + Where towers the cotton tree, +And leaps the laughing crystal rill, + And works the droning bee. +And we will build a lonely nest + Beside an open glade, +And there forever will we rest, + O love--O nut-brown maid! + + +SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE + +Too green the springing April grass, +Too blue the silver speckled sky, +For me to linger here, alas, +While happy winds go laughing by, +Wasting the golden hours indoors, +Washing windows and scrubbing floors. + +Too wonderful the April night, +Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, +The stars too gloriously bright, +For me to spend the evening hours, +When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, +Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping. + + +THE TIRED WORKER + +O whisper, O my soul!--the afternoon +Is waning into evening--whisper soft! +Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon +From out its misty veil will swing aloft! +Be patient, weary body, soon the night +Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, +And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite +To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. +The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; +Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. +But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? +O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! +Weary my veins, my brain, my life,--have pity! +No! Once again the hard, the ugly city. + + +THE BARRIER + +I must not gaze at them although + Your eyes are dawning day; +I must not watch you as you go + Your sun-illumined way; + +I hear but I must never heed + The fascinating note, +Which, fluting like a river-reed, + Comes from your trembling throat; + +I must not see upon your face + Love's softly glowing spark; +For there's the barrier of race, + You're fair and I am dark. + + +TO O. E. A. + +Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, + And there's a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in the night. +Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, + The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight +Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. + I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold, + Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. +But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the +eucharis +Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss, + You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness, +Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth, +All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your +birth: + O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong, + But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with +flesh, +Forever, life-long. + + +FLAME-HEART + +So much have I forgotten in ten years, + So much in ten brief years; I have forgot +What time the purple apples come to juice + And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; +Forgotten is the special, startling season + Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting, +What time of year the ground doves brown the fields + And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: +I have forgotten much, but still remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +I still recall the honey-fever grass, + But I cannot bring back to mind just when +We rooted them out of the ping-wing path + To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. +I often try to think in what sweet month + The languid painted ladies used to dapple +The yellow bye road mazing from the main, + Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: +I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year + We cheated school to have our fling at tops? +What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy + Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? +Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, + Even the sacred moments, when we played, +All innocent of passion uncorrupt, + At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade: +We were so happy, happy,--I remember +Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. + + +TWO-AN'-SIX + +Merry voices chatterin', +Nimble feet dem patterin', +Big an' little, faces gay, +Happy day dis market day. + +Sateday, de marnin' break, +Soon, soon market-people wake; +An' de light shine from de moon +While dem boy, wid pantaloon +Roll up ober dem knee-pan, +'Tep across de buccra lan' +To de pastur whe' de harse +Feed along wid de jackass, +An' de mule cant' in de track +Wid him tail up in him back, +All de ketchin' to defy, +No ca' how dem boy might try. + +In de early marnin'-tide, +When de cocks crow on de hill +An' de stars are shinin' still, +Mirrie by de fireside +Hots de coffee for de lads +Comin' ridin' on de pads +T'rown across dem animul-- +Donkey, harse too, an' de mule, +Which at last had come do'n cool. +On de bit dem hol' dem full: +Racin' ober pastur' lan', +See dem comin' ebery man, +Comin' fe de steamin' tea +Ober hilly track an' lea. + +Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road +Trottin' wid him ushal load, +Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, +Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane. + +Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, +Drivin' 'long de market way; +Whole week grindin' sugar cane +T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain, +Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, +He goes seekin' his reward, +While he's thinkin' in him min' +Of de dear ones lef behin', +Of de loved though ailin' wife, +Darlin' treasure of his life, +An' de picknies, six in all, +Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall: +Seben lovin' ones in need, +Seben hungry mouths fe feed; +On deir wants he thinks alone, +Neber dreamin' of his own, +But gwin' on wid joyful face +Till him re'ch de market-place. + +Sugar bears no price to-day, +Though it is de mont' o' May, +When de time is hellish hot, +An' de water cocoanut +An' de cane bebridge is nice, +Mix' up wid a lilly ice. +Big an' little, great an' small, +Afou yam is all de call; +Sugar tup an' gill a quart, +Yet de people hab de heart +Wantin' brater top o' i', +Want de sweatin' higgler fe +Ram de pan an' pile i' up, +Yet sell i' fe so-so tup. + +Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, +As de market is so bad; +'Pon him han' him res' him chin, +Quietly sit do'n thinkin' +Of de loved wife sick in bed, +An' de children to be fed-- +What de laborers would say +When dem know him couldn' pay; +Also what about de mill +Whe' him hire from ole Bill; +So him think, an' think on so, +Till him t'oughts no more could go. + +Then he got up an' began +Pickin' up him sugar-pan: +In his ears rang t'rough de din +"Only two-an'-six a tin'." +What a tale he'd got to tell, +How bad, bad de sugar sell! +Tekin' out de lee amount, +Him set do'n an' begin count +All de time him min' deh doubt +How expenses would pay out; +Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, +Sugar sell fe two-an'-six! + +So he journeys on de way, +Feelinl sad dis market day; +No e'en buy a little cake +To gi'e baby when she wake,-- +Passin' 'long de candy-shop +'Douten eben mek a stop +To buy drops fe las'y son, +For de lilly cash nea' done. +So him re'ch him own a groun', +An' de children scamper roun', +Each one stretchin' out him han', +Lookin' to de poor sad man. + +Oh, how much he felt de blow, +As he watched dem face fall low, +When dem wait an' nuttin' came +An' drew back deir han's wid shame! +But de sick wife kissed his brow: +"Sun, don't get down-hearted now; +Ef we only pay expense +We mus' wuk we common-sense, +Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, +Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; +We mus' try mek two ends meet +Neber mind how hard be it. +We won't mind de haul an' pull, +While dem pickny belly full." + +An' de shadow lef' him face, +An' him felt an inward peace, +As he blessed his better part +For her sweet an' gentle heart: +"Dear one o' my heart, my breat', +Won't I lub you to de deat'? +When my heart is weak an' sad, +Who but you can mek it glad?" + +So dey kissed an' kissed again, +An' deir t'oughts were not on pain, +But was 'way down in de sout' +Where dey'd wedded in deir yout', +In de marnin' of deir life +Free from all de grief an' strife, +Happy in de marnin' light, +Never thinkin' of de night. + +So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; +An' de profit it could bring, +A'ter all de business fix', +Was a princely two-an'-six. + + + + + Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. + + +A PRAYER + +As I lie in bed, +Flat on my back; +There passes across my ceiling +An endless panorama of things-- +Quick steps of gay-voiced children, +Adolescence in its wondering silences, +Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, +Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, +Old men gazing silently thru the twilight +Into the beyond. +O God, give me words to make my dream-children live. + + +AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? + +Brother, come! +And let us go unto our God. +And when we stand before Him +I shall say-- +"Lord, I do not hate, +I am hated. +I scourge no one, +I am scourged. +I covet no lands, +My lands are coveted. +I mock no peoples, +My people are mocked." +And, brother, what shall you say? + + +IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK? + +Why do men smile when I speak, +And call my speech +The whimperings of a babe +That cries but knows not what it wants? +Is it because I am black? + +Why do men sneer when I arise +And stand in their councils, +And look them eye to eye, +And speak their tongue? +Is it because I am black? + + +THE BAND OF GIDEON + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, +The howling wind is their war-cry, +The thunder's roll is their trump's peal, +And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men below rear temples high +And mock their God with reasons why, +And live in arrogance, sin and shame, +And rape their souls for the world's good name. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The band of Gideon roam the sky +And view the earth with baleful eye; +In holy wrath they scourge the land +With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, +And "Lord have mercy on my soul," +Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, +In agony searching for their God. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men repent and then forget +That heavenly wrath they ever met, +The band of Gideon yet will come +And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + + +RAIN MUSIC + +On the dusty earth-drum + Beats the falling rain; +Now a whispered murmur, + Now a louder strain. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks, + On an ancient drum, +Beat the mellow music + Bidding life to come. + +Chords of earth awakened, + Notes of greening spring, +Rise and fall triumphant + Over every thing. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks + Beat the long tattoo-- +God, the Great Musician, + Calling life anew. + + +SUPPLICATION + +I am so tired and weary, + So tired of the endless fight, +So weary of waiting the dawn + And finding endless night. + +That I ask but rest and quiet-- + Rest for days that are gone, +And quiet for the little space + That I must journey on. + + + + + Roscoe C. Jamison + +THE NEGRO SOLDIERS + +These truly are the Brave, +These men who cast aside +Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave +Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide +That moves away, to suffer and to die +For Freedom--when their own is yet denied! +O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, +Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified! + +These truly are the Free, +These souls that grandly rise +Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, +Who march to war with visions in their eyes +Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, +Aforetime, while they front the firing line. +Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, +Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, +That those who mock might find a better way! + + + + + Jessie Fauset + + +LA VIE C'EST LA VIE + +On summer afternoons I sit +Quiescent by you in the park, +And idly watch the sunbeams gild +And tint the ash-trees' bark. + +Or else I watch the squirrels frisk +And chaffer in the grassy lane; +And all the while I mark your voice +Breaking with love and pain. + +I know a woman who would give +Her chance of heaven to take my place; +To see the love-light in your eyes, +The love-glow on your face! + +And there's a man whose lightest word +Can set my chilly blood afire; +Fulfilment of his least behest +Defines my life's desire. + +But he will none of me, Nor I +Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said +The world is full of jests like these.-- +I wish that I were dead. + + +CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE + +Oh little Christ, why do you sigh + As you look down to-night +On breathless France, on bleeding France, + And all her dreadful plight? +What bows your childish head so low? + What turns your cheek so white? + +Oh little Christ, why do you moan, + What is it that you see +In mourning France, in martyred France, + And her great agony? +Does she recall your own dark day, + Your own Gethsemane? + +Oh little Christ, why do you weep, + Why flow your tears so sore +For pleading France, for praying France, + A suppliant at God's door? +"God sweetened not my cup," you say, + "Shall He for France do more?" + +Oh little Christ, what can this mean, + Why must this horror be +For fainting France, for faithful France, + And her sweet chivalry? +"I bled to free all men," you say + "France bleeds to keep men free." + +Oh little, lovely Christ--you smile! + What guerdon is in store +For gallant France, for glorious France, + And all her valiant corps? +"Behold I live, and France, like me, + Shall live for evermore." + + +DEAD FIRES + +If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, + Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. +Better the wound forever seeking balm + Than this gray calm! + +Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, + The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, +Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath + Than passion's death! + + +ORIFLAMME + +"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would +sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I +would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am +groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I +don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the +stars!'"--_Sojourner Truth_. + +I think I see her sitting bowed and black, + Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, +Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet + Still looking at the stars. + +Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, + Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, +Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, + Still visioning the stars! + + +OBLIVION + +_From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)_ + +I hope when I am dead that I shall lie + In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why, +But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot + Unknown to every one, by every one forgot. + +There lying I should taste with my dead breath + The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; +And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, + The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state. + +To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears + That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; +There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless + Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness. + + + + + Anne Spencer + + +BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN + +Garden of Shushan! +After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: +Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, +Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; +Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when +Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; +And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay +Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to +Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine +Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind-- +Slave, send Vashti to her King! + +The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame +The marbled towers of Shushan: +So at each day's wane, two peers--the one in +Heaven, the other on earth--welcome with their +Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen. + +Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee +Finding glory for mine head,--still, nearly shamed +Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp +Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; +Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, +Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; +Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder +Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; +Then--Sharon's Rose in my arms. + +And I am hard to force the petals wide; +And you are fast to suffer and be sad. +Is any prophet come to teach a new thing +Now in a more apt time? +Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; +How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; +How to the altar may not come to break and drink, +Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit! + +I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; +I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when +I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. +I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. +No woman in all Persia sets out strange action +To confuse Persia's lord-- +Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; +I, thy King, so say! + + +AT THE CARNIVAL + +Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, +I desire a name for you, +Nice, as a right glove fits; +For you--who amid the malodorous +Mechanics of this unlovely thing, +Are darling of spirit and form. +I know you--a glance, and what you are +Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. +My Limousine-Lady knows you, or +Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark +Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? +Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. +The bull-necked man knows you--this first time +His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health +And thinks not of his avocation. +I came incuriously-- +Set on no diversion save that my mind +Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds +In the presence of a blind crowd. +The color of life was gray. +Everywhere the setting seemed right +For my mood. +Here the sausage and garlic booth +Sent unholy incense skyward; +There a quivering female-thing +Gestured assignations, and lied +To call it dancing; +There, too, were games of chance +With chances for none; +But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! +Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free +The gaze you send the crowd, +As though you know the dearth of beauty +In its sordid life. +We need you--my Limousine-Lady, +The bull-necked man and I. +Seeing you here brave and water-clean, +Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, +I am swift to feel that what makes +The plodder glad is good; and +Whatever is good is God. +The wonder is that you are here; +I have seen the queer in queer places, +But never before a heaven-fed +Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! +Little Diver, Destiny for you, +Like as for me, is shod in silence; +Years may seep into your soul +The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; +I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day! + + +THE WIFE-WOMAN + +Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things +From earth to star; +Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and +Over the border the bar. +Though rank and fierce the mariner +Sailing the seven seas, +He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, +Coaxing the Pleiades. + +I cannot love them; and I feel your glad +Chiding from the grave, +That my all was only worth at all, what +Joy to you it gave. +These seven links the _Law_ compelled +For the human chain-- +I cannot love _them_; and _you_, oh, +Seven-fold months in Flanders slain! + +A jungle there, a cave here, bred six +And a million years, +Sure and strong, mate for mate, such +Love as culture fears; +I gave you clear the oil and wine; +You saved me your hob and hearth-- +See how _even_ life may be ere the +Sickle comes and leaves a swath. + +But I can wait the seven of moons, +Or years I spare, +Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend +A drop, nor share-- +So long but outlives a smile and +A silken gown; +Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, +And you, glory-clad, reach down. + + +TRANSLATION + +We trekked into a far country, +My friend and I. +Our deeper content was never spoken, +But each knew all the other said. +He told me how calm his soul was laid +By the lack of anvil and strife. +"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note +To please the harmony of this sweet silence." +And when at the day's end +We laid tired bodies 'gainst +The loose warm sands, +And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; +When star after star came out +To guard their lovers in oblivion-- +My soul so leapt that my evening prayer +Stole my morning song! + + +DUNBAR + +Ah, how poets sing and die! +Make one song and Heaven takes it; +Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; +Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I-- +Ah, how poets sing and die! + + + + + Alex Rogers + + +WHY ADAM SINNED + +"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night +'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. +Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right +An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." +I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, +'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made Adam sin: + +Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart--he'd-a let dat apple be +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + +He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', +He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. +He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', +He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. +Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin +An' she'd a come an' tole him +"Son, don' eat dat--dat's a sin." + +But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + + +THE RAIN SONG + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Walk right in Brother Wilson--how you feelin' today?" + +_Bro. Wilson_ + +"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels dat way." + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's all you gent'men's +been?", + +_Bro. White_ + +"My health is good but my bus'ness slack." + +_Bro. Black_ + +"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"My ole 'ooman's sick, but I'se alright--" + +_Bro. Green_ + +"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night--" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!" + +_Bro. Turner_ + +"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here--but here I is!" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, +Dare's nothin' to fear--my ole 'ooman's gone-- +My stars; da weather's pow'ful warm-- +I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say-- +'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day +Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain +An' any time you sees 'em you kin look fuh rain: +Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack +An' da folks wid rheumatics--dare jints is on da rack--" + +_All_ + +"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain. + +"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, +An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, +Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain! + +"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws +'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, +Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain! + +"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, +An' in his brown suit he is dressed, +Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain! + +"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, +An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, +Dat am da time fuh rain. + +"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', +An' when you see him eatin'; he's eatin' grass: +Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain!" + +_Refrain_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, +'Tain't gwine tuh be no rain to-day, +Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, +An' you ain't seen no spiders fum dare cobwebs creep; +Las' night da sun went bright to bed, +An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her head; +If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, +Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day." + + + + + Waverley Turner Carmichael + + +KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME + +Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +Help me praise Thy Holy name, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Save me, Jesus, save me. + +Hear me as I cry to Thee; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +May I that bright glory see; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, my good Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. + + +WINTER IS COMING + +De winter days are drawin' nigh +An' by the fire I sets an' sigh; +De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', +Fur summer days is been an' pas'; +The air is blowin' mighty cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De frost is fallin' on de gras' +An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"-- +De air is blowin' mighty cold +Like it done in days of old. + + + + + Alice Dunbar-Nelson + + +SONNET + +I had no thought of violets of late, +The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet +In wistful April days, when lovers mate +And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. +The thought of violets meant florists' shops, +And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; +And garish lights, and mincing little fops +And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. +So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, +I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; +The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- +Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. +And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream +Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam. + + + + + Charles Bertram Johnson + + +A LITTLE CABIN + +Des a little cabin +Big ernuff fur two. +Des awaitin', honey, +Cozy fixt fur you; +Down dah by de road, +Not ve'y far from town, +Waitin' fur de missis, +When she's ready to come down. + +Des a little cabin, +An' er acre o' groun', +Vines agrowin' on it, +Fruit trees all aroun', +Hollyhawks a-bloomin' +In de gyahden plot-- +Honey, would you like to +Own dat little spot? + +Make dat little cabin +Cheery, clean an' bright, +With an' angel in it +Like a ray of light? +Make dat little palace +Somethin' fine an' gran', +Make it like an Eden, +Fur a lonely man? + +Des you listen, Honey, +While I 'splain it all, +How some lady's go'nter +Boss dat little hall; +Des you take my ban' +Dat's de way it's writ, +Des you take my heart, +Dat's de deed to it. + + +NEGRO POETS + +Full many lift and sing +Their sweet imagining; +Not yet the Lyric Seer, +The one bard of the throng, +With highest gift of song, +Breaks on our sentient ear. + +Not yet the gifted child, +With notes enraptured, wild, +That storm and throng the heart, +To make his rage our own, +Our hearts his lyric throne; +Hard won by cosmic art. + +I hear the sad refrain, +Of slavery's sorrow-strain; +The broken half-lispt speech +Of freedom's twilit hour; +The greater growing reach +Of larger latent power. + +Here and there a growing note +Swells from a conscious throat; +Thrilled with a message fraught +The pregnant hour is near; +We wait our Lyric Seer, +By whom our wills are caught. + +Who makes our cause and wrong +The motif of his song; +Who sings our racial good, +Bestows us honor's place, +The cosmic brotherhood +Of genius--not of race. + +Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, +Of fame's immortal few +Would still be deathless born; +Frail Dunbar, black or white, +In Fame's eternal light, +Would shine a Star of Morn. + +An unhorizoned range, +Our hour of doubt and change, +Gives song a nightless day, +Whose pen with pregnant mirth +Will give our longings birth, +And point our souls the way? + + + + + Otto Leland Bohanan + + +THE DAWN'S AWAKE! + +The Dawn's awake! + A flash of smoldering flame and fire +Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, + O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, + The torch of gold is borne. + +The Dawn's awake! + The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. +And music singing in the hills + A paean of eternal spring + Voices the new awakening. + +The Dawn's awake! + Whispers of pent-up harmonies, +With the mingled fragrance of the trees; + Faint snatches of half-forgotten song-- + Fathers! torn and numb,-- + The boon of light we craved, awaited long, + Has come, has come! + + +THE WASHER-WOMAN + +A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, +The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, +And all day long the rub and scrub +With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. +Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years +And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? +In silence she rubbed... But her face I had seen, +Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean. + + + + + Theodore Henry Shackelford + + +THE BIG BELL IN ZION + +Come, children, hear the joyful sound, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Go spread the glad news all around, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +I've been abused and tossed about, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But glory to the Lamb, I shout! + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +My bruthah jus' sent word to me, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +That he'd done set his own self free. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ole massa said he could not go, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But he's done reached Ohio sho'. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Den I'll run away myself nex' week. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ + +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong Ding. + + + + + Lucian B. Watkins + + +STAR OF ETHIOPIA + +Out in the Night thou art the sun +Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, + The faith-high height whereon they see + The glory of their Day To Be-- +The peace at last when all is done. + +The night is dark but, one by one, +Thy signals, ever and anon, + Smile beacon answers to their plea, + Out in the Night. + +Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; +Give them a hope to rest upon, + A dream to dream eternally, + The strength of men who would be free +And win the battle race begun, + Out in the Night! + + +TWO POINTS OF VIEW + +From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet +And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, +There on yon mountain-throne--that sun-gold crest! + +From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: +How bright and still and warm and soft and green +Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest! + + +TO OUR FRIENDS + +We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams + Untouched by bondage and its rod, +Burn on! and on! and on! It seems + We shall have FRIENDS--while God is God! + + + + + Benjamin Brawley + + +MY HERO + +(_To Robert Gould Shaw_) + +Flushed with the hope of high desire, + He buckled on his sword, +To dare the rampart ranged with fire, + Or where the thunder roared; +Into the smoke and flame he went, + For God's great cause to die-- +A youth of heaven's element, + The flower of chivalry. + +This was the gallant faith, I trow, + Of which the sages tell; +On such devotion long ago + The benediction fell; +And never nobler martyr burned, + Or braver hero died, +Than he who worldly honor spurned + To serve the Crucified. + +And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere + May pass beyond the pale, +And wander over moor and mere + To find the Holy Grail; + +But ever yet the prize forsooth + My hero holds in fee; +And he is Blameless Knight in truth, + And Galahad to me. + + +CHAUCER + +Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, +Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; +Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold +Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; +Across the night of ages strike the gleams, +And leading on the gilded host appears +An old man writing in a book of dreams, +And telling tales of lovers for the years; +Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay; +In Nature's garden what a mad rout sings! +Let's hear these motley pilgrims wile away +The tedious hours with stories of old things; +Or might some shining eagle claim +These lowly numbers for the House of Fame! + + + + + Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. + + +TO A SKULL + +Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, +Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, +Why your smirk and empty smile +As the hours away you wile? +Has the earth become such bore +That it pleases nevermore? +Whence your joy through sun and rain? +Is 't because of loss of pain? +Have you learned what men learn not +That earth's substance turns to rot? +After learning now you scan +Vain endeavors man by man? +Do you mind that you as they +Once was held by mystic sway; +Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, +Lolled and with the minutes played? +Sighed for honors; battles planned; +Sipped of cups that wisdom banned +But would please the weak frail flesh; +Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? +Now that you are but a skull +Glimpse you life as life is, full +Of beauties that we miss +Till time withers with his kiss? +Do you laugh in cynic vein +Since you cannot try again? +And you know that we, like you, +Will too late our failings rue? +Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull +What deep broodings, o'er you mull? +Tell me why you smirk and smile +Ere I pass life's sunset stile. + + + + +APPENDIX + + +PLĮCIDO'S SONNET TO HIS MOTHER + + +DESPIDA A MI MADRE + +_(En La Capilla)_ + + Si la suerte fatal que me ha cabido, +Y el triste fin de mi sangrienta historia, +Al salir de esta vida transitoria +Deja tu corazon de muerte herido; + Baste de Ilanto: el įnimo afligido +Recobre su quietud; moro en la gloria, +Y mi plįcida lira į tu memoria +Lanza en la tumba su postrer sonido. + + Sonido dulce, melodioso y santo, +Glorioso, espiritual, puro y divino, +Inocente, espontįneo como el llanto + Que vertiera al nacer: ya el cuello inclino! +Ya de la religion me cubre el manto! +Adios, mi madre! adios--El Peligrino. + + +FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER + +_(In the Chapel)_ + + The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, +The mournful ending of my years of strife, +This changing world I leave, and to another +In blood and terror goes my spirit's life. + But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping +And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; +I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping +Across my lyre to wake its dying strains. + A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing +All glorious and holy, pure, divine, +And innocent, unconscious as the wailing + I uttered on my birth; and I resign +Even now, my life, even now descending slowly, +Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. +Mother, farewell! God keep thee--and forever! + +_Translated by William Cullen Bryant._ + + +PLĮCIDO'S FAREWELL TO HIS MOTHER + +(_Written in the Chapel of the Hospital de Santa Cristina on the Night +Before His Execution_) + + If the unfortunate fate engulfing me, +The ending of my history of grief, +The closing of my span of years so brief, +Mother, should wake a single pang in thee, +Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote; +I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled, +My lyre before it is forever stilled +Breathes out to thee its last and dying note. + +A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh, +Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere-- +Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry +I gave at birth--And now the hour is here-- +O God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins! +Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins. + +_Translated by James Weldon Johnson_. + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS + + +BOHANAN, OTTO LELAND. Born in Washington, D.C. Educated in the public +schools in Washington. He is a graduate of Howard University, School of +Liberal Arts, Washington, D.C., and did special work in English at the +Catholic University in that city. At present he is engaged in the musical +profession in New York. + +BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Born in Boston, 1878. Mainly self-educated. +A critic of poetry and the friend of poets. Author of _Lyrics-of Life, +The House of Falling Leaves, The Poetic Year, The Story of the Great +War,_ etc. Editor and compiler of _The Book of Elizabethan Verse, The +Book of Georgian Verse, The Book of Restoration Verse_ and a series of +yearly anthologies of magazine verse. One of the literary editors of the +Boston _Transcript_. + +BRAWLEY, BENJAMIN. Born at Columbia, S.C., 1882. Educated at the Atlanta +Baptist College, the University of Chicago and Harvard University. For two +years he was professor of English at Howard University, Washington, D.C. +Later he became dean of Morehouse College, Atlanta, Ga. Author of _A +Short History of the American Negro, The Negro in Literature and Art, A +Short History of the English Drama, A Social History of the American +Negro_, etc. Now living in Boston and engaged in research and writing. + +CAMPBELL, JAMES EDWIN. Was born at Pomeroy, Ohio, in the early sixties. +His early life was somewhat shrouded in mystery; he never referred to it +even to his closest associates. He was educated in the public schools of +his native city. Later he spent a while at Miami College. In the late +eighties and early nineties he was engaged in newspaper work in Chicago. +He wrote regularly on the various dailies of that city. He was also one of +a group that issued the _Four O'Clock Magazine_, a literary +publication which flourished for several years. He died, perhaps, twenty +years ago. He was the author of _Echoes from The Cabin and +Elsewhere_, a volume of poems. + +CARMICHAEL, WAVERLEY TURNER. A young man who had never been out of his +native state of Alabama until several years ago when he entered one of the +summer courses at Harvard University. His education to that time had been +very limited and he had endured poverty and hard work. His verses came to +the attention of one of the Harvard professors. He has since published a +volume, _From the Heart of a Folk_. He served with the 367th +Regiment, "The Buffaloes," during the World War and saw active service in +France. At present he is employed as a postal clerk in Boston, Mass. + +CORROTHERS, JAMES D., 1869-1919. Born in Cass County, Michigan. Student in +Northwestern University, minister and poet. Many of his poems appeared in +_The Century Magazine_. + +COTTER, JOSEPH S., JR., 1895-1919. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, in the +room in which Paul Laurence Dunbar first read his dialect poems in the +South. He was precocious as a child, having read a number of books before +he was six years old. All through his boyhood he had the advantage and +inspiration of the full library of poetic books belonging to his father, +himself a poet of considerable talent. Young Cotter attended Fisk +University but left in his second year because he had developed +tuberculosis. A volume of verse, _The Band of Gideon_, and a number +of unpublished poems were written during the six years in which he was an +invalid. + +DANDRIDGE, RAY G. Born at Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882. Educated in the grammar +and high school of his native city. In 1912, as the result of illness, he +lost the use of both legs and his right arm. He does most of his writing +lying flat in bed and using his left hand. He is the author of _The Poet +and Other Poems_. + +DAVIS, DANIEL WEBSTER. Born in Virginia, near Richmond. For a number of +years he was a minister and principal of the largest public school in +Richmond. He died in that city some years ago. He was the author of +_'Weh Down Souf_, a volume of verse. He was very popular as an orator +and a reader of his own poems. + +DETT, R. NATHANIEL. Born at Drummondville, Canada, 1882. Graduate of the +Oberlin Conservatory of Music. He is a composer, most of his compositions +being based on themes from the old "slave songs." His "Listen to de Lambs" +is widely used by choral societies. He is director of music at Hampton +Institute. He is also the author of _The Album of a Heart_, a volume +of verse. + +DU BOIS, W. E. BURGHARDT. Born at Great Barrington, Mass., 1868. Educated +at Fisk University, Harvard University and the University of Berlin. For a +number of years professor of economics and history at Atlanta University. +Author of the _Suppression of the Slave Trade, The Philadelphia Negro, +The Souls of Black Folk, John Brown, Darkwater_, etc. He is the editor +of _The Crisis_. + +DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE. Born at Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died 1906. Dunbar was +educated in the public schools. He wrote his early poems while working as +an elevator boy. His first volume of poems, _Oak and Ivy_, was +published in 1893 and sold largely through his own efforts. This was +followed by _Majors and Minors, Lyrics of Lowly Life, Lyrics of the +Hearthside, Lyrics of Love and Laughter, Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_ +and _Howdy, Honey, Howdy_. _Lyrics of Lowly Life_, published in +New York in 1896 with an introduction written by William Dean Howells, +gained national recognition for Dunbar. In addition to poetical works, +Dunbar was the author of four novels, _The Uncalled, The Love of Landry, +The Sport of the Gods_, and _The Fanatics_. He also published +several volumes of short stories. Partly because of his magnificent voice +and refined manners, he was a very successful reader of his own poems and +was able to add greatly to their popularity. + +FAUSET, JESSIE REDMON. Born at Snow Hill, New Jersey. She was educated in +the public schools of Philadelphia, at Cornell University and the +University of Pennsylvania. For a while she was teacher of French in the +Dunbar High School, Washington, D.C. Author of a number of uncollected +poems and several short stories. She is literary editor of _The +Crisis_. + +HILL, LESLIE PINCKNEY. Born at Lynchburg, Va., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools at Lynchburg and at Harvard University. On graduation +he became a teacher of English and methods at Tuskegee. Author of the +_Wings of Oppression_, a volume of verse. He is principal of the +Cheyney Training School for Teachers at Cheyney, Pa. + +HOLLOWAY, JOHN WESLEY. Born in Merriweather County, Ga, 1865. His father, +who learned to read and write in slavery, became one of the first colored +teachers in Georgia after the Civil War. Mr. Holloway was educated at +Clark University, Atlanta, Ga., and at Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn. +He was for a while a member of the Fisk Jubilee Singers. Has been a +teacher and is now a preacher. He is the author of _From the Desert_, +a volume of verse. + +JAMISON, ROSCOE C. Born at Winchester, Tenn., 1888; died 1918. He was a +graduate of Fisk University. + +JOHNSON, CHARLES BERTRAM. Born at Callao, Mo., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools of his home town and at Western College, Lincoln +Institute and at Chicago University. He was a teacher for a number of +years and is now a pastor of a church at Moberly, Mo. He is the author of +_Songs of My People_. + +JOHNSON, FENTON. Born at Chicago, 1888. He was educated in the public +schools and at the University of Chicago and Northwestern University. The +author of _A Little Dreaming, Songs of the Soil_ and _Visions of +the Dusk_. He has devoted much time to journalism and the editing of a +magazine. + +JOHNSON, GEORGIA DOUGLAS. Born in Atlanta, Ga., 1886. She was educated in +the public schools of that city and at Atlanta University. She is the +author of a volume of verse, _The Heart of a Woman_ and other poems. + +JOHNSON, JAMES WELDON. Born at Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. He was educated +in the public schools of Jacksonville, at Atlanta University and at +Columbia University. He taught school in his native town for several +years. Later he came to New York with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, +and began writing for the musical comedy stage. He served seven years as +U. S. Consul in Venezuela and Nicaragua. Author of _The Autobiography of +an Ex-colored Man, Fifty Years and Other Poems_, and the English +libretto to _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera, produced at the +Metropolitan Opera House in 1915. + +JONES, EDWARD SMYTH. Attracted national attention about ten years ago by +walking some hunderds of miles from his home in the South to Harvard +University. Arriving there, he was arrested on a charge of vagrancy. While +in jail, he wrote a poem, "Harvard Square." The poem created a sentiment +that led to his quick release. He is the author of _The Sylvan +Cabin_. + +JONES, JOSHUA HENRY, JR. He is engaged in newspaper work in Boston and is +the author of a volume of poems, _The Heart of the World_. + +MARGETSON, GEORGE REGINALD. Was born at St. Kitts, British West Indies, in +1877. He was educated at the Moravian school in his district. He came to +the United States in 1897. Mr. Margetson has found it necessary to work +hard to support a large family and his poems have been written in his +spare moments. He is the author of two volumes of verses, _Songs of +Life_ and _The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society_ and, in +addition, a large number of uncollected poems. Mr. Margetson lives in +Boston. + +McCLELLAN, GEORGE MARION. Born at Belfast, Tenn., 1860. Graduate of Fisk +University and Hartford Theological Seminary, teacher, principal and +author. He is the author of _The Path of Dreams_. + +McKAY, CLAUDE. Born in Jamaica, West Indies, 1889. Such education as he +gained in boyhood he received from his brother. He served for a while as a +member of the Kingston Constabulary. In 1912 he came to the United States. +For two years he was a student of agriculture at the Kansas State College. +Since leaving school Mr. McKay has turned his hand to any kind of work to +earn a living. He has worked in hotels and on the Pullman cars. He is +to-day associate editor of _The Liberator_. He is the author of two +volumes of poems, _Songs of Jamaica_ and _Spring in New +Hampshire_, the former published in Jamaica and the latter in London. + +MOORE; WILLIAM H. A. Was born in New York City and received his education +in the public schools and at the City College. He also did some special +work at Columbia University. He has had a long career as a newspaper man, +working on both white and colored publications. He now lives in Chicago. +He is the author of _Dusk Songs_, a volume of poems. + +NELSON, ALICE MOORE (DUNBAR). Born at New Orleans, La., 1875. She was +educated in the schools of New Orleans and has taken special courses at +Cornell University, Columbia University, and the University of +Pennsylvania. Author of _Violets and Other Tales, The Goodness of St. +Rocque, Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence_, and _The Dunbar +Speaker_. She was married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. She has been +a teacher and is well known on the lecture platform and as an editor. + +ROGERS, ALEX. Born at Nashville, Tenn., 1876. Educated in the public +schools of that city. For many years a writer of words for popular songs. +He wrote many of the songs for the musical comedies in which Williams and +Walker appeared. He is the author of _The Jonah Man, Nobody_ and +other songs made popular by Mr. Bert Williams. + +SHACKELFORD, THEODORE HENRY. Author of _Mammy's Cracklin' Bread and +Other Poems_, and _My Country and Other Poems_. + +SPENCER, ANNE. Born in Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated at the Virginia +Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. She lives at Lynchburg and takes great pride and +pleasure in her garden. + +WATKINS, LUCIAN B., was born in Virginia. He served overseas in the great +war and lost his health. He died in 1921. He was the author of a large +number of uncollected poems. + + + + +INDEX OF TITLES + +After the Winter +And What Shall You Say? +At the Carnival +At the Closed Gate of Justice + +Band of Gideon, The +Banjo Player, The +Barrier, The +Before the Feast of Shushan +Big Bell in Zion, The +Black Mammies +Brothers +Butterfly in Church, A + +Calling the Doctor +Chaucer +Children of the Sun +Christmas at Melrose +Christmas Eve in France +Compensation +Corn Song, The +Creation, The +Cunjah Man, De + +Dawn's Awake! The +Dead Fires +Death Song, A +Debt, The +Del Cascar +Dogwood Blossoms +Dream and the Song +Drum Majah, De +Dunbar +Dusk Song + +Feet of Judas, The +Fifty Years +Flame-Heart + +Harlem Dancer, The +Harlem Shadows +Haunted Oak, The +Heart of a Woman, The +Hills of Sewanee, The +Hog Meat + +If We Must Die +Indignation Dinner, An +In the Matter of Two Men +Ironic: LL.D. +Is It Because I Am Black? +'Ittle Touzle Head +It Was Not Fate +I Want to Die While You Love Me + +Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + +La Vie C'est la Vie +Litany of Atlanta, A +Little Brown Baby +Little Cabin, A +Lost Illusions +Lover's Lane +Lynching, The + +Miss Melerlee +Mother Night +My Hero +My Little Dreams + +Negro Love Song, A +Negro Poets +Negro Serenade +Negro Singer, The +Negro Soldiers, The +New Day, The + +O Black and Unknown Bards +Oblivion +Ol' Doc' Hyar +Oriflamme +O Southland + +Paul Laurence Dunbar +Prayer, A + +Rain Music +Rain Song, The +Rhapsody +Road to the Bow, The +Rubinstein Staccato Etude, The + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee +Scarlet Woman, The +Scintilla +Sence You Went Away +Ships That Pass in the Night +Sic Vita +Song of Thanks, A +Sonnet +Sprin' Fevah +Spring in New Hampshire +Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society +Star of Ethiopia +Summer Magic +Supplication + +Teacher, The +Time to Die +Tired +Tired Worker, The +To a Skull +To O. E. A +To Our Friends +To the White Fiends +Translation +Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves +Tuskegee +Two-an'-Six +Two Points of View + +Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + +Washer-Woman, The +'Weh Down Souf +Welt +When de Co'n Pone's Hot +When Ol' Sis Judy Pray +White Witch, The +Why Adam Sinned +Wife-Woman, The +Winter Is Coming + +Youth + +Zalka Peetruza + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of American Negro Poetry +by Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 11986-8.txt or 11986-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/9/8/11986/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Charles M. 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For example: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/etext06 + + (Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, + 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90) + +EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, are +filed in a different way. The year of a release date is no longer part +of the directory path. The path is based on the etext number (which is +identical to the filename). The path to the file is made up of single +digits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename. For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/11986-8.zip b/old/11986-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..98186e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11986-8.zip diff --git a/old/11986.txt b/old/11986.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23258e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11986.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6488 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of American Negro Poetry +by Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Book of American Negro Poetry + +Author: Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +Release Date: April 10, 2004 [EBook #11986] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Charles M. Bidwell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + +Chosen and Edited +With An Essay On The Negro's Creative Genius + +by +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + +Author of "Fifty Years and Other Poems" + + + + +1922 +Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., New York + +Printed in the U.S.A. by the Quinn & Boden Company, Rahway, N.J. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PREFACE + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + A Negro Love Song + Little Brown Baby + Ships That Pass in the Night + Lover's Lane + The Debt + The Haunted Oak + When de Co'n Pone's Hot + A Death Song + +JAMES EDWIN CAMPBELL + Negro Serenade + De Cunjah Man + Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + Ol' Doc' Hyar + When Ol' Sis' Judy Pray + Compensation + +JAMES D. CORROTHERS + At the Closed Gate of Justice + Paul Laurence Dunbar + The Negro Singer + The Road to the Bow + In the Matter of Two Men + An Indignation Dinner + Dream and the Song + +DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS + 'Weh Down Souf + Hog Meat + +WILLIAM H. A. MOORE + Dusk Song + It Was Not Fate + +W. E. BURGHARDT DU BOIS + A Litany of Atlanta + +GEORGE MARION McCLELLAN + Dogwood Blossoms + A Butterfly in Church + The Hills of Sewanee + The Feet of Judas + +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + Sandy Star and Willie Gee + I. Sculptured Worship + II. Laughing It Out + III. The Exit + IV. The Way + V. Onus Probandi + Del Cascar + Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves + Ironic: LL.D + Scintilla + Sic Vita + Rhapsody + +GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON + Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society + +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + O Black and Unknown Bards + Sence You Went Away + The Creation + The White Witch + Mother Night + O Southland + Brothers + Fifty Years + +JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY + Miss Melerlee + Calling the Doctor + The Corn Song + Black Mammies + +LESLIE PINCKNEY HILL + Tuskegee + Christmas at Melrose + Summer Magic + The Teacher + +EDWARD SMYTH JONES + A Song of Thanks + +RAY G. DANDRIDGE + Time to Die + 'Ittle Touzle Head + Zalka Peetruza + Sprin' Fevah + De Drum Majah + +FENTON JOHNSON + Children of the Sun + The New Day + Tired + The Banjo Player + The Scarlet Woman + +R. NATHANIEL DETT + The Rubinstein Staccato Etude + +GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + The Heart of a Woman + Youth + Lost Illusions + I Want to Die While You Love Me + Welt + My Little Dreams + +CLAUDE McKAY + The Lynching + If We Must Die + To the White Fiends + The Harlem Dancer + Harlem Shadows + After the Winter + Spring in New Hampshire + The Tired Worker + The Barrier + To O. E. A + Flame-Heart + Two-an'-Six + +JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + A Prayer + And What Shall You Say + Is It Because I Am Black? + The Band of Gideon + Rain Music + Supplication + +ROSCOE C. JAMISON + The Negro Soldiers + +JESSIE FAUSET + La Vie C'est la Vie + Christmas Eve in France + Dead Fires + Oriflamme + Oblivion + +ANNE SPENCER + Before the Feast of Shushan + At the Carnival + The Wife-Woman + Translation + Dunbar + +ALEX ROGERS + Why Adam Sinned + The Rain Song + +WAVERLEY TURNER CARMICHAEL + Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + Winter Is Coming + +ALICE DUNBAR-NELSON + Sonnet + +CHARLES BERTRAM JOHNSON + A Little Cabin + Negro Poets + +OTTO LEYLAND BOHANAN + The Dawn's Awake! + The Washer-Woman + +THEODORE HENRY SHACKLEFORD + The Big Bell in Zion + +LUCIAN B. WATKINS + Star of Ethiopia + Two Points of View + To Our Friends + +BENJAMIN BRAWLEY + My Hero + Chaucer + +JOSHUA HENRY JONES, JR. + To a Skull + + + + +PREFACE + +There is, perhaps, a better excuse for giving an Anthology of American +Negro Poetry to the public than can be offered for many of the anthologies +that have recently been issued. The public, generally speaking, does not +know that there are American Negro poets--to supply this lack of +information is, alone, a work worthy of somebody's effort. + +Moreover, the matter of Negro poets and the production of literature by +the colored people in this country involves more than supplying +information that is lacking. It is a matter which has a direct bearing on +the most vital of American problems. + +A people may become great through many means, but there is only one +measure by which its greatness is recognized and acknowledged. The final +measure of the greatness of all peoples is the amount and standard of the +literature and art they have produced. The world does not know that a +people is great until that people produces great literature and art. No +people that has produced great literature and art has ever been looked +upon by the world as distinctly inferior. + +The status of the Negro in the United States' is more a question of +national mental attitude toward the race than of actual conditions. And +nothing will do more to change that mental attitude and raise his status +than a demonstration of intellectual parity by the Negro through the +production of literature and art. + +Is there likelihood that the American Negro will be able to do this? There +is, for the good reason that he possesses the innate powers. He has the +emotional endowment, the originality and artistic conception, and, what is +more important, the power of creating that which has universal appeal and +influence. + +I make here what may appear to be a more startling statement by saying +that the Negro has already proved the possession of these powers by being +the creator of the only things artistic that have yet sprung from American +soil and been universally acknowledged as distinctive American products. + +These creations by the American Negro may be summed up under four heads. +The first two are the Uncle Remus stories, which were collected by Joel +Chandler Harris, and the "spirituals" or slave songs, to which the Fisk +Jubilee Singers made the public and the musicians of both the United +States and Europe listen. The Uncle Remus stories constitute the greatest +body of folklore that America has produced, and the "spirituals" the +greatest body of folk-song. I shall speak of the "spirituals" later +because they are more than folk-songs, for in them the Negro sounded the +depths, if he did not scale the heights, of music. + +The other two creations are the Cakewalk and ragtime. We do not need to go +very far back to remember when cakewalking was the rage in the United +States, Europe and South America. Society in this country and royalty +abroad spent time in practicing the intricate steps. Paris pronounced it +the "poetry of motion." The popularity of the cakewalk passed away but its +influence remained. The influence can be seen to-day on any American stage +where there is dancing. + +The influence which the Negro has exercised on the art of dancing in this +country has been almost absolute. For generations the "buck and wing" and +the "stop-time" dances, which are strictly Negro, have been familiar to +American theatre audiences. A few years ago the public discovered the +"turkey trot," the "eagle rock," "ballin' the jack," and several other +varieties that started the modern dance craze. These dances were quickly +followed by the "tango," a dance originated by the Negroes of Cuba and +later transplanted to South America. (This fact is attested by no less +authority than Vincente Blasco Ibanez in his "Four Horsemen of the +Apocalypse.") Half the floor space in the country was then turned over to +dancing, and highly paid exponents sprang up everywhere. The most noted, +Mr. Vernon Castle, and, by the way, an Englishman, never danced except to +the music of a colored band, and he never failed to state to his audiences +that most of his dances had long been done by "your colored people," as he +put it. + +Any one who witnesses a musical production in which there is dancing +cannot fail to notice the Negro stamp on all the movements; a stamp which +even the great vogue of Russian dances that swept the country about the +time of the popular dance craze could not affect. That peculiar swaying of +the shoulders which you see done everywhere by the blond girls of the +chorus is nothing more than a movement from the Negro dance referred to +above, the "eagle rock." Occasionally the movement takes on a suggestion +of the, now outlawed, "shimmy." + +As for Ragtime, I go straight to the statement that it is the one +artistic production by which America is known the world over. It has been +all-conquering. Everywhere it is hailed as "American music." + +For a dozen years or so there has been a steady tendency to divorce +Ragtime from the Negro; in fact, to take from him the credit of having +originated it. Probably the younger people of the present generation do +not know that Ragtime is of Negro origin. The change wrought in Ragtime +and the way in which it is accepted by the country have been brought about +chiefly through the change which has gradually been made in the words and +stories accompanying the music. Once the text of all Ragtime songs was +written in Negro dialect, and was about Negroes in the cabin or in the +cotton field or on the levee or at a jubilee or on Sixth Avenue or at a +ball, and about their love affairs. To-day, only a small proportion of +Ragtime songs relate at all to the Negro. The truth is, Ragtime is now +national rather than racial. But that does not abolish in any way the +claim of the American Negro as its originator. + +Ragtime music was originated by colored piano players in the questionable +resorts of St. Louis, Memphis, and other Mississippi River towns. These +men did not know any more about the theory of music than they did about +the theory of the universe. They were guided by their natural musical +instinct and talent, but above all by the Negro's extraordinary sense of +rhythm. Any one who is familiar with Ragtime may note that its chief charm +is not in melody, but in rhythms. These players often improvised crude +and, at times, vulgar words to fit the music. This was the beginning of +the Ragtime song. + +Ragtime music got its first popular hearing at Chicago during the world's +fair in that city. From Chicago it made its way to New York, and then +started on its universal triumph. + +The earliest Ragtime songs, like Topsy, "jes' grew." Some of these +earliest songs were taken down by white men, the words slightly altered or +changed, and published under the names of the arrangers. They sprang into +immediate popularity and earned small fortunes. The first to become widely +known was "The Bully," a levee song which had been long used by +roustabouts along the Mississippi. It was introduced in New York by Miss +May Irwin, and gained instant popularity. Another one of these "jes' grew" +songs was one which for a while disputed for place with Yankee Doodle; +perhaps, disputes it even to-day. That song was "A Hot Time in the Old +Town To-night"; introduced and made popular by the colored regimental +bands during the Spanish-American War. + +Later there came along a number of colored men who were able to transcribe +the old songs and write original ones. I was, about that time, writing +words to music for the music show stage in New York. I was collaborating +with my brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, and the late Bob Cole. I remember +that we appropriated about the last one of the old "jes' grew" songs. It +was a song which had been sung for years all through the South. The words +were unprintable, but the tune was irresistible, and belonged to nobody. +We took it, re-wrote the verses, telling an entirely different story from +the original, left the chorus as it was, and published the song, at first +under the name of "Will Handy." It became very popular with college boys, +especially at football games, and perhaps still is. The song was, "Oh, +Didn't He Ramble!" + +In the beginning, and for quite a while, almost all of the Ragtime songs +that were deliberately composed were the work of colored writers. Now, the +colored composers, even in this particular field, are greatly outnumbered +by the white. + +The reader might be curious to know if the "jes' grew" songs have ceased +to grow. No, they have not; they are growing all the time. The country has +lately been flooded with several varieties of "The Blues." These "Blues," +too, had their origin in Memphis, and the towns along the Mississippi. +They are a sort of lament of a lover who is feeling "blue" over the loss +of his sweetheart. The "Blues" of Memphis have been adulterated so much on +Broadway that they have lost their pristine hue. But whenever you hear a +piece of music which has a strain like this in it: + +[Illustration: Music] + +you will know you are listening to something which belonged originally to +Beale Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. The original "Memphis Blues," so far as +it can be credited to a composer, must be credited to Mr. W. C. Handy, a +colored musician of Memphis. + +As illustrations of the genuine Ragtime song in the making, I quote the +words of two that were popular with the Southern colored soldiers in +France. Here is the first: + + "Mah mammy's lyin' in her grave, + Mah daddy done run away, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray. + Yes, I've done gone astray, po' boy, + An' I've done gone astray, + Mah sister's married a gamblin' man, + An' I've done gone astray, po' boy." + +These lines are crude, but they contain something of real poetry, of that +elusive thing which nobody can define and that you can only tell that it +is there when you feel it. You cannot read these lines without becoming +reflective and feeling sorry for "Po' Boy." + +Now, take in this word picture of utter dejection: + + "I'm jes' as misabul as I can be, + I'm unhappy even if I am free, + I'm feelin' down, I'm feelin' blue; + I wander 'round, don't know what to do. + I'm go'n lay mah haid on de railroad line, + Let de B. & O. come and pacify mah min'." + +These lines are, no doubt, one of the many versions of the famous "Blues." +They are also crude, but they go straight to the mark. The last two lines +move with the swiftness of all great tragedy. + +In spite of the bans which musicians and music teachers have placed on it, +the people still demand and enjoy Ragtime. In fact, there is not a corner +of the civilized world in which it is not known and liked. And this proves +its originality, for if it were an imitation, the people of Europe, at +least, would not have found it a novelty. And it is proof of a more +important thing, it is proof that Ragtime possesses the vital spark, the +power to appeal universally, without which any artistic production, no +matter how approved its form may be, is dead. + +Of course, there are those who will deny that Ragtime is an artistic +production. American musicians, especially, instead of investigating +Ragtime, dismiss it with a contemptuous word. But this has been the course +of scholasticism in every branch of art. Whatever new thing the people +like is pooh-poohed; whatever is popular is regarded as not worth while. +The fact is, nothing great or enduring in music has ever sprung +full-fledged from the brain of any master; the best he gives the world he +gathers from the hearts of the people, and runs it through the alembic of +his genius. + +Ragtime deserves serious attention. There is a lot of colorless and +vicious imitation, but there is enough that is genuine. In one composition +alone, "The Memphis Blues," the musician will find not only great melodic +beauty, but a polyphonic structure that is amazing. + +It is obvious that Ragtime has influenced, and in a large measure, +become our popular music; but not many would know that it has influenced +even our religious music. Those who are familiar with gospel hymns can at +once see this influence if they will compare the songs of thirty years +ago, such as "In the Sweet Bye and Bye," "The Ninety and Nine," etc., with +the up-to-date, syncopated tunes that are sung in Sunday Schools, +Christian Endeavor Societies, Y.M.C.A.'s and like gatherings to-day. + +Ragtime has not only influenced American music, it has influenced American +life; indeed, it has saturated American life. It has become the popular +medium for our national expression musically. And who can say that it does +not express the blare and jangle and the surge, too, of our national +spirit? + +Any one who doubts that there is a peculiar heel-tickling, +smile-provoking, joy-awakening, response-compelling charm in Ragtime needs +only to hear a skilful performer play the genuine article, needs only to +listen to its bizarre harmonies, its audacious resolutions often +consisting of an abrupt jump from one key to another, its intricate +rhythms in which the accents fall in the most unexpected places but in +which the fundamental beat is never lost in order to be convinced. I +believe it has its place as well as the music which draws from us sighs +and tears. + +Now, these dances which I have referred to and Ragtime music may be lower +forms of art, but they are evidence of a power that will some day be +applied to the higher forms. And even now we need not stop at the Negro's +accomplishment through these lower forms. In the "spirituals," or slave +songs, the Negro has given America not only its only folksongs, but a mass +of noble music. I never think of this music but that I am struck by the +wonder, the miracle of its production. How did the men who originated +these songs manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they +are, for the most part, taken from the Bible. But the melodies, where did +they come from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully +strong. Take, for instance, "Go Down, Moses"; I doubt that there is a +stronger theme in the whole musical literature of the world. + +[Illustration: Music (Oppressed so hard they could not stand, Let my +people go. Go down, Mo-ses, way down in E-gypt land, Tell ole Pha-raoh, +Let my people go.)] + +It is to be noted that whereas the chief characteristic of Ragtime is +rhythm, the chief characteristic of the "spirituals" is melody. The +melodies of "Steal Away to Jesus," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Nobody +Knows de Trouble I See," "I Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray," "Deep River," "O, +Freedom Over Me," and many others of these songs possess a beauty that +is--what shall I say? poignant. In the riotous rhythms of Ragtime the +Negro expressed his irrepressible buoyancy, his keen response to the sheer +joy of living; in the "spirituals" he voiced his sense of beauty and his +deep religious feeling. + +Naturally, not as much can be said for the words of these songs as for the +music. Most of the songs are religious. Some of them are songs expressing +faith and endurance and a longing for freedom. In the religious songs, the +sentiments and often the entire lines are taken bodily from the Bible. +However, there is no doubt that some of these religious songs have a +meaning apart from the Biblical text. It is evident that the opening lines +of "Go Down, Moses," + + "Go down, Moses, + 'Way down in Egypt land; + Tell old Pharoah, + Let my people go." + +have a significance beyond the bondage of Israel in Egypt. + +The bulk of the lines to these songs, as is the case in all communal +music, is made up of choral iteration and incremental repetition of the +leader's lines. If the words are read, this constant iteration and +repetition are found to be tiresome; and it must be admitted that the +lines themselves are often very trite. And, yet, there is frequently +revealed a flash of real, primitive poetry. I give the following examples: + + "Sometimes I feel like an eagle in de air." + + "You may bury me in de East, + You may bury me in de West, + But I'll hear de trumpet sound + In-a dat mornin'." + + "I know de moonlight, I know de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I walk in de moonlight, I walk in de starlight; + I lay dis body down. + I know de graveyard, I know de graveyard, + When I lay dis body down. + I walk in de graveyard, I walk troo de graveyard + To lay dis body down. + + I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms; + I lay dis body down. + I go to de judgment in de evenin' of de day + When I lay dis body down. + An' my soul an' yo' soul will meet in de day + When I lay dis body down." + +Regarding the line, "I lay in de grave an' stretch out my arms," Col. +Thomas Wentworth Higginson of Boston, one of the first to give these slave +songs serious study, said: "Never it seems to me, since man first lived +and suffered, was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively +than in that line." + +These Negro folksongs constitute a vast mine of material that has been +neglected almost absolutely. The only white writers who have in recent +years given adequate attention and study to this music, that I know of, +are Mr. H.E. Krehbiel and Mrs. Natalie Curtis Burlin. We have our native +composers denying the worth and importance of this music, and trying to +manufacture grand opera out of so-called Indian themes. + +But there is a great hope for the development of this music, and that hope +is the Negro himself. A worthy beginning has already been made by +Burleigh, Cook, Johnson, and Dett. And there will yet come great Negro +composers who will take this music and voice through it not only the soul +of their race, but the soul of America. + +And does it not seem odd that this greatest gift of the Negro has been the +most neglected of all he possesses? Money and effort have been expended +upon his development in every direction except this. This gift has been +regarded as a kind of side show, something for occasional exhibition; +wherein it is the touchstone, it is the magic thing, it is that by which +the Negro can bridge all chasms. No persons, however hostile, can listen +to Negroes singing this wonderful music without having their hostility +melted down. + +This power of the Negro to suck up the national spirit from the soil and +create something artistic and original, which, at the same time, possesses +the note of universal appeal, is due to a remarkable racial gift of +adaptability; it is more than adaptability, it is a transfusive quality. +And the Negro has exercised this transfusive quality not only here in +America, where the race lives in large numbers, but in European countries, +where the number has been almost infinitesimal. + +Is it not curious to know that the greatest poet of Russia is Alexander +Pushkin, a man of African descent; that the greatest romancer of France +is Alexander Dumas, a man of African descent; and that one of the greatest +musicians of England is Coleridge-Taylor, a man of African descent? + +The fact is fairly well known that the father of Dumas was a Negro of +the French West Indies, and that the father of Coleridge-Taylor was a +native-born African; but the facts concerning Pushkin's African ancestry +are not so familiar. + +When Peter the Great was Czar of Russia, some potentate presented him with +a full-blooded Negro of gigantic size. Peter, the most eccentric ruler of +modern times, dressed this Negro up in soldier clothes, christened him +Hannibal, and made him a special body-guard. + +But Hannibal had more than size, he had brain and ability. He not only +looked picturesque and imposing in soldier clothes, he showed that he had +in him the making of a real soldier. Peter recognized this, and eventually +made him a general. He afterwards ennobled him, and Hannibal, later, +married one of the ladies of the Russian court. This same Hannibal was +great-grandfather of Pushkin, the national poet of Russia, the man who +bears the same relation to Russian literature that Shakespeare bears to +English literature. + +I know the question naturally arises: If out of the few Negroes who have +lived in France there came a Dumas; and out of the few Negroes who have +lived in England there came a Coleridge-Taylor; and if from the man who +was at the time, probably, the only Negro in Russia there sprang that +country's national poet, why have not the millions of Negroes in the +United States with all the emotional and artistic endowment claimed for +them produced a Dumas, or a Coleridge-Taylor, or a Pushkin? + +The question seems difficult, but there is an answer. The Negro in the +United States is consuming all of his intellectual energy in this +gruelling race-struggle. And the same statement may be made in a general +way about the white South. Why does not the white South produce literature +and art? The white South, too, is consuming all of its intellectual energy +in this lamentable conflict. Nearly all of the mental efforts of the white +South run through one narrow channel. The life of every Southern white man +and all of his activities are impassably limited by the ever present Negro +problem. And that is why, as Mr. H. L. Mencken puts it, in all that vast +region, with its thirty or forty million people and its territory as large +as a half a dozen Frances or Germanys, there is not a single poet, not a +serious historian, not a creditable composer, not a critic good or bad, +not a dramatist dead or alive. + +But, even so, the American Negro has accomplished something in pure +literature. The list of those who have done so would be surprising both by +its length and the excellence of the achievements. One of the great books +written in this country since the Civil War is the work of a colored man, +"The Souls of Black Folk," by W.E.B. Du Bois. + +Such a list begins with Phillis Wheatley. In 1761 a slave ship landed a +cargo of slaves in Boston. Among them was a little girl seven or eight +years of age. She attracted the attention of John Wheatley, a wealthy +gentleman of Boston, who purchased her as a servant for his wife. Mrs. +Wheatley was a benevolent woman. She noticed the girl's quick mind and +determined to give her opportunity for its development. Twelve years later +Phillis published a volume of poems. The book was brought out in London, +where Phillis was for several months an object of great curiosity and +attention. + +Phillis Wheatley has never been given her rightful place in American +literature. By some sort of conspiracy she is kept out of most of the +books, especially the text-books on literature used in the schools. Of +course, she is not a _great_ American poet--and in her day there were +no great American poets--but she is an important American poet. Her +importance, if for no other reason, rests on the fact that, save one, she +is the first in order of time of all the women poets of America. And she +is among the first of all American poets to issue a volume. + +It seems strange that the books generally give space to a mention of Urian +Oakes, President of Harvard College, and to quotations from the crude and +lengthy elegy which he published in 1667; and print examples from the +execrable versified version of the Psalms made by the New England divines, +and yet deny a place to Phillis Wheatley. + +Here are the opening lines from the elegy by Oakes, which is quoted from +in most of the books on American literature: + + "Reader, I am no poet, but I grieve. + Behold here what that passion can do, + That forced a verse without Apollo's leave, + And whether the learned sisters would or no." + +There was no need for Urian to admit what his handiwork declared. But this +from the versified Psalms is still worse, yet it is found in the books: + + "The Lord's song sing can we? being + in stranger's land, then let + lose her skill my right hand if I + Jerusalem forget." + +Anne Bradstreet preceded Phillis Wheatley by a little over twenty years. +She published her volume of poems, "The Tenth Muse," in 1750. Let us +strike a comparison between the two. Anne Bradstreet was a wealthy, +cultivated Puritan girl, the daughter of Thomas Dudley, Governor of Bay +Colony. Phillis, as we know, was a Negro slave girl born in Africa. Let us +take them both at their best and in the same vein. The following stanza is +from Anne's poem entitled "Contemplation": + + "While musing thus with contemplation fed, + And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, + The sweet tongued Philomel percht o'er my head, + And chanted forth a most melodious strain, + Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, + I judged my hearing better than my sight, + And wisht me wings with her awhile to take my flight." + +And the following is from Phillis' poem entitled "Imagination": + + "Imagination! who can sing thy force? + Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? + Soaring through air to find the bright abode, + The empyreal palace of the thundering God, + We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, + And leave the rolling universe behind, + From star to star the mental optics rove, + Measure the skies, and range the realms above, + There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, + Or with new worlds amaze the unbounded soul." + +We do not think the black woman suffers much by comparison with the white. +Thomas Jefferson said of Phillis: "Religion has produced a Phillis +Wheatley, but it could not produce a poet; her poems are beneath +contempt." It is quite likely that Jefferson's criticism was directed more +against religion than against Phillis' poetry. On the other hand, General +George Washington wrote her with his own hand a letter in which he thanked +her for a poem which she had dedicated to him. He, later, received her +with marked courtesy at his camp at Cambridge. + +It appears certain that Phillis was the first person to apply to George +Washington the phrase, "First in peace." The phrase occurs in her poem +addressed to "His Excellency, General George Washington," written in 1775. +The encomium, "First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his +countrymen" was originally used in the resolutions presented to Congress +on the death of Washington, December, 1799. + +Phillis Wheatley's poetry is the poetry of the Eighteenth Century. She +wrote when Pope and Gray were supreme; it is easy to see that Pope was her +model. Had she come under the influence of Wordsworth, Byron or Keats or +Shelley, she would have done greater work. As it is, her work must not be +judged by the work and standards of a later day, but by the work and +standards of her own day and her own contemporaries. By this method of +criticism she stands out as one of the important characters in the making +of American literature, without any allowances for her sex or her +antecedents. + +According to "A Bibliographical Checklist of American Negro Poetry," +compiled by Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, more than one hundred Negroes in the +United States have published volumes of poetry ranging in size from +pamphlets to books of from one hundred to three hundred pages. About +thirty of these writers fill in the gap between Phillis Wheatley and Paul +Laurence Dunbar. Just here it is of interest to note that a Negro wrote +and published a poem before Phillis Wheatley arrived in this country from +Africa. He was Jupiter Hammon, a slave belonging to a Mr. Lloyd of +Queens-Village, Long Island. In 1760 Hammon published a poem, eighty-eight +lines in length, entitled "An Evening Thought, Salvation by Christ, with +Penettential Cries." In 1788 he published "An Address to Miss Phillis +Wheatley, Ethiopian Poetess in Boston, who came from Africa at eight years +of age, and soon became acquainted with the Gospel of Jesus Christ." These +two poems do not include all that Hammon wrote. + +The poets between Phillis Wheatley and Dunbar must be considered more in +the light of what they attempted than of what they accomplished. Many of +them showed marked talent, but barely a half dozen of them demonstrated +even mediocre mastery of technique in the use of poetic material and +forms. And yet there are several names that deserve mention. George M. +Horton, Frances E. Harper, James M. Bell and Alberry A. Whitman, all merit +consideration when due allowances are made for their limitations in +education, training and general culture. The limitations of Horton were +greater than those of either of the others; he was born a slave in North +Carolina in 1797, and as a young man began to compose poetry without being +able to write it down. Later he received some instruction from professors +of the University of North Carolina, at which institution he was employed +as a janitor. He published a volume of poems, "The Hope of Liberty," in +1829. + +Mrs. Harper, Bell and Whitman would stand out if only for the reason that +each of them attempted sustained work. Mrs. Harper published her first +volume of poems in 1854, but later she published "Moses, a Story of the +Nile," a poem which ran to 52 closely printed pages. Bell in 1864 +published a poem of 28 pages in celebration of President Lincoln's +Emancipation Proclamation. In 1870 he published a poem of 32 pages in +celebration of the ratification of the Fifteenth Amendment to the +Constitution. Whitman published his first volume of poems, a book of 253 +pages, in 1877; but in 1884 he published "The Rape of Florida," an epic +poem written in four cantos and done in the Spenserian stanza, and which +ran to 97 closely printed pages. The poetry of both Mrs. Harper and of +Whitman had a large degree of popularity; one of Mrs. Harper's books went +through more than twenty editions. + +Of these four poets, it is Whitman who reveals not only the greatest +imagination but also the more skilful workmanship. His lyric power at its +best may be judged from the following stanza from the "Rape of Florida": + + "'Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; + Upon the waters is my light canoe; + Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make + A music on the parting wave for you. + Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue; + Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung, + Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!' + This is the song that on the lake was sung, + The boatman sang it when his heart was young." + +Some idea of Whitman's capacity for dramatic narration may be gained from +the following lines taken from "Not a Man, and Yet a Man," a poem of even +greater length than "The Rape of Florida": + + "A flash of steely lightning from his hand, + Strikes down the groaning leader of the band; + Divides his startled comrades, and again + Descending, leaves fair Dora's captors slain. + Her, seizing then within a strong embrace, + Out in the dark he wheels his flying pace; + + He speaks not, but with stalwart tenderness + Her swelling bosom firm to his doth press; + Springs like a stag that flees the eager hound, + And like a whirlwind rustles o'er the ground. + Her locks swim in dishevelled wildness o'er + His shoulders, streaming to his waist and more; + While on and on, strong as a rolling flood, + His sweeping footsteps part the silent wood." + +It is curious and interesting to trace the growth of individuality and +race consciousness in this group of poets. Jupiter Hammon's verses were +almost entirely religious exhortations. Only very seldom does Phillis +Wheatley sound a native note. Four times in single lines she refers to +herself as "Afric's muse." In a poem of admonition addressed to the +students at the "University of Cambridge in New England" she refers to +herself as follows: + + "Ye blooming plants of human race divine, + An Ethiop tells you 'tis your greatest foe." + +But one looks in vain for some outburst or even complaint against the +bondage of her people, for some agonizing cry about her native land. In +two poems she refers definitely to Africa as her home, but in each +instance there seems to be under the sentiment of the lines a feeling of +almost smug contentment at her own escape therefrom. In the poem, "On +Being Brought from Africa to America," she says: + + "'Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land, + Taught my benighted soul to understand + That there's a God and there's a Saviour too; + Once I redemption neither sought or knew. + Some view our sable race with scornful eye, + 'Their color is a diabolic dye.' + Remember, Christians, Negroes black as Cain, + May be refined, and join th' angelic train." + +In the poem addressed to the Earl of Dartmouth, she speaks of freedom and +makes a reference to the parents from whom she was taken as a child, a +reference which cannot but strike the reader as rather unimpassioned: + + "Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, + Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, + Whence flow these wishes for the common good, + By feeling hearts alone best understood; + I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate + Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat; + What pangs excruciating must molest, + What sorrows labor in my parents' breast? + Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd + That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd; + Such, such my case. And can I then but pray + Others may never feel tyrannic sway?" + +The bulk of Phillis Wheatley's work consists of poems addressed to people +of prominence. Her book was dedicated to the Countess of Huntington, at +whose house she spent the greater part of her time while in England. On +his repeal of the Stamp Act, she wrote a poem to King George III, whom she +saw later; another poem she wrote to the Earl of Dartmouth, whom she knew. +A number of her verses were addressed to other persons of distinction. +Indeed, it is apparent that Phillis was far from being a democrat. She was +far from being a democrat not only in her social ideas but also in her +political ideas; unless a religious meaning is given to the closing lines +of her ode to General Washington, she was a decided royalist: + + "A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine + With gold unfading, Washington! be thine." + +Nevertheless, she was an ardent patriot. Her ode to General Washington +(1775), her spirited poem, "On Major General Lee" (1776) and her poem, +"Liberty and Peace," written in celebration of the close of the war, +reveal not only strong patriotic feeling but an understanding of the +issues at stake. In her poem, "On Major General Lee," she makes her hero +reply thus to the taunts of the British commander into whose hands he has +been delivered through treachery: + + "O arrogance of tongue! + And wild ambition, ever prone to wrong! + Believ'st thou, chief, that armies such as thine + Can stretch in dust that heaven-defended line? + In vain allies may swarm from distant lands, + And demons aid in formidable bands, + Great as thou art, thou shun'st the field of fame, + Disgrace to Britain and the British name! + When offer'd combat by the noble foe, + (Foe to misrule) why did the sword forego + The easy conquest of the rebel-land? + Perhaps TOO easy for thy martial hand. + + What various causes to the field invite! + For plunder YOU, and we for freedom fight, + Her cause divine with generous ardor fires, + And every bosom glows as she inspires! + Already thousands of your troops have fled + To the drear mansions of the silent dead: + Columbia, too, beholds with streaming eyes + Her heroes fall--'tis freedom's sacrifice! + So wills the power who with convulsive storms + Shakes impious realms, and nature's face deforms; + Yet those brave troops, innum'rous as the sands, + One soul inspires, one General Chief commands; + Find in your train of boasted heroes, one + To match the praise of Godlike Washington. + Thrice happy Chief in whom the virtues join, + And heaven taught prudence speaks the man divine." + +What Phillis Wheatley failed to achieve is due in no small degree to her +education and environment. Her mind was steeped in the classics; her +verses are filled with classical and mythological allusions. She knew Ovid +thoroughly and was familiar with other Latin authors. She must have known +Alexander Pope by heart. And, too, she was reared and sheltered in a +wealthy and cultured family,--a wealthy and cultured Boston family; she +never had the opportunity to learn life; she never found out her own true +relation to life and to her surroundings. And it should not be forgotten +that she was only about thirty years old when she died. The impulsion or +the compulsion that might have driven her genius off the worn paths, out +on a journey of exploration, Phillis Wheatley never received. But, +whatever her limitations, she merits more than America has accorded her. + +Horton, who was born three years after Phillis Wheatley's death, expressed +in all of his poetry strong complaint at his condition of slavery and a +deep longing for freedom. The following verses are typical of his style +and his ability: + + "Alas! and am I born for this, + To wear this slavish chain? + Deprived of all created bliss, + Through hardship, toil, and pain? + + * * * * * + + Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound, + Roll through my ravished ears; + Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, + And drive away my fears." + +In Mrs. Harper we find something more than the complaint and the longing +of Horton. We find an expression of a sense of wrong and injustice. The +following stanzas are from a poem addressed to the white women of America: + + "You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian + Who weeps in her desolate home. + You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia + From kindred and friends doomed to roam. + + * * * * * + + But hark! from our Southland are floating + Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain, + And women heart-stricken are weeping + O'er their tortured and slain. + + * * * * * + + Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, + Just a plea, a prayer or a tear + For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows + Of agony, hatred and fear? + + * * * * * + + Weep not, oh my well sheltered sisters, + Weep not for the Negro alone, + But weep for your sons who must gather + The crops which their fathers have sown." + +Whitman, in the midst of "The Rape of Florida," a poem in which he related +the taking of the State of Florida from the Seminoles, stops and discusses +the race question. He discusses it in many other poems; and he discusses +it from many different angles. In Whitman we find not only an expression +of a sense of wrong and injustice, but we hear a note of faith and a note +also of defiance. For example, in the opening to Canto II of "The Rape of +Florida": + + "Greatness by nature cannot be entailed; + It is an office ending with the man,-- + Sage, hero, Saviour, tho' the Sire be hailed, + The son may reach obscurity in the van: + Sublime achievements know no patent plan, + Man's immortality's a book with seals, + And none but God shall open--none else can-- + But opened, it the mystery reveals,-- + Manhood's conquest of man to heaven's respect appeals. + + "Is manhood less because man's face is black? + Let thunders of the loosened seals reply! + Who shall the rider's restive steed turn back, + Or who withstand the arrows he lets fly + Between the mountains of eternity? + Genius ride forth! Thou gift and torch of heav'n! + The mastery is kindled in thine eye; + To conquest ride! thy bow of strength is giv'n-- + The trampled hordes of caste before thee shall be driv'n! + + * * * * * + + "'Tis hard to judge if hatred of one's race, + By those who deem themselves superior-born, + Be worse than that quiescence in disgrace, + Which only merits--and should only--scorn. + Oh, let me see the Negro night and morn, + Pressing and fighting in, for place and power! + All earth is place--all time th' auspicious hour, + While heaven leans forth to look, oh, will he quail or cower? + + "Ah! I abhor his protest and complaint! + His pious looks and patience I despise! + He can't evade the test, disguised as saint; + The manly voice of freedom bids him rise, + And shake himself before Philistine eyes! + And, like a lion roused, no sooner than + A foe dare come, play all his energies, + And court the fray with fury if he can; + For hell itself respects a fearless, manly man." + +It may be said that none of these poets strike a deep native strain or +sound a distinctively original note, either in matter or form. That is +true; but the same thing may be said of all the American poets down to the +writers of the present generation, with the exception of Poe and Walt +Whitman. The thing in which these black poets are mostly excelled by their +contemporaries is mere technique. + + +Paul Laurence Dunbar stands out as the first poet from the Negro race in +the United States to show a combined mastery over poetic material and +poetic technique, to reveal innate literary distinction in what he wrote, +and to maintain a high level of performance. He was the first to rise to a +height from which he could take a perspective view of his own race. He was +the first to see objectively its humor, its superstitions, its +shortcomings; the first to feel sympathetically its heart-wounds, its +yearnings, its aspirations, and to voice them all in a purely literary +form. + +Dunbar's fame rests chiefly on his poems in Negro dialect. This appraisal +of him is, no doubt, fair; for in these dialect poems he not only carried +his art to the highest point of perfection, but he made a contribution to +American literature unlike what any one else had made, a contribution +which, perhaps, no one else could have made. Of course, Negro dialect +poetry was written before Dunbar wrote, most of it by white writers; but +the fact stands out that Dunbar was the first to use it as a medium for +the true interpretation of Negro character and psychology. And, yet, +dialect poetry does not constitute the whole or even the bulk of Dunbar's +work. In addition to a large number of poems of a very high order done in +literary English, he was the author of four novels and several volumes of +short stories. + +Indeed, Dunbar did not begin his career as a writer of dialect. I may be +pardoned for introducing here a bit of reminiscence. My personal +friendship with Paul Dunbar began before he had achieved recognition, and +continued to be close until his death. When I first met him he had +published a thin volume, "Oak and Ivy," which was being sold chiefly +through his own efforts. "Oak and Ivy" showed no distinctive Negro +influence, but rather the influence of James Whitcomb Riley. At this time +Paul and I were together every day for several months. He talked to me a +great deal about his hopes and ambitions. In these talks he revealed that +he had reached a realization of the possibilities of poetry in the +dialect, together with a recognition of the fact that it offered the +surest way by which he could get a hearing. Often he said to me: "I've +got to write dialect poetry; it's the only way I can get them to listen +to me." I was with Dunbar at the beginning of what proved to be his last +illness. He said to me then: "I have not grown. I am writing the same +things I wrote ten years ago, and am writing them no better." His +self-accusation was not fully true; he had grown, and he had gained a +surer control of his art, but he had not accomplished the greater things +of which he was constantly dreaming; the public had held him to the things +for which it had accorded him recognition. If Dunbar had lived he would +have achieved some of those dreams, but even while he talked so dejectedly +to me he seemed to feel that he was not to live. He died when he was only +thirty-three. + +It has a bearing on this entire subject to note that Dunbar was of unmixed +Negro blood; so, as the greatest figure in literature which the colored +race in the United States has produced, he stands as an example at once +refuting and confounding those who wish to believe that whatever +extraordinary ability an Aframerican shows is due to an admixture of white +blood. + +As a man, Dunbar was kind and tender. In conversation he was brilliant and +polished. His voice was his chief charm, and was a great element in his +success as a reader of his own works. In his actions he was impulsive as a +child, sometimes even erratic; indeed, his intimate friends almost looked +upon him as a spoiled boy. He was always delicate in health. +Temperamentally, he belonged to that class of poets who Taine says are +vessels too weak to contain the spirit of poetry, the poets whom poetry +kills, the Byrons, the Burns's, the De Mussets, the Poes. + +To whom may he be compared, this boy who scribbled his early verses while +he ran an elevator, whose youth was a battle against poverty, and who, in +spite of almost insurmountable obstacles, rose to success? A comparison +between him and Burns is not unfitting. The similarity between many phases +of their lives is remarkable, and their works are not incommensurable. +Burns took the strong dialect of his people and made it classic; Dunbar +took the humble speech of his people and in it wrought music. + +Mention of Dunbar brings up for consideration the fact that, although he +is the most outstanding figure in literature among the Aframericans of the +United States, he does not stand alone among the Aframericans of the whole +Western world. There are Placido and Manzano in Cuba; Vieux and Durand in +Haiti, Machado de Assis in Brazil; Leon Laviaux in Martinique, and others +still that might be mentioned, who stand on a plane with or even above +Dunbar. Placido and Machado de Assis rank as great in the literatures of +their respective countries without any qualifications whatever. They are +world figures in the literature of the Latin languages. Machado de Assis +is somewhat handicapped in this respect by having as his tongue and medium +the lesser known Portuguese, but Placido, writing in the language of +Spain, Mexico, Cuba and of almost the whole of South America, is +universally known. His works have been republished in the original in +Spain, Mexico and in most of the Latin-American countries; several +editions have been published in the United States; translations of his +works have been made into French and German. + +Placido is in some respects the greatest of all the Cuban poets. In sheer +genius and the fire of inspiration he surpasses even the more finished +Heredia. Then, too, his birth, his life and his death ideally contained +the tragic elements that go into the making of a halo about a poet's head. +Placido was born in Habana in 1809. The first months of his life were +passed in a foundling asylum; indeed, his real name, Gabriel de la +Concepcion Valdes, was in honor of its founder. His father took him out of +the asylum, but shortly afterwards went to Mexico and died there. His +early life was a struggle against poverty; his youth and manhood was a +struggle for Cuban independence. His death placed him in the list of Cuban +martyrs. On the 27th of June, 1844, he was lined up against a wall with +ten others and shot by order of the Spanish authorities on a charge of +conspiracy. In his short but eventful life he turned out work which bulks +more than six hundred pages. During the few hours preceding his execution +he wrote three of his best known poems, among them his famous sonnet, +"Mother, Farewell!" + +Placido's sonnet to his mother has been translated into every important +language; William Cullen Bryant did it in English; but in spite of its +wide popularity, it is, perhaps, outside of Cuba the least understood of +all Placido's poems. It is curious to note how Bryant's translation +totally misses the intimate sense of the delicate subtility of the poem. +The American poet makes it a tender and loving farewell of a son who is +about to die to a heart-broken mother; but that is not the kind of a +farewell that Placido intended to write or did write. + +The key to the poem is in the first word, and the first word is the +Spanish conjunction _Si_ (if). The central idea, then, of the sonnet +is, "If the sad fate which now overwhelms me should bring a pang to your +heart, do not weep, for I die a glorious death and sound the last note of +my lyre to you." Bryant either failed to understand or ignored the opening +word, "If," because he was not familiar with the poet's history. + +While Placido's father was a Negro, his mother was a Spanish white woman, +a dancer in one of the Habana theatres. At his birth she abandoned him to +a foundling asylum, and perhaps never saw him again, although it is known +that she outlived her son. When the poet came down to his last hours he +remembered that somewhere there lived a woman who was his mother; that +although she had heartlessly abandoned him; that although he owed her no +filial duty, still she might, perhaps, on hearing of his sad end feel some +pang of grief or sadness; so he tells her in his last words that he dies +happy and bids her not to weep. This he does with nobility and dignity, +but absolutely without affection. Taking into account these facts, and +especially their humiliating and embittering effect upon a soul so +sensitive as Placido's, this sonnet, in spite of the obvious weakness of +the sestet as compared with the octave, is a remarkable piece of work.[1] + +[Footnote 1: Placido's sonnet and two English versions will be found in +the Appendix.] + +In considering the Aframerican poets of the Latin languages I am impelled +to think that, as up to this time the colored poets of greater +universality have come out of the Latin-American countries rather than out +of the United States, they will continue to do so for a good many years. +The reason for this I hinted at in the first part of this preface. The +colored poet in the United States labors within limitations which he +cannot easily pass over. He is always on the defensive or the offensive. +The pressure upon him to be propagandic is well nigh irresistible. These +conditions are suffocating to breadth and to real art in poetry. In +addition he labors under the handicap of finding culture not entirely +colorless in the United States. On the other hand, the colored poet of +Latin-America can voice the national spirit without any reservations. And +he will be rewarded without any reservations, whether it be to place him +among the great or declare him the greatest. + +So I think it probable that the first world-acknowledged Aframerican poet +will come out of Latin-America. Over against this probability, of course, +is the great advantage possessed by the colored poet in the United States +of writing in the world-conquering English language. + +This preface has gone far beyond what I had in mind when I started. It was +my intention to gather together the best verses I could find by Negro +poets and present them with a bare word of introduction. It was not my +plan to make this collection inclusive nor to make the book in any sense a +book of criticism. I planned to present only verses by contemporary +writers; but, perhaps, because this is the first collection of its kind, I +realized the absence of a starting-point and was led to provide one and to +fill in with historical data what I felt to be a gap. + +It may be surprising to many to see how little of the poetry being written +by Negro poets to-day is being written in Negro dialect. The newer Negro +poets show a tendency to discard dialect; much of the subject-matter which +went into the making of traditional dialect poetry, 'possums, watermelons, +etc., they have discarded altogether, at least, as poetic material. This +tendency will, no doubt, be regretted by the majority of white readers; +and, indeed, it would be a distinct loss if the American Negro poets threw +away this quaint and musical folk-speech as a medium of expression. And +yet, after all, these poets are working through a problem not realized by +the reader, and, perhaps, by many of these poets themselves not realized +consciously. They are trying to break away from, not Negro dialect itself, +but the limitations on Negro dialect imposed by the fixing effects of long +convention. + +The Negro in the United States has achieved or been placed in a certain +artistic niche. When he is thought of artistically, it is as a +happy-go-lucky, singing, shuffling, banjo-picking being or as a more or +less pathetic figure. The picture of him is in a log cabin amid fields of +cotton or along the levees. Negro dialect is naturally and by long +association the exact instrument for voicing this phase of Negro life; and +by that very exactness it is an instrument with but two full stops, humor +and pathos. So even when he confines himself to purely racial themes, the +Aframerican poet realizes that there are phases of Negro life in the +United States which cannot be treated in the dialect either adequately or +artistically. Take, for example, the phases rising out of life in Harlem, +that most wonderful Negro city in the world. I do not deny that a Negro in +a log cabin is more picturesque than a Negro in a Harlem flat, but the +Negro in the Harlem flat is here, and he is but part of a group growing +everywhere in the country, a group whose ideals are becoming increasingly +more vital than those of the traditionally artistic group, even if its +members are less picturesque. + +What the colored poet in the United States needs to do is something like +what Synge did for the Irish; he needs to find a form that will express +the racial spirit by symbols from within rather than by symbols from +without, such as the mere mutilation of English spelling and +pronunciation. He needs a form that is freer and larger than dialect, but +which will still hold the racial flavor; a form expressing the imagery, +the idioms, the peculiar turns of thought, and the distinctive humor and +pathos, too, of the Negro, but which will also be capable of voicing the +deepest and highest emotions and aspirations, and allow of the widest +range of subjects and the widest scope of treatment. + +Negro dialect is at present a medium that is not capable of giving +expression to the varied conditions of Negro life in America, and much +less is it capable of giving the fullest interpretation of Negro character +and psychology. This is no indictment against the dialect as dialect, but +against the mould of convention in which Negro dialect in the United +States has been set. In time these conventions may become lost, and the +colored poet in the United States may sit down to write in dialect without +feeling that his first line will put the general reader in a frame of mind +which demands that the poem be humorous or pathetic. In the meantime, +there is no reason why these poets should not continue to do the beautiful +things that can be done, and done best, in the dialect. + +In stating the need for Aframerican poets in the United States to work out +a new and distinctive form of expression I do not wish to be understood to +hold any theory that they should limit themselves to Negro poetry, to +racial themes; the sooner they are able to write _American_ poetry +spontaneously, the better. Nevertheless, I believe that the richest +contribution the Negro poet can make to the American literature of the +future will be the fusion into it of his own individual artistic gifts. + +Not many of the writers here included, except Dunbar, are known at all to +the general reading public; and there is only one of these who has a +widely recognized position in the American literary world, he is William +Stanley Braithwaite. Mr. Braithwaite is not only unique in this respect, +but he stands unique among all the Aframerican writers the United States +has yet produced. He has gained his place, taking as the standard and +measure for his work the identical standard and measure applied to +American writers and American literature. He has asked for no allowances +or rewards, either directly or indirectly, on account of his race. + +Mr. Braithwaite is the author of two volumes of verses, lyrics of delicate +and tenuous beauty. In his more recent and uncollected poems he shows +himself more and more decidedly the mystic. But his place in American +literature is due more to his work as a critic and anthologist than to his +work as a poet. There is still another role he has played, that of friend +of poetry and poets. It is a recognized fact that in the work which +preceded the present revival of poetry in the United States, no one +rendered more unremitting and valuable service than Mr. Braithwaite. And +it can be said that no future study of American poetry of this age can be +made without reference to Braithwaite. + +Two authors included in the book are better known for their work in prose +than in poetry: W.E.B. Du Bois whose well-known prose at its best is, +however, impassioned and rhythmical; and Benjamin Brawley who is the +author, among other works, of one of the best handbooks on the English +drama that has yet appeared in America. + +But the group of the new Negro poets, whose work makes up the bulk of this +anthology, contains names destined to be known. Claude McKay, although +still quite a young man, has already demonstrated his power, breadth and +skill as a poet. Mr. McKay's breadth is as essential a part of his +equipment as his power and skill. He demonstrates mastery of the three +when as a Negro poet he pours out the bitterness and rebellion in his +heart in those two sonnet-tragedies, "If We Must Die" and "To the White +Fiends," in a manner that strikes terror; and when as a cosmic poet he +creates the atmosphere and mood of poetic beauty in the absolute, as he +does in "Spring in New Hampshire" and "The Harlem Dancer." Mr. McKay gives +evidence that he has passed beyond the danger which threatens many of the +new Negro poets--the danger of allowing the purely polemical phases of the +race problem to choke their sense of artistry. + +Mr. McKay's earliest work is unknown in this country. It consists of poems +written and published in his native Jamaica. I was fortunate enough to run +across this first volume, and I could not refrain from reproducing here +one of the poems written in the West Indian Negro dialect. I have done +this not only to illustrate the widest range of the poet's talent and to +offer a comparison between the American and the West Indian dialects, but +on account of the intrinsic worth of the poem itself. I was much tempted +to introduce several more, in spite of the fact that they might require a +glossary, because however greater work Mr. McKay may do he can never do +anything more touching and charming than these poems in the Jamaica +dialect. + +Fenton Johnson is a young poet of the ultra-modern school who gives +promise of greater work than he has yet done. Jessie Fauset shows that she +possesses the lyric gift, and she works with care and finish. Miss Fauset +is especially adept in her translations from the French. Georgia Douglas +Johnson is a poet neither afraid nor ashamed of her emotions. She limits +herself to the purely conventional forms, rhythms and rhymes, but through +them she achieves striking effects. The principal theme of Mrs. Johnson's +poems is the secret dread down in every woman's heart, the dread of the +passing of youth and beauty, and with them love. An old theme, one which +poets themselves have often wearied of, but which, like death, remains one +of the imperishable themes on which is made the poetry that has moved +men's hearts through all ages. In her ingenuously wrought verses, through +sheer simplicity and spontaneousness, Mrs. Johnson often sounds a note of +pathos or passion that will not fail to waken a response, except in those +too sophisticated or cynical to respond to natural impulses. Of the half +dozen or so of colored women writing creditable verse, Anne Spencer is the +most modern and least obvious in her methods. Her lines are at times +involved and turgid and almost cryptic, but she shows an originality which +does not depend upon eccentricities. In her "Before the Feast of Shushan" +she displays an opulence, the love of which has long been charged against +the Negro as one of his naive and childish traits, but which in art may +infuse a much needed color, warmth and spirit of abandon into American +poetry. + +John W. Holloway, more than any Negro poet writing in the dialect to-day, +summons to his work the lilt, the spontaneity and charm of which Dunbar +was the supreme master whenever he employed that medium. It is well to say +a word here about the dialect poems of James Edwin Campbell. In dialect, +Campbell was a precursor of Dunbar. A comparison of his idioms and +phonetics with those of Dunbar reveals great differences. Dunbar is a +shade or two more sophisticated and his phonetics approach nearer to a +mean standard of the dialects spoken in the different sections. Campbell +is more primitive and his phonetics are those of the dialect as spoken by +the Negroes of the sea islands off the coasts of South Carolina and +Georgia, which to this day remains comparatively close to its African +roots, and is strikingly similar to the speech of the uneducated Negroes +of the West Indies. An error that confuses many persons in reading or +understanding Negro dialect is the idea that it is uniform. An ignorant +Negro of the uplands of Georgia would have almost as much difficulty in +understanding an ignorant sea island Negro as an Englishman would have. +Not even in the dialect of any particular section is a given word always +pronounced in precisely the same way. Its pronunciation depends upon the +preceding and following sounds. Sometimes the combination permits of a +liaison so close that to the uninitiated the sound of the word is almost +completely lost. + +The constant effort in Negro dialect is to elide all troublesome +consonants and sounds. This negative effort may be after all only positive +laziness of the vocal organs, but the result is a softening and smoothing +which makes Negro dialect so delightfully easy for singers. + +Daniel Webster Davis wrote dialect poetry at the time when Dunbar was +writing. He gained great popularity, but it did not spread beyond his own +race. Davis had unctuous humor, but he was crude. For illustration, note +the vast stretch between his "Hog Meat" and Dunbar's "When de Co'n Pone's +Hot," both of them poems on the traditional ecstasy of the Negro in +contemplation of "good things" to eat. + +It is regrettable that two of the most gifted writers included were cut +off so early in life. R. C. Jamison and Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., died +several years ago, both of them in their youth. Jamison was barely thirty +at the time of his death, but among his poems there is one, at least, +which stamps him as a poet of superior talent and lofty inspiration. "The +Negro Soldiers" is a poem with the race problem as its theme, yet it +transcends the limits of race and rises to a spiritual height that makes +it one of the noblest poems of the Great War. Cotter died a mere boy of +twenty, and the latter part of that brief period he passed in an invalid +state. Some months before his death he published a thin volume of verses +which were for the most part written on a sick bed. In this little volume +Cotter showed fine poetic sense and a free and bold mastery over his +material. A reading of Cotter's poems is certain to induce that mood in +which one will regretfully speculate on what the young poet might have +accomplished had he not been cut off so soon. + +As intimated above, my original idea for this book underwent a change in +the writing of the introduction. I first planned to select twenty-five to +thirty poems which I judged to be up to a certain standard, and offer them +with a few words of introduction and without comment. In the collection, +as it grew to be, that "certain standard" has been broadened if not +lowered; but I believe that this is offset by the advantage of the wider +range given the reader and the student of the subject. + +I offer this collection without making apology or asking allowance. I feel +confident that the reader will find not only an earnest for the future, +but actual achievement. The reader cannot but be impressed by the distance +already covered. It is a long way from the plaints of George Horton to the +invectives of Claude McKay, from the obviousness of Frances Harper to the +complexness of Anne Spencer. Much ground has been covered, but more will +yet be covered. It is this side of prophecy to declare that the undeniable +creative genius of the Negro is destined to make a distinctive and +valuable contribution to American poetry. + +I wish to extend my thanks to Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg, who placed his +valuable collection of books by Negro authors at my disposal. I wish also +to acknowledge with thanks the kindness of Dodd, Mead & Co. for permitting +the reprint of poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar; of the Cornhill Publishing +Company for permission to reprint poems of Georgia Douglas Johnson, Joseph +S. Cotter, Jr., Bertram Johnson and Waverley Carmichael; and of Neale & +Co. for permission to reprint poems of John W. Holloway. I wish to thank +Mr. Braithwaite for permission to use the included poems from his +forthcoming volume, "Sandy Star and Willie Gee." And to acknowledge the +courtesy of the following magazines: _The Crisis, The Century Magazine, +The Liberator, The Freeman, The Independent, Others_, and _Poetry: A +Magazine of Verse_. + +James Weldon Johnson. +New York City, 1921. + + + + +THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY + + + + + Paul Laurence Dunbar + + +A NEGRO LOVE SONG[1] + +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 could n'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. + +[Footnote 1: Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Company.] + + +LITTLE BROWN BABY + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, + Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. +What you been doin', suh--makin' san' pies? + Look at dat bib--You's ez du'ty ez me. +Look at dat mouf--dat's merlasses, I bet; + Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's. +Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, + Bein' so sticky an' sweet--goodness lan's! + +Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes + Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile? +Who is it all de day nevah once tries + Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? +Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp! + Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin? +Pappy do' know you--I b'lieves you's a tramp; + Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in! + +Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san', + We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; +Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man; + I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. +Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do', + Hyeah's a bad boy you kin have fu' to eat. +Mammy an' pappy do' want him no mo', + Swaller him down f'om his haid to his feet! + +Dah, now, I t'ought dat you'd hug me up close. + Go back, ol' buggah, you sha'n't have dis boy. +He ain't no tramp, ner no straggler, of co'se; + He's pappy's pa'dner an' playmate an' joy. +Come to you' pallet now--go to you' res'; + Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies; +Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'-- + Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes! + + +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. + +O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, + O heart of mine, O 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? + + +LOVER'S LANE + +Summah night an' sighin' breeze, + 'Long de lovah's lane; +Frien'ly, shadder-mekin' trees, + 'Long de lovah's lane. +White folks' wo'k all done up gran'-- +Me an' 'Mandy han'-in-han' +Struttin' lak we owned de lan', + 'Long de lovah's lane. + +Owl a-settin' 'side de road, + 'Long de lovah's lane, +Lookin' at us lak he knowed + Dis uz lovah's lane. +Go on, hoot yo' Mou'nful tune, +You ain' nevah loved in June, +An' come hidin' f'om de moon + Down in lovah's lane. + +Bush it ben' an' nod an' sway, + Down in lovah's lane, +Try'n' to hyeah me whut I say + 'Long de lovah's lane. +But I whispahs low lak dis, +An' my 'Mandy smile huh bliss-- +Mistah Bush he shek his fis', + Down in lovah's lane. + +Whut I keer ef day is long, + Down in lovah's lane. +I kin allus sing a song + 'Long de lovah's lane. +An' de wo'ds I hyeah an' say +Meks up fu' de weary day +Wen I's strollin' by de way, + Down in lovah's lane. + +An' dis t'ought will allus rise + Down in lovah's lane; +Wondah whethah in de skies + Dey's a lovah's lane. +Ef dey ain't, I tell you true, +'Ligion do look mighty blue, +'Cause I do' know whut I'd do + 'Dout a lovah's lane. + + +THE DEBT + +This is the debt I pay +Just for one riotous day, +Years of regret and grief. +Sorrow without relief. + +Pay it I will to the end-- +Until the grave, my friend, +Gives me a true release-- +Gives me the clasp of peace. + +Slight was the thing I bought, +Small was the debt I thought, +Poor was the loan at best-- +God! but the interest! + + +THE HAUNTED OAK + +Pray why are you so bare, so bare, + Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; +And why, when I go through the shade you throw, + Runs a shudder over me? + +My leaves were green as the best, I trow, + And sap ran free in my veins, +But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird + A guiltless victim's pains. + +I bent me down to hear his sigh; + I shook with his gurgling moan, +And I trembled sore when they rode away, + And left him here alone. + +They'd charged him with the old, old crime, + And set him fast in jail: +Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, + And why does the night wind wail? + +He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, + And he raised his hand to the sky; +But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, + And the steady tread drew nigh. + +Who is it rides by night, by night, + Over the moonlit road? +And what is the spur that keeps the pace, + What is the galling goad? + +And now they beat at the prison door, + "Ho, keeper, do not stay! +We are friends of him whom you hold within, + And we fain would take him away + +From those who ride fast on our heels + With mind to do him wrong; +They have no care for his innocence, + And the rope they bear is long." + +They have fooled the jailer with lying words, + They have fooled the man with lies; +The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, + And the great door open flies. + +Now they have taken him from the jail, + And hard and fast they ride, +And the leader laughs low down in his throat, + As they halt my trunk beside. + +Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, + And the doctor one of white, +And the minister, with his oldest son, + Was curiously bedight. + +Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? + 'Tis but a little space, +And the time will come when these shall dread + The mem'ry of your face. + +I feel the rope against my bark, + And the weight of him in my grain, +I feel in the throe of his final woe + The touch of my own last pain. + +And never more shall leaves come forth + On a bough that bears the ban; +I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, + From the curse of a guiltless man. + +And ever the judge rides by, rides by, + And goes to hunt the deer, +And ever another rides his soul + In the guise of a mortal fear. + +And ever the man he rides me hard, + And never a night stays he; +For I feel his curse as a haunted bough + On the trunk of a haunted tree. + + +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 Mastah'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. + + +A DEATH SONG + +Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, +Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass + An' w'en I's a-layin' low, + I kin hyeah it as it go +Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'." + +Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, +An' de watah stan's so quiet lak an' cool, + Whah de little birds in spring, + Ust to come an' drink an' sing, +An' de chillen waded on dey way to school. + +Let me settle w'en my shouldahs draps dey load +Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; + Fu' I t'ink de las' long res' + Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes' +If I's layin' 'mong de t'ings I's allus knowed. + + + + + James Edwin Campbell + + +NEGRO SERENADE + +O, de light-bugs glimmer down de lane, + Merlindy! Merlindy! +O, de whip'-will callin' notes ur pain-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +O, honey lub, my turkle dub, + Doan' you hyuh my bawnjer ringin', +While de night-dew falls an' de ho'n owl calls + By de ol' ba'n gate Ise singin'. + +O, Miss 'Lindy, doan' you hyuh me, chil', + Merlindy! Merlindy! +My lub fur you des dribe me wil'-- + Merlindy, O, Merlindy! +I'll sing dis night twel broad day-light, + Ur bu's' my froat wid tryin', +'Less you come down, Miss 'Lindy Brown, + An' stops dis ha't f'um sighin'! + + +DE CUNJAH MAN + +O chillen, run, de Cunjah man, +Him mouf ez beeg ez fryin' pan, +Him yurs am small, him eyes am raid, +Him hab no toof een him ol' haid, +Him hab him roots, him wu'k him trick, +Him roll him eye, him mek you sick-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Him hab ur ball ob raid, raid ha'r, +Him hide it un' de kitchen sta'r, +Mam Jude huh pars urlong dat way, +An' now huh hab ur snaik, de say. +Him wrop ur roun' huh buddy tight, +Huh eyes pop out, ur orful sight-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Miss Jane, huh dribe him f'um huh do', +An' now huh hens woan' lay no mo'; +De Jussey cow huh done fall sick, +Hit all done by de Cunjah trick. +Him put ur root un' 'Lijah's baid, +An' now de man he sho' am daid-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + +Me see him stan' de yudder night +Right een de road een white moon-light; +Him toss him arms, him whirl him 'roun', +Him stomp him foot urpon de groun'; +De snaiks come crawlin', one by one, +Me hyuh um hiss, me break an' run-- + De Cunjah man, de Cunjah man, + O chillen, run, de Cunjah man! + + +UNCLE EPH'S BANJO SONG + +Clean de ba'n an' sweep de flo', + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +We's gwine ter dawnce dis eb'nin' sho', + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits up de road an' down de lane, +Hurry, niggah, you miss de train; +De yaller gal she dawnce so neat, +De yaller gal she look so sweet, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + +De moon come up, de sun go down, + Sing, my bawnjer, sing! +De niggahs am all come f'um town, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! +Den hits roun' de hill an' froo de fiel'-- +Lookout dar, niggah, doan' you steal! +De milyuns on dem vines am green, +De moon am bright, O you'll be seen, + Ring, my bawnjer, ring! + + +OL' DOC' HYAR + +Ur ol' Hyar lib in ur house on de hill, +He hunner yurs ol' an' nebber wuz ill; +He yurs dee so long an' he eyes so beeg, +An' he laigs so spry dat he dawnce ur jeeg; +He lib so long dat he know ebbry tings +'Bout de beas'ses dat walks an' de bu'ds dat sings-- + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +He doctah fur all de beas'ses an' bu'ds-- +He put on he specs an' he use beeg wu'ds, +He feel dee pu's' den he look mighty wise, +He pull out he watch an' he shet bofe eyes; +He grab up he hat an' grab up he cane, +Den--"blam!" go de do'--he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah Ba'r fall sick--dee sont fur Doc' Hyar, +"O, Doctah, come queeck, an' see Mr. B'ar; +He mighty nigh daid des sho' ez you b'on!" +"Too much ur young peeg, too much ur green co'n," +Ez he put on he hat, said Ol' Doc' Hyar; +"I'll tek 'long meh lawnce, an' lawnce Mistah B'ar," + Said Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +Mistah B'ar he groaned, Mistah B'ar he growled, +W'ile de ol' Miss B'ar an' de chillen howled; +Doctah Hyar tuk out he sha'p li'l lawnce, +An' pyu'ced Mistah B'ar twel he med him prawnce +Den grab up he hat an' grab up he cane +"Blam!" go de do' an' he gone lak de train, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een ur mighty fine house on ur mighty high hill. + +But de vay naix day Mistah B'ar he daid; +Wen dee tell Doc' Hyar, he des scratch he haid: +"Ef pahsons git well ur pahsons git wu's, +Money got ter come een de Ol' Hyar's pu's; +Not wut folkses does, but fur wut dee know +Does de folkses git paid"--an' Hyar larfed low, + Dis Ol' Doc' Hyar, + Whar lib up dar +Een de mighty fine house on de mighty high hill! + + +WHEN OL' SIS' JUDY PRAY + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De teahs come stealin' down my cheek, +De voice ur God widin me speak'; +I see myse'f so po' an' weak, +Down on my knees de cross I seek, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De thun'ers ur Mount Sin-a-i +Comes rushin' down f'um up on high-- +De Debbil tu'n his back an' fly +While sinnahs loud fur pa'don cry, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Ha'd sinnahs trimble in dey seat +Ter hyuh huh voice in sorro 'peat; +(While all de chu'ch des sob an' weep) +"O Shepa'd, dese, dy po' los' sheep!" +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +De whole house hit des rock an' moan +Ter see huh teahs an' hyuh huh groan; +Dar's somepin' in Sis' Judy's tone +Dat melt all ha'ts dough med ur stone +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +Salvation's light comes pourin' down-- +Hit fill de chu'ch an' all de town-- +Why, angels' robes go rustlin' 'roun', +An' hebben on de Yurf am foun', +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + +When ol' Sis' Judy pray, +My soul go sweepin' up on wings, +An' loud de chu'ch wid "Glory!" rings, +An' wide de gates ur Jahsper swings +Twel you hyuh ha'ps wid golding strings, +When ol' Sis' Judy pray. + + +COMPENSATION + +O, rich young lord, thou ridest by +With looks of high disdain; +It chafes me not thy title high, +Thy blood of oldest strain. +The lady riding at thy side +Is but in name thy promised bride, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +Her father wills and she obeys, +The custom of her class; +'Tis Land not Love the trothing sways-- +For Land he sells his lass. +Her fair white hand, young lord, is thine, +Her _soul_, proud fool, her _soul_ is mine, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +No title high my father bore; +The tenant of thy farm, +He left me what I value more: +Clean heart, clear brain, strong arm +And love for bird and beast and bee +And song of lark and hymn of sea, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + +The boundless sky to me belongs, +The paltry acres thine; +The painted beauty sings thy songs, +The lavrock lilts me mine; +The hot-housed orchid blooms for thee, +The gorse and heather bloom for me, + Ride on, young lord, ride on! + + + + + James D. Corrothers + + +AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow, +Betrayed, like him whose woe dimmed eyes gave bliss + Still must one succor those who brought one low, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands rare patience--patience that can wait +In utter darkness. 'Tis the path to miss, + And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this + Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag +Which is to us white freedom's emphasis. + Ah! one must love when Truth and Justice lag, +To be a Negro in a day like this. + +To be a Negro in a day like this-- + Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done? +Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst, + But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon, +"Merely a Negro"--in a day like this! + + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + +He came, a youth, singing in the dawn + Of a new freedom, glowing o'er his lyre, + Refining, as with great Apollo's fire, + His people's gift of song. And thereupon, +This Negro singer, come to Helicon + Constrained the masters, listening to admire, + And roused a race to wonder and aspire, + Gazing which way their honest voice was gone, +With ebon face uplit of glory's crest. + Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, + Who brought the cabin's mirth, the tuneful night, +But faced the morning, beautiful with light, + To die while shadows yet fell toward the west, + And leave his laurels at his people's feet. + +Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now; + None rises, singing, from your race like you. + Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew + Fell early on the bays upon your brow, +And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow + And brave endeavor. Silence o'er you threw + Flowerets of love. Or, if an envious few + Of your own people brought no garlands, how +Could Malice smite him whom the gods had crowned? + If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low + Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned; +A wide world heard you, and it loved you so + It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, + And o'er your happy songs its plaudits rang. + + +THE NEGRO SINGER + +O'er all my song the image of a face + Lieth, like shadow on the wild sweet flowers. + The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers; + The golden lyre's delights bring little grace +To bless the singer of a lowly race. + Long hath this mocked me: aye in marvelous hours, + When Hera's gardens gleamed, or Cynthia's bowers, + Or Hope's red pylons, in their far, hushed place! +But I shall dig me deeper to the gold; + Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles, + From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles +Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold. + So shall men know me, and remember long, + Nor my dark face dishonor any song. + + +THE ROAD TO THE BOW + +Ever and ever anon, + After the black storm, the eternal, beauteous bow! +Brother, to rosy-painted mists that arch beyond, + Blithely I go. + +My brows men laureled and my lyre + Twined with immortal ivy for one little rippling song; +My "House of Golden Leaves" they praised and "passionate fire"-- + But, Friend, the way is long! + +Onward and onward, up! away! + Though Fear flaunt all his banners in my face, +And my feet stumble, lo! the Orphean Day! + Forward by God's grace! + +These signs are still before me: "Fear," + "Danger," "Unprecedented," and I hear black "No" +Still thundering, and "Churl." Good Friend, I rest me here-- + Then to the glittering bow! + +Loometh and cometh Hate in wrath, + Mailed Wrong, swart Servitude and Shame with bitter rue, +Nathless a Negro poet's feet must tread the path + The winged god knew. + +Thus, my true Brother, dream-led, I + Forefend the anathema, following the span. +I hold my head as proudly high + As any man. + + +IN THE MATTER OF TWO MEN + +One does such work as one will not, + And well each knows the right; +Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot, + The black must serve the white. +And it's, oh, for the white man's softening flesh, + While the black man's muscles grow! +Well I know which grows the mightier, + _I_ know; full well I know. + +The white man seeks the soft, fat place, + And he moves and he works by rule. +Ingenious grows the humbler race + In Oppression's prodding school. +And it's, oh, for a white man gone to seed, + While the Negro struggles so! +And I know which race develops most, + I know; yes, well I know. + +The white man rides in a palace car, + And the Negro rides "Jim Crow." +To damn the other with bolt and bar, + One creepeth so low; so low! +And it's, oh, for a master's nose in the mire, + While the humbled hearts o'erflow! +Well I know whose soul grows big at this, + And whose grows small; _I know_! + +The white man leases out his land, + And the Negro tills the same. +One works; one loafs and takes command; + But I know who wins the game! +And it's, oh, for the white man's shrinking soil, + As the black's rich acres grow! +Well I know how the signs point out at last, + I know; ah, well I know! + +The white man votes for his color's sake, + While the black, for his is barred; +(Though "ignorance" is the charge they make), + But the black man studies hard. +And it's, oh, for the white man's sad neglect, + For the power of his light let go! +So, I know which man must win at last, + I know! Ah, Friend, I know! + + +AN INDIGNATION DINNER + +Dey was hard times jes fo' Christmas round our neighborhood one year; +So we held a secret meetin', whah de white folks couldn't hear, +To 'scuss de situation, an' to see what could be done +Towa'd a fust-class Christmas dinneh an' a little Christmas fun. + +Rufus Green, who called de meetin', ris an' said: "In dis here town, +An' throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin' to keep us down." +S' 'e: "Dey's bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey 'buse us 'ca'se we's +free; +But when dey tetch my stomach, dey's done gone too fur foh me! + +"Is I right?" "You sho is, Rufus!" roared a dozen hungry throats. +"Ef you'd keep a mule a-wo'kin', don't you tamper wid his oats. +Dat's sense," continued Rufus. "But dese white folks nowadays +Has done got so close and stingy you can't live on what dey pays. + +"Here 'tis Christmas-time, an', folkses, I's indignant 'nough to choke. +Whah's our Christmas dinneh comin' when we's 'mos' completely broke? +I can't hahdly 'fo'd a toothpick an' a glass o' water. Mad? +Say, I'm desp'ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!" + +Well, dey 'bused de white folks scan'lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris, +Leanin' on his cane to s'pote him, on account his rheumatis', +An' s' 'e: "Chilun, whut's dat wintry wind a-sighin' th'ough de street +'Bout yo' wasted summeh wages? But, no matter, we mus' eat. + +"Now, I seed a beau'ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun's fahm. +He's a-growin' fat an' sassy, an' a-struttin' to a chahm. +Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters--all de craps is fine dis year; +All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here." + +Well, we lit right in an' voted dat it was a gran idee, +An' de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin' miles to see; +An' we eat a full an' plenty, big an' little, great an' small, +Not beca'se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat's all. + + +DREAM AND THE SONG + +So oft our hearts, beloved lute, +In blossomy haunts of song are mute; +So long we pore, 'mid murmurings dull, +O'er loveliness unutterable. +So vain is all our passion strong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn +Wan ashes. Still, from memory's urn, +The lingering blossoms tenderly +Refute our wilding minstrelsy. +Alas! we work but beauty's wrong! +The dream is lovelier than the song. + +Yearned Shelley o'er the golden flame? +Left Keats for beauty's lure, a name +But "writ in water"? Woe is me! +To grieve o'er flowerful faery. +My Phasian doves are flown so long-- +The dream is lovelier than the song! + +Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, +The golden-winged bird is gone, +And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves, +Only the swallow-twittering eaves. +What art may house or gold prolong +A dream far lovelier than a song? + +The lilting witchery, the unrest +Of winged dreams, is in our breast; +But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes +Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize, +My lute, must to the gods belong. +The dream is lovelier than the song. + + + + + Daniel Webster Davis + + +'WEH DOWN SOUF + +O, de birds ar' sweetly singin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' de banjer is a-ringin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' my heart it is a-sighin', +Whil' de moments am a-flyin', +Fur my hom' I am a-cryin', + 'Weh down Souf. + +Dar de pickaninnies 's playin', + 'Weh down Souf, +An' fur dem I am a-prayin', + 'Weh down Souf; +An' when I gits sum munny, +Yo' kin bet I'm goin', my hunny, +Fur de lan' dat am so sunny, + 'Weh down Souf. + +Whil' de win' up here's a-blowin', + 'Weh down Souf +De corn is sweetly growin', + 'Weh down Souf. +Dey tells me here ub freedum, +But I ain't a-gwine to heed um, +But I'se gwine fur to lebe um, + Fur 'weh down Souf. + +I bin up here a-wuckin', + From 'weh down Souf, +An' I ain't a bin a-shurkin'-- + I'm frum 'weh down Souf; +But I'm gittin' mighty werry, +An' de days a-gittin' drerry, +An' I'm hongry, O, so berry, + Fur my hom' down Souf. + +O, de moon dar shines de brighter, + 'Weh down Souf, +An' I know my heart is lighter, + 'Weh down Souf; +An' de berry thought brings pledjur, +I'll be happy dar 'dout medjur, +Fur dar I hab my tredjur, + 'Weh down Souf. + + +HOG MEAT + +Deze eatin' folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam', +An' de toofsumnis ub tuckey et wid cel'ry an' wid jam; +Ub beef-st'ak fried wid unyuns, an' sezoned up so fine-- +But you' jes' kin gimme hog-meat, an' I'm happy all de time. + +When de fros' is on de pun'kin an' de sno'-flakes in de ar', +I den begin rejoicin'--hog-killin' time is near; +An' de vizhuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, +Fur de time is fas' a-comin' fur de 'lishus pork an' beans. + +We folks dat's frum de kuntry may be behin' de sun-- +We don't like city eatin's, wid beefsteaks dat ain' done-- +'Dough mutton chops is splendid, an' dem veal cutlits fine, +To me 'tain't like a sphar-rib, or gret big chunk ub chine. + +Jes' talk to me 'bout hog-meat, ef yo' want to see me pleased, +Fur biled wid beans tiz gor'jus, or made in hog-head cheese; +An' I could jes' be happy, 'dout money, cloze or house, +Wid plenty yurz an' pig feet made in ol'-fashun "souse." + +I 'fess I'm only humun, I hab my joys an' cares-- +Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar' fair; +But I forgib my in'miz, my heart is free frum hate, +When my bread is filled wid cracklins an' dar's chidlins on my plate. + +'Dough 'possum meat is glo'yus wid 'taters in de pan, +But put 'longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan'; +Ub all yer fancy eatin's, jes gib to me fur mine +Sum souse or pork or chidlins, sum sphar-rib, or de chine. + + + + + William H.A. Moore + + +DUSK SONG + +The garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay a lone ship light +Makes a silver pathway over the bar +Where the sea sings low. + +I follow the light with an earnest eye, +Creeping along to the thick far-away, +Until it fell in the depths of the deep, dark sky +With the haunting dream of the dusk of day +And its lovely glow. + +Long nights, long nights and the whisperings of new ones, +Flame the line of the pathway down to the sea +With the halo of new dreams and the hallow of old ones, +And they bring magic light to my love reverie +And a lover's regret. + +Tender sorrow for loss of a soft murmured word, +Tender measure of doubt in a faint, aching heart, +Tender listening for wind-songs in the tree heights heard +When you and I were of the dusks a part, +Are with me yet. + +I pray for faith to the noble spirit of Space, +I sound the cosmic depths for the measure of glory +Which will bring to this earth the imperishable race +Of whom Beauty dreamed in the soul-toned story +The Prophets told. + +Silence and love and deep wonder of stars +Dust-silver the heavens from west to east, +From south to north, and in a maze of bars +Invisible I wander far from the feast +As night grows old. + +Half blind is my vision I know to the truth, +My ears are half deaf to the voice of the tear +That touches the silences as Autumn's ruth +Steals thru the dusks of each returning year +A goodly friend. + +The Autumn, then Winter and wintertime's grief! +But the weight of the snow is the glistening gift +Which loving brings to the rose and its leaf, +For the days of the roses glow in the drift +And never end. + + * * * * * + +The moon has come. Wan and pallid is she. +The spell of half memories, the touch of half tears, +And the wounds of worn passions she brings to me +With all the tremor of the far-off years +And their mad wrong. + +Yet the garden is very quiet to-night, +The dusk has long gone with the Evening Star, +And out on the bay the moon's wan light +Lays a silver pathway beyond the bar, +Dear heart, pale and long. + + +IT WAS NOT FATE + +It was not fate which overtook me, +Rather a wayward, wilful wind +That blew hot for awhile +And then, as the even shadows came, blew cold. +What pity it is that a man grown old in life's dreaming +Should stop, e'en for a moment, to look into a woman's eyes. +And I forgot! +Forgot that one's heart must be steeled against the east wind. +Life and death alike come out of the East: +Life as tender as young grass, +Death as dreadful as the sight of clotted blood. +I shall go back into the darkness, +Not to dream but to seek the light again. +I shall go by paths, mayhap, +On roads that wind around the foothills +Where the plains are bare and wild +And the passers-by come few and far between. +I want the night to be long, the moon blind, +The hills thick with moving memories, +And my heart beating a breathless requiem +For all the dead days I have lived. +When the Dawn comes--Dawn, deathless, dreaming-- +I shall will that my soul must be cleansed of hate, +I shall pray for strength to hold children close to my heart, +I shall desire to build houses where the poor will know shelter, comfort, +beauty. +And then may I look into a woman's eyes +And find holiness, love and the peace which passeth understanding. + + + + + W.E. Burghardt Du Bois + + +A LITANY OF ATLANTA + +Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906 + + +O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears +an-hungered in these fearful days-- + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery +in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O God, crying: + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human men. +When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them +as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to +innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home. + _Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_ + +And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them +in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their +mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, and waxed +fat and rich on public iniquity? + _Thou knowest, good God!_ + +Is this Thy justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and +the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty? + _Justice, O judge of men!_ + +Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not seers +seen in Heaven's halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the +black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of +endless dead? + _Awake, Thou that sleepest!_ + +Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru blazing +corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women +strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste +prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! + _Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_ + +From lust of body and lust of blood + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From lust of power and lust of gold, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, + _Great God, deliver us!_ + +A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder +and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and +fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when church spires +pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men +who hide behind the veil of vengeance! + _Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_ + +In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears +and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and +leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime_! The word was +mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one. + _Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_ + +Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man +who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told +him: _Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one +told how some one said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. +Yet for that man's crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife +naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil. + _Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_ + +Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall +the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our +hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do +such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever +and forever! + _Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_ + +Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and +mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we +raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen +fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy +crucified Christ: _What meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the +Sign! + _Keep not thou silence, O God!_ + +Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb +suffering. Surely Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, +heartless thing? + _Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_ + +Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art still +the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul's soul sit some soft +darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night. + +But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to +our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path. + +Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and +without, the liar. Whither? To death? + _Amen! Welcome dark sleep!_ + +Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass +from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and +clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we +must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape. + _Selah!_ + +In yonder East trembles a star. + _Vengeance is mine; I mill repay, saith the Lord!_ + +Thy will, O Lord, be done! + _Kyrie Eleison!_ + +Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little +children. + _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +Our voices sink in silence and in night. + _Hear us, good Lord!_ + +In night, O God of a godless land! + _Amen!_ + +In silence, O Silent God. + _Selah!_ + + + + + George Marion McClellan + + +DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS + +To dreamy languors and the violet mist + Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale +Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, + Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale +Of Summer promises and tender green, + Of a new life and beauty yet unseen. +The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, + Where dying winds of March their branches swing, +While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, + A hand invisible leads on the Spring. + +His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins + With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups, +Where to the warm and passing southern winds, + Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups. +Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, + The fields will spread with every brilliant hue. +But high o'er all the early floral train, + Where softness all the arching sky resumes, +The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, + In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms. + + +A BUTTERFLY IN CHURCH + +What dost thou here, thou shining, sinless thing, +With many colored hues and shapely wing? +Why quit the open field and summer air +To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer. + +'Tis meet that we, who this great structure built, +Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, +For we this gilded edifice within +Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin. + +But thou art free from guilt as God on high; +Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, +And leave us here our secret woes to bear, +Confessionals and agonies of prayer. + + +THE HILLS OF SEWANEE + +Sewanee Hills of dear delight, + Prompting my dreams that used to be, +I know you are waiting me still to-night + By the Unika Range of Tennessee. + +The blinking stars in endless space, + The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, +To-night caress your wind-swept face, + And fold you in a thousand dreams. + +Your far outlines, less seen than felt, + Which wind with hill propensities, +In moonlight dreams I see you melt + Away in vague immensities. + +And, far away, I still can feel + Your mystery that ever speaks +Of vanished things, as shadows steal + Across your breast and rugged peaks. + +O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, + And wait so patiently down there, +Your peace takes hold upon my heart + And makes its burden less to bear. + + +THE FEET OF JUDAS + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +The dark and evil passions of his soul, +His secret plot, and sordidness complete, +His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, +And still in love he stooped and washed his feet. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, +His bargain with the priest, and more than this, +In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, +Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And so ineffable his love 'twas meet, +That pity fill his great forgiving heart, +And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, +Who in his Lord had basely sold his part. + +Christ washed the feet of Judas! +And thus a girded servant, self-abased, +Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven +Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, +And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven. + +And so if we have ever felt the wrong +Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, +What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, +Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: +Christ washed the feet of Judas. + + + + + William Stanley Braithwaite + + +SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee, +Count 'em two, you make 'em three: +Pluck the man and boy apart +And you'll see into my heart. + + +SANDY STAR + +I + +_Sculptured Worship_ + +The zones of warmth around his heart, + No alien airs had crossed; +But he awoke one morn to feel + The magic numbness of autumnal frost. + +His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, + And tangled emotions, vague and dim; +And sacrificing what he loved + He lost the dearest part of him. + +In sculptured worship now he lives, + His one desire a prisoned ache; +If he can never melt again + His very heart will break. + +II + +_Laughing It Out_ + +He had a whim and laughed it out + Upon the exit of a chance; +He floundered in a sea of doubt-- + If life was real--or just romance. + +Sometimes upon his brow would come + A little pucker of defiance; +He totalled in a word the sum + Of all man made of facts and science. + +And then a hearty laugh would break, + A reassuring shrug of shoulder; +And we would from his fancy take + A faith in death which made life bolder. + +III + +_Exit_ + +No, his exit by the gate + Will not leave the wind ajar; +He will go when it is late + With a misty star. + +One will call, he cannot see; + One will call, he will not hear; +He will take no company + Nor a hope or fear. + +We shall smile who loved him so-- + They who gave him hate will weep; +But for us the winds will blow + Pulsing through his sleep. + +IV + +_The Way_ + +He could not tell the way he came, + Because his chart was lost: +Yet all his way was paved with flame + From the bourne he crossed. + +He did not know the way to go, + Because he had no map: +He followed where the winds blow,-- + And the April sap. + +He never knew upon his brow + The secret that he bore,-- +And laughs away the mystery now + The dark's at his door. + +V + +_Onus Probandi_ + +No more from out the sunset, + No more across the foam, +No more across the windy hills + Will Sandy Star come home. + +He went away to search it + With a curse upon his tongue: +And in his hand the staff of life, + Made music as it swung. + +I wonder if he found it, + And knows the mystery now-- +Our Sandy Star who went away, + With the secret on his brow. + + +DEL CASCAR + +Del Cascar, Del Cascar, +Stood upon a flaming star, +Stood, and let his feet hang down +Till in China the toes turned brown. + +And he reached his fingers over +The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, +And caught a Mandarin at prayer, +And tickled his nose in Orion's hair. + +The sun went down through crimson bars, +And left his blind face battered with stars-- +But the brown toes in China kept +Hot the tears Del Cascar wept. + + +TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES + +Turn me to my yellow leaves, +I am better satisfied; +There is something in me grieves-- +That was never born, and died. +Let me be a scarlet flame +On a windy autumn morn, +I who never had a name, +Nor from breathing image born. +From the margin let me fall +Where the farthest stars sink down, +And the void consumes me,--all +In nothingness to drown. +Let me dream my dream entire, +Withered as an autumn leaf-- +Let me have my vain desire, +Vain--as it is brief. + + +IRONIC: LL.D. + +There are no hollows any more +Between the mountains; the prairie floor +Is like a curtain with the drape +Of the winds' invisible shape; +And nowhere seen and nowhere heard +The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird. + +Now we're traveling, what holds back +Arrival, in the very track +Where the urge put forth; so we stay +And move a thousand miles a day. +Time's a Fancy ringing bells +Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells! + + +SCINTILLA + +I kissed a kiss in youth + Upon a dead man's brow; +And that was long ago,-- + And I'm a grown man now. + +It's lain there in the dust, + Thirty years and more;-- +My lips that set a light + At a dead man's door. + + +SIC VITA + +Heart free, hand free, + Blue above, brown under, +All the world to me + Is a place of wonder. +Sun shine, moon shine, + Stars, and winds a-blowing, +All into this heart of mine + Flowing, flowing, flowing! + +Mind free, step free, + Days to follow after, +Joys of life sold to me + For the price of laughter. +Girl's love, man's love, + Love of work and duty, +Just a will of God's to prove + Beauty, beauty, beauty! + + +RHAPSODY + +I am glad daylong for the gift of song, +For time and change and sorrow; +For the sunset wings and the world-end things +Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. +I am glad for my heart whose gates apart +Are the entrance-place of wonders, +Where dreams come in from the rush and din +Like sheep from the rains and thunders. + + + + + George Reginald Margetson + + +STANZAS FROM THE FLEDGLING BARD AND THE POETRY SOCIETY + +_Part I_ + +I'm out to find the new, the modern school, +Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, +Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, +To write the stuff the editors would buy; +It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,-- +Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown +And build up one instead decked with a new renown. + +A thought is haunting me by night and day, +And in some safe archive I seek to lay it; +I have some startling thing I wish to say, +And they can put me wise just how to say it. +Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, +Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, +And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense. + +Will some kind one direct me to that college +Where every budding genius now is headed, +The only source to gain poetic knowledge, +Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, +Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded,-- +The factory where they shape new feet and meters +That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters. + + * * * * * + +I hope I'll be an eligible student, +E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, +But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,-- +A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance +Who thinks that he can make the muses dance +By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, +To win some fool's applause and please his own desire. + +Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect +That I am not a true, a genuine poet; +If in the poet's colors I am decked +They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it. +I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it, +But be content to gaze with open mind; +I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind. + + * * * * * + +_Part II_ + +I have a problem all alone to solve, +A problem how to find the poetry club, +It makes my sky piece like a top revolve, +For fear that they might mark me for a snob. +They'll call me poetry monger and then dub +Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose, +Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse. + +Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, +In which he sang of all his lovely dears, +Called forth hot condemnation and cold look, +From lesser mortals who were not his peers. +They chided him for telling his affairs, +Because they could not tell their own so well, +They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell. + +They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight, +And all because he dared to tell the truth, +Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,-- +A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. +They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; +Because he blended human with divine, +They branded him "the bard of women and of wine." + +Of course I soak the booze once in a while, +But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it; +I love the girls, they win me with a smile, +But no one knows, for I won't write about it. +And so the fools may never think to doubt it, +When I declare I am a moral man, +As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan. + + * * * * * + +Every man has got a hobby, +Every poet has some fault, +Every sweet contains its bitter, +Every fresh thing has its salt. + +Every mountain has a valley, +Every valley has a hill, +Every ravine is a river, +Every river is a rill. + +Every fool has got some wisdom, +Every wise man is a fool, +Every scholar is a block-head, +Every dunce has been to school. + +Every bad man is a good man, +Every fat man is not stout, +Every good man is a bad man +But 'tis hard to find him out. + +Every strong man is a weak man, +You may doubt it as you please, +Every well man is a sick man, +Every doctor has disease. + + + + + James Weldon Johnson + + +O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS + +O black and unknown bards of long ago, +How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? +How, in your darkness, did you come to know +The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre? +Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes? +Who first from out the still watch, lone and long, +Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise +Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song? + +Heart of what slave poured out such melody +As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains +His spirit must have nightly floated free, +Though still about his hands he felt his chains. +Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye +Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he +That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, +"Nobody knows de trouble I see"? + +What merely living clod, what captive thing, +Could up toward God through all its darkness grope, +And find within its deadened heart to sing +These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope? +How did it catch that subtle undertone, +That note in music heard not with the ears? +How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown, +Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears. + +Not that great German master in his dream +Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars +At the creation, ever heard a theme +Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars +How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir +The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung +Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were +That helped make history when Time was young. + +There is a wide, wide wonder in it all, +That from degraded rest and servile toil +The fiery spirit of the seer should call +These simple children of the sun and soil. +O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed, +You--you alone, of all the long, long line +Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed, +Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. + +You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings; +No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean +Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings +You touched in chord with music empyrean. +You sang far better than you knew; the songs +That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed +Still live,--but more than this to you belongs: +You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ. + + +SENCE YOU WENT AWAY + +Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, +Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light, +Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue, +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you, +Seems lak to me I don't know what to do, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong, +Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long, +Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song, + Sence you went away. + +Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh, +Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry, +Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye, + Sence you went away. + + +THE CREATION + +(_A Negro Sermon_) + +And God stepped out on space, +And He looked around and said, +_"I'm lonely-- +I'll make me a world."_ + +And far as the eye of God could see +Darkness covered everything, +Blacker than a hundred midnights +Down in a cypress swamp. + +Then God smiled, +And the light broke, +And the darkness rolled up on one side, +And the light stood shining on the other, +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, +And God rolled the light around in His hands +Until He made the sun; +And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. +And the light that was left from making the sun +God gathered it up in a shining ball +And flung it against the darkness, +Spangling the night with the moon and stars. +Then down between +The darkness and the light +He hurled the world; +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God himself stepped down-- +And the sun was on His right hand, +And the moon was on His left; +The stars were clustered about His head, +And the earth was under His feet. +And God walked, and where He trod +His footsteps hollowed the valleys out +And bulged the mountains up. + +Then He stopped and looked and saw +That the earth was hot and barren. +So God stepped over to the edge of the world +And He spat out the seven seas; +He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; +He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; +And the waters above the earth came down, +The cooling waters came down. + +Then the green grass sprouted, +And the little red flowers blossomed, +The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, +And the oak spread out his arms, +The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, +And the rivers ran down to the sea; +And God smiled again, +And the rainbow appeared, +And curled itself around His shoulder. + +Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand +Over the sea and over the land, +And He said, _"Bring forth! Bring forth!"_ +And quicker than God could drop His hand, +Fishes and fowls +And beasts and birds +Swam the rivers and the seas, +Roamed the forests and the woods, +And split the air with their wings. +And God said, _"That's good!"_ + +Then God walked around, +And God looked around +On all that He had made. +He looked at His sun, +And He looked at His moon, +'And He looked at His little stars; +He looked on His world +With all its living things, +And God said, _"I'm lonely still."_ + +Then God sat down +On the side of a hill where He could think; +By a deep, wide river He sat down; +With His head in His hands, +God thought and thought, +Till He thought, _"I'll make me a man!"_ + +Up from the bed of the river +God scooped the clay; +And by the bank of the river +He kneeled Him down; +And there the great God Almighty +Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, +Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, +Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; +This Great God, +Like a mammy bending over her baby, +Kneeled down in the dust +Toiling over a lump of clay +Till He shaped it in His own image; + +Then into it He blew the breath of life, +And man became a living soul. +Amen. Amen. + + +THE WHITE WITCH + +O brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +Trust not your prowess nor your strength, +Your only safety lies in flight; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + +The great white witch you have not seen? +Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, +Like nursery children you have looked +For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; +But no, not so; the witch appears +In all the glowing charms of youth. + +Her lips are like carnations, red, +Her face like new-born lilies, fair, +Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, +She moves with subtle grace and air, +And all about her head there floats +The golden glory of her hair. + +But though she always thus appears +In form of youth and mood of mirth, +Unnumbered centuries are hers, +The infant planets saw her birth; +The child of throbbing Life is she, +Twin sister to the greedy earth. + +And back behind those smiling lips, +And down within those laughing eyes, +And underneath the soft caress +Of hand and voice and purring sighs, +The shadow of the panther lurks, +The spirit of the vampire lies. + +For I have seen the great white witch, +And she has led me to her lair, +And I have kissed her red, red lips +And cruel face so white and fair; +Around me she has twined her arms, +And bound me with her yellow hair. + +I felt those red lips burn and sear +My body like a living coal; +Obeyed the power of those eyes +As the needle trembles to the pole; +And did not care although I felt +The strength go ebbing from my soul. + +Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, +And heard your laughter loud and gay, +And in your voices she has caught +The echo of a far-off day, +When man was closer to the earth; +And she has marked you for her prey. + +She feels the old Antaean strength +In you, the great dynamic beat +Of primal passions, and she sees +In you the last besieged retreat +Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, +Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet. + +O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +O, younger brothers mine, beware! +Look not upon her beauty bright; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + + +MOTHER NIGHT + +Eternities before the first-born day, + Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, + Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, + A brooding mother over chaos lay. +And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, + Shall run their fiery courses and then claim + The haven of the darkness whence they came; + Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. + +So when my feeble sun of life burns out, + And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, + I shall, full weary of the feverish light, +Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, + And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep + Into the quiet bosom of the Night. + + +O SOUTHLAND! + +O Southland! O Southland! + Have you not heard the call, +The trumpet blown, the word made known + To the nations, one and all? +The watchword, the hope-word, + Salvation's present plan? +A gospel new, for all--for you: + Man shall be saved by man. + +O Southland! O Southland! + Do you not hear to-day +The mighty beat of onward feet, + And know you not their way? +'Tis forward, 'tis upward, + On to the fair white arch +Of Freedom's dome, and there is room + For each man who would march. + +O Southland, fair Southland! + Then why do you still cling +To an idle age and a musty page, + To a dead and useless thing? +'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time! + The world is young again! +And God's above, and God is love, + And men are only men. + +O Southland! my Southland! + O birthland! do not shirk +The toilsome task, nor respite ask, + But gird you for the work. +Remember, remember + That weakness stalks in pride; +That he is strong who helps along + The faint one at his side. + + +BROTHERS + +See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air +Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he +Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye! +No light is there; none, save the glint that shines +In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs +Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap. + + How came this beast in human shape and form? +Speak, man!--We call you man because you wear +His shape--How are you thus? Are you not from +That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race +Which we have known three centuries? Not from +That more than faithful race which through three wars +Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes +Without a single breach of trust? Speak out! + + I am, and am not. + + Then who, why are you? + + I am a thing not new, I am as old +As human nature. I am that which lurks, +Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed; +The ancient trait which fights incessantly +Against restraint, balks at the upward climb; +The weight forever seeking to obey +The law of downward pull;--and I am more: +The bitter fruit am I of planted seed; +The resultant, the inevitable end +Of evil forces and the powers of wrong. + + Lessons in degradation, taught and learned, +The memories of cruel sights and deeds, +The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate +Filtered through fifteen generations have +Sprung up and found in me sporadic life. +In me the muttered curse of dying men, +On me the stain of conquered women, and +Consuming me the fearful fires of lust, +Lit long ago, by other hands than mine. +In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers +Of wretches now long dead,--their dire bequests,-- +In me the echo of the stifled cry +Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts. + + I claim no race, no race claims me; I am +No more than human dregs; degenerate; +The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin; +I am--just what I am. . . . The race that fed +Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same +To-day, but I-- + Enough, the brute must die! +Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist +The fire much longer than this slender pine. +Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him! Wait! +Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose +The agony and terror in his face. + +And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames +Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek! +And there's another! Wilder than the first. +Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on +The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so! +Now let it slowly blaze again. See there! +He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out, +Searching around in vain appeal for help! +Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh +Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts +Down through the coils of chain that hold erect +The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree. + + Stop! to each man no more than one man's share. +You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain-- +Let us divide its links; this skull, of course, +In fair division, to the leader comes. + + And now his fiendish crime has been avenged; +Let us back to our wives and children.--Say, +What did he mean by those last muttered words, +_"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?_ + + +FIFTY YEARS +(1863-1913) + +_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation +Proclamation._ + +O brothers mine, to-day we stand + Where half a century sweeps our ken, +Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand, + Struck off our bonds and made us men. + +Just fifty years--a winter's day-- + As runs the history of a race; +Yet, as we look back o'er the way, + How distant seems our starting place! + +Look farther back! Three centuries! + To where a naked, shivering score, +Snatched from their haunts across the seas, + Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore. + +This land is ours by right of birth, + This land is ours by right of toil; +We helped to turn its virgin earth, + Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. + +Where once the tangled forest stood,-- + Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,-- +Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, + The cotton white, the yellow corn. + +To gain these fruits that have been earned, + To hold these fields that have been won, +Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, + Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. + +That Banner which is now the type + Of victory on field and flood-- +Remember, its first crimson stripe + Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. + +And never yet has come the cry-- + When that fair flag has been assailed-- +For men to do, for men to die, + That we have faltered or have failed. + +We've helped to bear it, rent and torn, + Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze +Held in our hands, it has been borne + And planted far across the seas. + +And never yet,--O haughty Land, + Let us, at least, for this be praised-- +Has one black, treason-guided hand + Ever against that flag been raised. + +Then should we speak but servile words, + Or shall we hang our heads in shame? +Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, + And fear our heritage to claim? + +No! stand erect and without fear, + And for our foes let this suffice-- +We've bought a rightful sonship here, + And we have more than paid the price. + +And yet, my brothers, well I know + The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, +The spirit bowed beneath the blow, + The heart grown faint from wounds and stings; + +The staggering force of brutish might, + That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; +The long, vain waiting through the night + To hear some voice for justice raised. + +Full well I know the hour when hope + Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere +Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope + With hands uplifted in despair. + +Courage! Look out, beyond, and see + The far horizon's beckoning span! +Faith in your God-known destiny! + We are a part of some great plan. + +Because the tongues of Garrison + And Phillips now are cold in death, +Think you their work can be undone? + Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? + +Think you that John Brown's spirit stops? + That Lovejoy was but idly slain? +Or do you think those precious drops + From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain? + +That for which millions prayed and sighed, + That for which tens of thousands fought, +For which so many freely died, + God cannot let it come to naught. + + + + + John Wesley Holloway + + +MISS MELERLEE + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Oh, you're pretty sight to see! +Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face, +An' willowy form chuck full o' grace-- +De sweetes' gal Ah evah see, +An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +You're de berry gal fo' me! +Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, +An' silky arm so plump an' bare! +Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes, +An' de way Ah love you,--goodness knows! + Hello, Miss Melerlee! + + Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! +Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! +Ah nevah seed yo' face befo' +An' lakly won't again no mo'; +But yo' sweet smile will follow me +Cla'r into eternity! + Farewell, Miss Melerlee! + + +CALLING THE DOCTOR + +Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + +Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f; +Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f; +Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do, + An' so Ah sent fo' you. + +"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see: +Firs',--horhound drops an' catnip tea; +Den rock candy soaked in rum, +An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum; +Next Ah tried was castor oil, +An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil; +Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood; +But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good. +Den when home remedies seem to shirk, +Dem pantry bottles was put to work: + +Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills, +"Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills," +Ready Relief, an' A.B.C., +An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z. +An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall, +Dey nevah done no good at all. + +Mah appetite begun to fail; +'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail, +Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always said +When yo' can't eat you're almost dead. + +So Ah got scared an' sent for you.-- +Now, doctor, see what you c'n do. +Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick! +Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, + Don't,--Ah'll die! + + +THE CORN SONG + +Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,-- + Lis'n to 'im now!-- +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin', at his plow! +In de early mornin', + Thoo de hazy air, +Loud an' clear, sweet an' strong + Comes de music rare: + + "O mah dovee, Who-ah! + Do you love me? Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row, + Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so; + "Whoa! Har! Come'ere!" + +Don't yo' love a co'n song? + How it stirs yo' blood! +Ever'body list'nin', + In de neighborhood! +Standin' in yo' front do' + In de misty mo'n, +Hyah de jolly black boy, + Singin' in de co'n: + + "O Miss Julie, Who-ah! + Love me truly, Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so, + W'en 'e try to mek 'im go: + "Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!" + +O you jolly black boy, + Yod'lin' in de co'n, +Callin' to yo' dawlin', + In de dewy mo'n, +Love 'er, boy, forevah, + Yodel ever' day; +Only le' me lis'n, + As yo' sing away: + + "O mah dawlin'! Who-ah! + Hyah me callin'! Who-ah! + Who-ah!" + Tu'n aroun' anothah row, + Holler to yo' mule so: + "Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!" + + +BLACK MAMMIES + +If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, +Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- +Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- +Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy. + +You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; +An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; +But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, +An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one. + +Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, +An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: +If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', +Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'. + +If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, +Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; +If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, +Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere. + +She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; +But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; +Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, +She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down. + +She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, +An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; +She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; +She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God! + +She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word," +Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd," +If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, +It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out; + +But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, +An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; +An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',-- +Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'! + + + + + Leslie Pinckney Hill + + +TUSKEGEE + +Wherefore this busy labor without rest? +Is it an idle dream to which we cling, +Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing +Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best. +By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." +So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, +And so the thought is wedded to the thing; +But what shall be the end, and what the test? +Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see +Not many steps ahead, but this we know-- +If all our toilsome building is in vain, +Availing not to set our manhood free, +If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, +The South will wear eternally a stain. + + +CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE + +Come home with me a little space +And browse about our ancient place, +Lay by your wonted troubles here +And have a turn of Christmas cheer. +These sober walls of weathered stone +Can tell a romance of their own, +And these wide rooms of devious line +Are kindly meant in their design. +Sometimes the north wind searches through, +But he shall not be rude to you. +We'll light a log of generous girth +For winter comfort, and the mirth +Of healthy children you shall see +About a sparkling Christmas tree. +Eleanor, leader of the fold, +Hermione with heart of gold, +Elaine with comprehending eyes, +And two more yet of coddling size, +Natalie pondering all that's said, +And Mary with the cherub head-- +All these shall give you sweet content +And care-destroying merriment, +While one with true madonna grace +Moves round the glowing fire-place +Where father loves to muse aside +And grandma sits in silent pride. +And you may chafe the wasting oak, +Or freely pass the kindly joke +To mix with nuts and home-made cake +And apples set on coals to bake. +Or some fine carol we will sing +In honor of the Manger-King, +Or hear great Milton's organ verse +Or Plato's dialogue rehearse +What Socrates with his last breath +Sublimely said of life and death. +These dear delights we fain would share +With friend and kinsman everywhere, +And from our door see them depart +Each with a little lighter heart. + + +SUMMER MAGIC + +So many cares to vex the day, + So many fears to haunt the night, +My heart was all but weaned away + From every lure of old delight. +Then summer came, announced by June, + With beauty, miracle and mirth. +She hung aloft the rounding moon, + She poured her sunshine on the earth, +She drove the sap and broke the bud, + She set the crimson rose afire. +She stirred again my sullen blood, + And waked in me a new desire. +Before my cottage door she spread + The softest carpet nature weaves, +And deftly arched above my head + A canopy of shady leaves. +Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies, + Her days were bowers rife with song, +And many a scheme did she devise + To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong. +For on the hill or in the dell, + Or where the brook went leaping by +Or where the fields would surge and swell + With golden wheat or bearded rye, +I felt her heart against my own, + I breathed the sweetness of her breath, +Till all the cark of time had flown, + And I was lord of life and death. + + +THE TEACHER + +Lord, who am I to teach the way +To little children day by day, +So prone myself to go astray? + +I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know +How faint they flicker and how low +The candles of my knowledge glow. + +I teach them POWER to will and do, +But only now to learn anew +My own great weakness through and through. + +I teach them LOVE for all mankind +And all God's creatures, but I find +My love comes lagging far behind. + +Lord, if their guide I still must be, +Oh let the little children see +The teacher leaning hard on Thee. + + + + + Edward Smyth Jones + + +A SONG OF THANKS + +For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, +For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, +For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, +For her coffers filled with their countless worth, +For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, +For the rippling streams which turn the mills, +For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, +For the songs of gladness on the gale,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, +For the bounty which the rich soil yields, +For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, +For the sun which ripens the golden grains, +For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, +For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine, +For the tubers large and cotton white, +For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, +For the swan which floats near the river-banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, +For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, +For the plum and the peach and the apple red, +For the dear old press where the wine is tread, +For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, +And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, +For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, +For the game which hide in the shady nooks,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, +For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines, +For the silver ores of a thousand fold, +For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, +For the river boat and the flying train, +For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, +For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, +For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + +For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, +For the peace and plenty together share, +For the Hand which guides us from above, +For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, +For the blessed home with its children gay, +For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, +For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, +We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,-- +From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- +Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! + + + + + Ray G. Dandridge + + +TIME TO DIE + +Black brother, think you life so sweet +That you would live at any price? +Does mere existence balance with +The weight of your great sacrifice? +Or can it be you fear the grave +Enough to live and die a slave? +O Brother! be it better said, +When you are gone and tears are shed, +That your death was the stepping stone +Your children's children cross'd upon. +Men have died that men might live: +Look every foeman in the eye! +If necessary, your life give +For something, ere in vain you die. + + +'ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD + +(_To R. V.P._) + +Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings +Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, +Truint Angel, wifout wings, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, +Bekaze I foul de time an' key, +Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head? + +O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, +Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, +Is sho a God gib natchel prize, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, +Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, +Jes to roun' you out, complete, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, +Knows yore evah A, B, C, +Plum on down to X, Y, Z, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + +De man doan know how much he miss, +Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; +Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head! + +I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, +(By charm or craf'--doan mattah how) +You stay jes lak you is right now, +Mah 'ittle Touzle Head. + + +ZALKA PEETRUZA + +(_Who Was Christened Lucy Jane_) + +She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, +With swaying arms and flying feet, +'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, +Her all was dancing--save her face. + +A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, +Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; +A body, marshalled by the will, +Kept dancing while a heart stood still: + +And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, +Looked over heads to empty air, +As though they sought to find therein +Redemption for a maiden sin. + +'Twas thus, amid force driven grace, +We found the lost look on her face; +And then, to us, did it occur +That, though we saw--we saw not her. + + +SPRIN' FEVAH + +Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy +Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; +An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; +Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, +Dough de task et han' is easy, +An' de day am fair an' breezy, +Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'. + +Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, +Kaze it jes won't be denied; +Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; +Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; +Doctahs fail to analyze it; +So I yiel's (dough I despise it) +To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'. + + +DE DRUM MAJAH + +He's struttin' sho ernuff, +Wearin' a lady's muff +En' ways erpon his head, +Red coat ob reddest red, +Purtty white satin ves', +Gole braid ercross de ches'; +Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, +Prancin' out dar in frunt, + Leadin' his ban'. + +Wen dat ah whistle blows, +Each man behine him knows +'Zacklee whut he mus' do; +You bet! he dues it, too. +W'en dat brass stick he twirls, +Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls +Looks on wid longin' eyes, +Dey simpley idolize + Dat han'sum man. + +Sweet fife an' piccalo, +Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' +Slide ho'n an' saxophones, +Jazz syncopated tones, +Snare drum an' lead cornet, +Alto an' clarinet, +Las', but not least, dar cum +Cymbals an' big bass drum-- + O! whut a ban'! + +Cose, we all undahstan' +Each piece he'ps maik de ban', +But dey all mus' be led, +Sum one mus' be de head: +No doubt, de centipede +Has all de laigs he need, +But take erway de head, +Po' centipede am dead; + So am de ban'. + + + + + Fenton Johnson + + +CHILDREN OF THE SUN + +We are children of the sun, + Rising sun! +Weaving Southern destiny, +Waiting for the mighty hour +When our Shiloh shall appear +With the flaming sword of right, +With the steel of brotherhood, +And emboss in crimson die +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We are the star-dust folk, + Striving folk! +Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; +Seething passions wrought through wrongs, +Led us where the moon rays dip +In the night of dull despair, +Showed us where the star gleams shine, +And the mystic symbols glow-- +Liberty! Fraternity! + +We have come through cloud and mist, + Mighty men! +Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, +Reared for us a mystic throne +In the splendor of the skies, +That shall always be for us, +Children of the Nazarene, +Children who shall ever sing +Liberty! Fraternity! + + +THE NEW DAY + +From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince + of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. +Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was + drowned by the happy shouting of the people. +From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant + from the throats of white-robed angels: + + Blow your trumpets, little children! + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Blow your blast that Peace might know + She is Queen of God's great army. + With the crying blood of millions + We have written deep her name + In the Book of all the Ages; + With the lilies in the valley, + With the roses by the Mersey, + With the golden flower of Jersey + We have crowned her smooth young temples. + Where her footsteps cease to falter + Golden grain will greet the morning, + Where her chariot descends + Shall be broken down the altars + Of the gods of dark disturbance. + Nevermore shall men know suffering, + Nevermore shall women wailing + Shake to grief the God of Heaven. + From the East and from the West, + From the cities in the valley, + From God's dwelling on the mountain, + Little children, blow your trumpets! + +From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I + heard the music of the old slave songs. +I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly + fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. +I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the + crimson in my veins leapt furiously. + + Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought + In No Man's Land that peace might come again! + Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave + Red blood to save the freedom of the world! + We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; + But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared + Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. + So when the bugle blast had called us forth + We went not like the surly brute of yore + But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world + The freedom that we never knew nor shared. + These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down + As Samson in the temple of the gods; + Unloosen them and let us breathe the air + That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. + For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, + Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself; + And now we ask of thee our liberty, + Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes. + +I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land. + + +TIRED + +I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's +civilization. + +Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane. + +I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, +shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of +Mike's barrels. + +You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to +dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit. + +You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting +the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon. + +Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It +is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored. + +Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars +marked my destiny. + +I am tired of civilization. + + +THE BANJO PLAYER + +There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. +I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing + my songs of the cabin and the field. At the + Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets + in March; there is always food and drink for me + there, and the dimes of those who love honest music. + Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap + their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle. + +But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman +called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour? + + +THE SCARLET WOMAN + +Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife. + +My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two +days after his insurance expired. + +I had nothing, so I had to go to work. + +All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted +the men of both races. + +Starvation danced with me. + +So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales +of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to +Vice. + +Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around. + +Gin is better than all the water in Lethe. + + + + + R. Nathaniel Dett + + +THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE + +Staccato! Staccato! +Leggier agitato! + In and out does the melody twist-- +Unique proposition +Is this composition. + (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) +Now in the dominant +Theme ringing prominent, + Bass still repeating its one monotone, +Double notes crying, +Up keyboard go flying, + The change to the minor comes in like a groan. +Without a cessation +A chaste modulation + Hastens adown to subdominant key, +Where melody mellow-like +Singing so 'cello-like + Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. +Scarce is this finished +When chords all diminished + Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, +A pedal-point wonder +Rivaling thunder. + Now all is mad agitation again. +Like laughter jolly +Begins the finale; + Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend +Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. + Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end! + + + + + Georgia Douglas Johnson + + +THE HEART OF A WOMAN + +The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, +As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, +Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam +In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. + +The heart of a woman falls back with the night, +And enters some alien cage in its plight, +And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars +While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. + + +YOUTH + +The dew is on the grasses, dear, + The blush is on the rose, +And swift across our dial-youth, + A shifting shadow goes. + +The primrose moments, lush with bliss, + Exhale and fade away, +Life may renew the Autumn time, + But nevermore the May! + + +LOST ILLUSIONS + +Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, +Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, +Why did I stray from their shelter and grow +Into the sadness that follows--to know! + +Impotent atom with desolate gaze +Threading the tumult of hazardous ways-- +Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth +Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth! + + +I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME + +I want to die while you love me, + While yet you hold me fair, +While laughter lies upon my lips + And lights are in my hair. + +I want to die while you love me, + And bear to that still bed, +Your kisses turbulent, unspent + To warm me when I'm dead. + +I want to die while you love me + Oh, who would care to live +Till love has nothing more to ask + And nothing more to give! + +I want to die while you love me + And never, never see +The glory of this perfect day + Grow dim or cease to be. + + +WELT + +Would I might mend the fabric of my youth +That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, +Would I might compromise awhile with truth +Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies. + +For I would go a further while with you, +And drain this cup so tantalant and fair +Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew, +Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair! + + +MY LITTLE DREAMS + +I'm folding up my little dreams +Within my heart to-night, +And praying I may soon forget +The torture of their sight. + +For Time's deft fingers scroll my brow +With fell relentless art-- +I'm folding up my little dreams +To-night, within my heart! + + + + + Claude McKay + + +THE LYNCHING + +His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. +His father, by the crudest way of pain, +Had bidden him to his bosom once again; +The awful sin remained still unforgiven. +All night a bright and solitary star +(Perchance the one that ever guided him, +Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) +Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. +Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view +The ghastly body swaying in the sun: +The women thronged to look, but never a one +Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; +And little lads, lynchers that were to be, +Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. + + +IF WE MUST DIE + +If we must die--let it not be like hogs +Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, +While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, +Making their mock at our accursed lot. +If we must die--oh, let us nobly die, +So that our precious blood may not be shed +In vain; then even the monsters we defy +Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! + +Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; +Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave, +And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! +What though before us lies the open grave? +Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, +Pressed to the wall, dying, but--fighting back! + + +TO THE WHITE FIENDS + +Think you I am not fiend and savage too? +Think you I could not arm me with a gun +And shoot down ten of you for every one +Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you? +Be not deceived, for every deed you do +I could match--out-match: am I not Africa's son, +Black of that black land where black deeds are done? + +But the Almighty from the darkness drew +My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light +Awhile to burn on the benighted earth, +Thy dusky face I set among the white +For thee to prove thyself of highest worth; +Before the world is swallowed up in night, +To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth! + + +THE HARLEM DANCER + +Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes +And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; +Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes +Blown by black players upon a picnic day. +She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, +The light gauze hanging loose about her form; +To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm +Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. +Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls +Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise, +The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, +Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze; +But, looking at her falsely-smiling face +I knew her self was not in that strange place. + + +HARLEM SHADOWS + +I hear the halting footsteps of a lass + In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall +Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass + Eager to heed desire's insistent call: +Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feet + Go prowling through the night from street to street. + +Through the long night until the silver break + Of day the little gray feet know no rest, +Through the lone night until the last snow-flake + Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast, +The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet + Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. + +Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way + Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, +Has pushed the timid little feet of clay. + The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! +Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet + In Harlem wandering from street to street. + + +AFTER THE WINTER + +Some day, when trees have shed their leaves, + And against the morning's white +The shivering birds beneath the eaves + Have sheltered for the night, +We'll turn our faces southward, love, + Toward the summer isle +Where bamboos spire the shafted grove + And wide-mouthed orchids smile. + +And we will seek the quiet hill + Where towers the cotton tree, +And leaps the laughing crystal rill, + And works the droning bee. +And we will build a lonely nest + Beside an open glade, +And there forever will we rest, + O love--O nut-brown maid! + + +SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE + +Too green the springing April grass, +Too blue the silver speckled sky, +For me to linger here, alas, +While happy winds go laughing by, +Wasting the golden hours indoors, +Washing windows and scrubbing floors. + +Too wonderful the April night, +Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, +The stars too gloriously bright, +For me to spend the evening hours, +When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, +Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping. + + +THE TIRED WORKER + +O whisper, O my soul!--the afternoon +Is waning into evening--whisper soft! +Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon +From out its misty veil will swing aloft! +Be patient, weary body, soon the night +Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, +And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite +To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. +The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; +Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. +But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? +O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest! +Weary my veins, my brain, my life,--have pity! +No! Once again the hard, the ugly city. + + +THE BARRIER + +I must not gaze at them although + Your eyes are dawning day; +I must not watch you as you go + Your sun-illumined way; + +I hear but I must never heed + The fascinating note, +Which, fluting like a river-reed, + Comes from your trembling throat; + +I must not see upon your face + Love's softly glowing spark; +For there's the barrier of race, + You're fair and I am dark. + + +TO O. E. A. + +Your voice is the color of a robin's breast, + And there's a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in the night. +Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, + The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight +Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. + I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold, + Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. +But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of the +eucharis +Before the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss, + You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness, +Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth, +All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to your +birth: + O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong, + But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened with +flesh, +Forever, life-long. + + +FLAME-HEART + +So much have I forgotten in ten years, + So much in ten brief years; I have forgot +What time the purple apples come to juice + And what month brings the shy forget-me-not; +Forgotten is the special, startling season + Of some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting, +What time of year the ground doves brown the fields + And fill the noonday with their curious fluting: +I have forgotten much, but still remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +I still recall the honey-fever grass, + But I cannot bring back to mind just when +We rooted them out of the ping-wing path + To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. +I often try to think in what sweet month + The languid painted ladies used to dapple +The yellow bye road mazing from the main, + Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple: +I have forgotten, strange, but quite remember +The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December. + +What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild year + We cheated school to have our fling at tops? +What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy + Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? +Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, + Even the sacred moments, when we played, +All innocent of passion uncorrupt, + At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade: +We were so happy, happy,--I remember +Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. + + +TWO-AN'-SIX + +Merry voices chatterin', +Nimble feet dem patterin', +Big an' little, faces gay, +Happy day dis market day. + +Sateday, de marnin' break, +Soon, soon market-people wake; +An' de light shine from de moon +While dem boy, wid pantaloon +Roll up ober dem knee-pan, +'Tep across de buccra lan' +To de pastur whe' de harse +Feed along wid de jackass, +An' de mule cant' in de track +Wid him tail up in him back, +All de ketchin' to defy, +No ca' how dem boy might try. + +In de early marnin'-tide, +When de cocks crow on de hill +An' de stars are shinin' still, +Mirrie by de fireside +Hots de coffee for de lads +Comin' ridin' on de pads +T'rown across dem animul-- +Donkey, harse too, an' de mule, +Which at last had come do'n cool. +On de bit dem hol' dem full: +Racin' ober pastur' lan', +See dem comin' ebery man, +Comin' fe de steamin' tea +Ober hilly track an' lea. + +Hard-wuk'd donkey on de road +Trottin' wid him ushal load, +Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain, +Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane. + +Cous' Sun sits in hired dray, +Drivin' 'long de market way; +Whole week grindin' sugar cane +T'rough de boilin' sun an' rain, +Now, a'ter de toilin' hard, +He goes seekin' his reward, +While he's thinkin' in him min' +Of de dear ones lef behin', +Of de loved though ailin' wife, +Darlin' treasure of his life, +An' de picknies, six in all, +Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall: +Seben lovin' ones in need, +Seben hungry mouths fe feed; +On deir wants he thinks alone, +Neber dreamin' of his own, +But gwin' on wid joyful face +Till him re'ch de market-place. + +Sugar bears no price to-day, +Though it is de mont' o' May, +When de time is hellish hot, +An' de water cocoanut +An' de cane bebridge is nice, +Mix' up wid a lilly ice. +Big an' little, great an' small, +Afou yam is all de call; +Sugar tup an' gill a quart, +Yet de people hab de heart +Wantin' brater top o' i', +Want de sweatin' higgler fe +Ram de pan an' pile i' up, +Yet sell i' fe so-so tup. + +Cousin Sun is lookin' sad, +As de market is so bad; +'Pon him han' him res' him chin, +Quietly sit do'n thinkin' +Of de loved wife sick in bed, +An' de children to be fed-- +What de laborers would say +When dem know him couldn' pay; +Also what about de mill +Whe' him hire from ole Bill; +So him think, an' think on so, +Till him t'oughts no more could go. + +Then he got up an' began +Pickin' up him sugar-pan: +In his ears rang t'rough de din +"Only two-an'-six a tin'." +What a tale he'd got to tell, +How bad, bad de sugar sell! +Tekin' out de lee amount, +Him set do'n an' begin count +All de time him min' deh doubt +How expenses would pay out; +Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks, +Sugar sell fe two-an'-six! + +So he journeys on de way, +Feelinl sad dis market day; +No e'en buy a little cake +To gi'e baby when she wake,-- +Passin' 'long de candy-shop +'Douten eben mek a stop +To buy drops fe las'y son, +For de lilly cash nea' done. +So him re'ch him own a groun', +An' de children scamper roun', +Each one stretchin' out him han', +Lookin' to de poor sad man. + +Oh, how much he felt de blow, +As he watched dem face fall low, +When dem wait an' nuttin' came +An' drew back deir han's wid shame! +But de sick wife kissed his brow: +"Sun, don't get down-hearted now; +Ef we only pay expense +We mus' wuk we common-sense, +Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut, +Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut; +We mus' try mek two ends meet +Neber mind how hard be it. +We won't mind de haul an' pull, +While dem pickny belly full." + +An' de shadow lef' him face, +An' him felt an inward peace, +As he blessed his better part +For her sweet an' gentle heart: +"Dear one o' my heart, my breat', +Won't I lub you to de deat'? +When my heart is weak an' sad, +Who but you can mek it glad?" + +So dey kissed an' kissed again, +An' deir t'oughts were not on pain, +But was 'way down in de sout' +Where dey'd wedded in deir yout', +In de marnin' of deir life +Free from all de grief an' strife, +Happy in de marnin' light, +Never thinkin' of de night. + +So dey k'lated eberyt'ing; +An' de profit it could bring, +A'ter all de business fix', +Was a princely two-an'-six. + + + + + Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. + + +A PRAYER + +As I lie in bed, +Flat on my back; +There passes across my ceiling +An endless panorama of things-- +Quick steps of gay-voiced children, +Adolescence in its wondering silences, +Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve, +Women in the holy glow of Motherhood, +Old men gazing silently thru the twilight +Into the beyond. +O God, give me words to make my dream-children live. + + +AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? + +Brother, come! +And let us go unto our God. +And when we stand before Him +I shall say-- +"Lord, I do not hate, +I am hated. +I scourge no one, +I am scourged. +I covet no lands, +My lands are coveted. +I mock no peoples, +My people are mocked." +And, brother, what shall you say? + + +IS IT BECAUSE I AM BLACK? + +Why do men smile when I speak, +And call my speech +The whimperings of a babe +That cries but knows not what it wants? +Is it because I am black? + +Why do men sneer when I arise +And stand in their councils, +And look them eye to eye, +And speak their tongue? +Is it because I am black? + + +THE BAND OF GIDEON + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, +The howling wind is their war-cry, +The thunder's roll is their trump's peal, +And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men below rear temples high +And mock their God with reasons why, +And live in arrogance, sin and shame, +And rape their souls for the world's good name. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The band of Gideon roam the sky +And view the earth with baleful eye; +In holy wrath they scourge the land +With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, +And "Lord have mercy on my soul," +Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, +In agony searching for their God. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + +And men repent and then forget +That heavenly wrath they ever met, +The band of Gideon yet will come +And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +"The sword of the Lord and Gideon." + + +RAIN MUSIC + +On the dusty earth-drum + Beats the falling rain; +Now a whispered murmur, + Now a louder strain. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks, + On an ancient drum, +Beat the mellow music + Bidding life to come. + +Chords of earth awakened, + Notes of greening spring, +Rise and fall triumphant + Over every thing. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks + Beat the long tattoo-- +God, the Great Musician, + Calling life anew. + + +SUPPLICATION + +I am so tired and weary, + So tired of the endless fight, +So weary of waiting the dawn + And finding endless night. + +That I ask but rest and quiet-- + Rest for days that are gone, +And quiet for the little space + That I must journey on. + + + + + Roscoe C. Jamison + +THE NEGRO SOLDIERS + +These truly are the Brave, +These men who cast aside +Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave +Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide +That moves away, to suffer and to die +For Freedom--when their own is yet denied! +O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, +Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified! + +These truly are the Free, +These souls that grandly rise +Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, +Who march to war with visions in their eyes +Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, +Aforetime, while they front the firing line. +Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, +Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, +That those who mock might find a better way! + + + + + Jessie Fauset + + +LA VIE C'EST LA VIE + +On summer afternoons I sit +Quiescent by you in the park, +And idly watch the sunbeams gild +And tint the ash-trees' bark. + +Or else I watch the squirrels frisk +And chaffer in the grassy lane; +And all the while I mark your voice +Breaking with love and pain. + +I know a woman who would give +Her chance of heaven to take my place; +To see the love-light in your eyes, +The love-glow on your face! + +And there's a man whose lightest word +Can set my chilly blood afire; +Fulfilment of his least behest +Defines my life's desire. + +But he will none of me, Nor I +Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said +The world is full of jests like these.-- +I wish that I were dead. + + +CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE + +Oh little Christ, why do you sigh + As you look down to-night +On breathless France, on bleeding France, + And all her dreadful plight? +What bows your childish head so low? + What turns your cheek so white? + +Oh little Christ, why do you moan, + What is it that you see +In mourning France, in martyred France, + And her great agony? +Does she recall your own dark day, + Your own Gethsemane? + +Oh little Christ, why do you weep, + Why flow your tears so sore +For pleading France, for praying France, + A suppliant at God's door? +"God sweetened not my cup," you say, + "Shall He for France do more?" + +Oh little Christ, what can this mean, + Why must this horror be +For fainting France, for faithful France, + And her sweet chivalry? +"I bled to free all men," you say + "France bleeds to keep men free." + +Oh little, lovely Christ--you smile! + What guerdon is in store +For gallant France, for glorious France, + And all her valiant corps? +"Behold I live, and France, like me, + Shall live for evermore." + + +DEAD FIRES + +If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, + Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. +Better the wound forever seeking balm + Than this gray calm! + +Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, + The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, +Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath + Than passion's death! + + +ORIFLAMME + +"I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would +sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I +would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so?' And she would say, 'I am +groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I +don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the +stars!'"--_Sojourner Truth_. + +I think I see her sitting bowed and black, + Stricken and seared with slavery's mortal scars, +Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet + Still looking at the stars. + +Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, + Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom's bars, +Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, + Still visioning the stars! + + +OBLIVION + +_From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)_ + +I hope when I am dead that I shall lie + In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why, +But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot + Unknown to every one, by every one forgot. + +There lying I should taste with my dead breath + The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; +And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, + The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state. + +To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears + That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; +There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless + Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness. + + + + + Anne Spencer + + +BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN + +Garden of Shushan! +After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: +Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, +Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; +Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when +Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; +And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay +Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to +Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine +Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind-- +Slave, send Vashti to her King! + +The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame +The marbled towers of Shushan: +So at each day's wane, two peers--the one in +Heaven, the other on earth--welcome with their +Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen. + +Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee +Finding glory for mine head,--still, nearly shamed +Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp +Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; +Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, +Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; +Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder +Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; +Then--Sharon's Rose in my arms. + +And I am hard to force the petals wide; +And you are fast to suffer and be sad. +Is any prophet come to teach a new thing +Now in a more apt time? +Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; +How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; +How to the altar may not come to break and drink, +Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit! + +I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; +I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when +I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. +I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. +No woman in all Persia sets out strange action +To confuse Persia's lord-- +Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; +I, thy King, so say! + + +AT THE CARNIVAL + +Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, +I desire a name for you, +Nice, as a right glove fits; +For you--who amid the malodorous +Mechanics of this unlovely thing, +Are darling of spirit and form. +I know you--a glance, and what you are +Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. +My Limousine-Lady knows you, or +Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark +Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? +Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. +The bull-necked man knows you--this first time +His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health +And thinks not of his avocation. +I came incuriously-- +Set on no diversion save that my mind +Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds +In the presence of a blind crowd. +The color of life was gray. +Everywhere the setting seemed right +For my mood. +Here the sausage and garlic booth +Sent unholy incense skyward; +There a quivering female-thing +Gestured assignations, and lied +To call it dancing; +There, too, were games of chance +With chances for none; +But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! +Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free +The gaze you send the crowd, +As though you know the dearth of beauty +In its sordid life. +We need you--my Limousine-Lady, +The bull-necked man and I. +Seeing you here brave and water-clean, +Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, +I am swift to feel that what makes +The plodder glad is good; and +Whatever is good is God. +The wonder is that you are here; +I have seen the queer in queer places, +But never before a heaven-fed +Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! +Little Diver, Destiny for you, +Like as for me, is shod in silence; +Years may seep into your soul +The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; +I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day! + + +THE WIFE-WOMAN + +Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things +From earth to star; +Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and +Over the border the bar. +Though rank and fierce the mariner +Sailing the seven seas, +He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, +Coaxing the Pleiades. + +I cannot love them; and I feel your glad +Chiding from the grave, +That my all was only worth at all, what +Joy to you it gave. +These seven links the _Law_ compelled +For the human chain-- +I cannot love _them_; and _you_, oh, +Seven-fold months in Flanders slain! + +A jungle there, a cave here, bred six +And a million years, +Sure and strong, mate for mate, such +Love as culture fears; +I gave you clear the oil and wine; +You saved me your hob and hearth-- +See how _even_ life may be ere the +Sickle comes and leaves a swath. + +But I can wait the seven of moons, +Or years I spare, +Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend +A drop, nor share-- +So long but outlives a smile and +A silken gown; +Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, +And you, glory-clad, reach down. + + +TRANSLATION + +We trekked into a far country, +My friend and I. +Our deeper content was never spoken, +But each knew all the other said. +He told me how calm his soul was laid +By the lack of anvil and strife. +"The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note +To please the harmony of this sweet silence." +And when at the day's end +We laid tired bodies 'gainst +The loose warm sands, +And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; +When star after star came out +To guard their lovers in oblivion-- +My soul so leapt that my evening prayer +Stole my morning song! + + +DUNBAR + +Ah, how poets sing and die! +Make one song and Heaven takes it; +Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; +Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I-- +Ah, how poets sing and die! + + + + + Alex Rogers + + +WHY ADAM SINNED + +"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night +'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. +Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right +An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." +I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, +'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made Adam sin: + +Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart--he'd-a let dat apple be +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + +He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', +He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. +He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', +He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. +Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin +An' she'd a come an' tole him +"Son, don' eat dat--dat's a sin." + +But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her knee +An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him +Things he ought to see. +I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, +But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my. + + +THE RAIN SONG + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Walk right in Brother Wilson--how you feelin' today?" + +_Bro. Wilson_ + +"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels dat way." + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's all you gent'men's +been?", + +_Bro. White_ + +"My health is good but my bus'ness slack." + +_Bro. Black_ + +"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"My ole 'ooman's sick, but I'se alright--" + +_Bro. Green_ + +"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night--" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!" + +_Bro. Turner_ + +"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here--but here I is!" + +_Bro. Simmons_ + +"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, +Dare's nothin' to fear--my ole 'ooman's gone-- +My stars; da weather's pow'ful warm-- +I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm." + +_Bro. Brown_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say-- +'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day +Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain +An' any time you sees 'em you kin look fuh rain: +Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack +An' da folks wid rheumatics--dare jints is on da rack--" + +_All_ + +"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain. + +"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, +An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, +Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain! + +"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws +'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, +Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain! + +"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, +An' in his brown suit he is dressed, +Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain! + +"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, +An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, +Dat am da time fuh rain. + +"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', +An' when you see him eatin'; he's eatin' grass: +Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain!" + +_Refrain_ + +"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, +'Tain't gwine tuh be no rain to-day, +Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, +An' you ain't seen no spiders fum dare cobwebs creep; +Las' night da sun went bright to bed, +An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her head; +If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, +Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day." + + + + + Waverley Turner Carmichael + + +KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME + +Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +Help me praise Thy Holy name, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Save me, Jesus, save me. + +Hear me as I cry to Thee; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me; +May I that bright glory see; +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. +O my Lamb, my good Lamb, +O my good Lamb, +Keep me, Jesus, keep me. + + +WINTER IS COMING + +De winter days are drawin' nigh +An' by the fire I sets an' sigh; +De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', +Fur summer days is been an' pas'; +The air is blowin' mighty cold, +Like it done in days of old. + +De frost is fallin' on de gras' +An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"-- +De air is blowin' mighty cold +Like it done in days of old. + + + + + Alice Dunbar-Nelson + + +SONNET + +I had no thought of violets of late, +The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet +In wistful April days, when lovers mate +And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. +The thought of violets meant florists' shops, +And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; +And garish lights, and mincing little fops +And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. +So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, +I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; +The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- +Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. +And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream +Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam. + + + + + Charles Bertram Johnson + + +A LITTLE CABIN + +Des a little cabin +Big ernuff fur two. +Des awaitin', honey, +Cozy fixt fur you; +Down dah by de road, +Not ve'y far from town, +Waitin' fur de missis, +When she's ready to come down. + +Des a little cabin, +An' er acre o' groun', +Vines agrowin' on it, +Fruit trees all aroun', +Hollyhawks a-bloomin' +In de gyahden plot-- +Honey, would you like to +Own dat little spot? + +Make dat little cabin +Cheery, clean an' bright, +With an' angel in it +Like a ray of light? +Make dat little palace +Somethin' fine an' gran', +Make it like an Eden, +Fur a lonely man? + +Des you listen, Honey, +While I 'splain it all, +How some lady's go'nter +Boss dat little hall; +Des you take my ban' +Dat's de way it's writ, +Des you take my heart, +Dat's de deed to it. + + +NEGRO POETS + +Full many lift and sing +Their sweet imagining; +Not yet the Lyric Seer, +The one bard of the throng, +With highest gift of song, +Breaks on our sentient ear. + +Not yet the gifted child, +With notes enraptured, wild, +That storm and throng the heart, +To make his rage our own, +Our hearts his lyric throne; +Hard won by cosmic art. + +I hear the sad refrain, +Of slavery's sorrow-strain; +The broken half-lispt speech +Of freedom's twilit hour; +The greater growing reach +Of larger latent power. + +Here and there a growing note +Swells from a conscious throat; +Thrilled with a message fraught +The pregnant hour is near; +We wait our Lyric Seer, +By whom our wills are caught. + +Who makes our cause and wrong +The motif of his song; +Who sings our racial good, +Bestows us honor's place, +The cosmic brotherhood +Of genius--not of race. + +Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, +Of fame's immortal few +Would still be deathless born; +Frail Dunbar, black or white, +In Fame's eternal light, +Would shine a Star of Morn. + +An unhorizoned range, +Our hour of doubt and change, +Gives song a nightless day, +Whose pen with pregnant mirth +Will give our longings birth, +And point our souls the way? + + + + + Otto Leland Bohanan + + +THE DAWN'S AWAKE! + +The Dawn's awake! + A flash of smoldering flame and fire +Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, + O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, + The torch of gold is borne. + +The Dawn's awake! + The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. +And music singing in the hills + A paean of eternal spring + Voices the new awakening. + +The Dawn's awake! + Whispers of pent-up harmonies, +With the mingled fragrance of the trees; + Faint snatches of half-forgotten song-- + Fathers! torn and numb,-- + The boon of light we craved, awaited long, + Has come, has come! + + +THE WASHER-WOMAN + +A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, +The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, +And all day long the rub and scrub +With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. +Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years +And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? +In silence she rubbed... But her face I had seen, +Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean. + + + + + Theodore Henry Shackelford + + +THE BIG BELL IN ZION + +Come, children, hear the joyful sound, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Go spread the glad news all around, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +I've been abused and tossed about, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But glory to the Lamb, I shout! + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +My bruthah jus' sent word to me, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +That he'd done set his own self free. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ole massa said he could not go, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +But he's done reached Ohio sho'. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, + Ding, Dong, Ding. +Den I'll run away myself nex' week. + Ding, Dong, Ding. + +_Chorus_ + +Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, + Ding, Dong Ding. + + + + + Lucian B. Watkins + + +STAR OF ETHIOPIA + +Out in the Night thou art the sun +Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, + The faith-high height whereon they see + The glory of their Day To Be-- +The peace at last when all is done. + +The night is dark but, one by one, +Thy signals, ever and anon, + Smile beacon answers to their plea, + Out in the Night. + +Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; +Give them a hope to rest upon, + A dream to dream eternally, + The strength of men who would be free +And win the battle race begun, + Out in the Night! + + +TWO POINTS OF VIEW + +From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet +And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, +There on yon mountain-throne--that sun-gold crest! + +From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: +How bright and still and warm and soft and green +Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest! + + +TO OUR FRIENDS + +We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams + Untouched by bondage and its rod, +Burn on! and on! and on! It seems + We shall have FRIENDS--while God is God! + + + + + Benjamin Brawley + + +MY HERO + +(_To Robert Gould Shaw_) + +Flushed with the hope of high desire, + He buckled on his sword, +To dare the rampart ranged with fire, + Or where the thunder roared; +Into the smoke and flame he went, + For God's great cause to die-- +A youth of heaven's element, + The flower of chivalry. + +This was the gallant faith, I trow, + Of which the sages tell; +On such devotion long ago + The benediction fell; +And never nobler martyr burned, + Or braver hero died, +Than he who worldly honor spurned + To serve the Crucified. + +And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere + May pass beyond the pale, +And wander over moor and mere + To find the Holy Grail; + +But ever yet the prize forsooth + My hero holds in fee; +And he is Blameless Knight in truth, + And Galahad to me. + + +CHAUCER + +Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, +Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; +Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold +Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; +Across the night of ages strike the gleams, +And leading on the gilded host appears +An old man writing in a book of dreams, +And telling tales of lovers for the years; +Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay; +In Nature's garden what a mad rout sings! +Let's hear these motley pilgrims wile away +The tedious hours with stories of old things; +Or might some shining eagle claim +These lowly numbers for the House of Fame! + + + + + Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. + + +TO A SKULL + +Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, +Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, +Why your smirk and empty smile +As the hours away you wile? +Has the earth become such bore +That it pleases nevermore? +Whence your joy through sun and rain? +Is 't because of loss of pain? +Have you learned what men learn not +That earth's substance turns to rot? +After learning now you scan +Vain endeavors man by man? +Do you mind that you as they +Once was held by mystic sway; +Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, +Lolled and with the minutes played? +Sighed for honors; battles planned; +Sipped of cups that wisdom banned +But would please the weak frail flesh; +Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? +Now that you are but a skull +Glimpse you life as life is, full +Of beauties that we miss +Till time withers with his kiss? +Do you laugh in cynic vein +Since you cannot try again? +And you know that we, like you, +Will too late our failings rue? +Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull +What deep broodings, o'er you mull? +Tell me why you smirk and smile +Ere I pass life's sunset stile. + + + + +APPENDIX + + +PLACIDO'S SONNET TO HIS MOTHER + + +DESPIDA A MI MADRE + +_(En La Capilla)_ + + Si la suerte fatal que me ha cabido, +Y el triste fin de mi sangrienta historia, +Al salir de esta vida transitoria +Deja tu corazon de muerte herido; + Baste de Ilanto: el animo afligido +Recobre su quietud; moro en la gloria, +Y mi placida lira a tu memoria +Lanza en la tumba su postrer sonido. + + Sonido dulce, melodioso y santo, +Glorioso, espiritual, puro y divino, +Inocente, espontaneo como el llanto + Que vertiera al nacer: ya el cuello inclino! +Ya de la religion me cubre el manto! +Adios, mi madre! adios--El Peligrino. + + +FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER + +_(In the Chapel)_ + + The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, +The mournful ending of my years of strife, +This changing world I leave, and to another +In blood and terror goes my spirit's life. + But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping +And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; +I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping +Across my lyre to wake its dying strains. + A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing +All glorious and holy, pure, divine, +And innocent, unconscious as the wailing + I uttered on my birth; and I resign +Even now, my life, even now descending slowly, +Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. +Mother, farewell! God keep thee--and forever! + +_Translated by William Cullen Bryant._ + + +PLACIDO'S FAREWELL TO HIS MOTHER + +(_Written in the Chapel of the Hospital de Santa Cristina on the Night +Before His Execution_) + + If the unfortunate fate engulfing me, +The ending of my history of grief, +The closing of my span of years so brief, +Mother, should wake a single pang in thee, +Weep not. No saddening thought to me devote; +I calmly go to a death that is glory-filled, +My lyre before it is forever stilled +Breathes out to thee its last and dying note. + +A note scarce more than a burden-easing sigh, +Tender and sacred, innocent, sincere-- +Spontaneous and instinctive as the cry +I gave at birth--And now the hour is here-- +O God, thy mantle of mercy o'er my sins! +Mother, farewell! The pilgrimage begins. + +_Translated by James Weldon Johnson_. + + + + +BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF AUTHORS + + +BOHANAN, OTTO LELAND. Born in Washington, D.C. Educated in the public +schools in Washington. He is a graduate of Howard University, School of +Liberal Arts, Washington, D.C., and did special work in English at the +Catholic University in that city. At present he is engaged in the musical +profession in New York. + +BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Born in Boston, 1878. Mainly self-educated. +A critic of poetry and the friend of poets. Author of _Lyrics-of Life, +The House of Falling Leaves, The Poetic Year, The Story of the Great +War,_ etc. Editor and compiler of _The Book of Elizabethan Verse, The +Book of Georgian Verse, The Book of Restoration Verse_ and a series of +yearly anthologies of magazine verse. One of the literary editors of the +Boston _Transcript_. + +BRAWLEY, BENJAMIN. Born at Columbia, S.C., 1882. Educated at the Atlanta +Baptist College, the University of Chicago and Harvard University. For two +years he was professor of English at Howard University, Washington, D.C. +Later he became dean of Morehouse College, Atlanta, Ga. Author of _A +Short History of the American Negro, The Negro in Literature and Art, A +Short History of the English Drama, A Social History of the American +Negro_, etc. Now living in Boston and engaged in research and writing. + +CAMPBELL, JAMES EDWIN. Was born at Pomeroy, Ohio, in the early sixties. +His early life was somewhat shrouded in mystery; he never referred to it +even to his closest associates. He was educated in the public schools of +his native city. Later he spent a while at Miami College. In the late +eighties and early nineties he was engaged in newspaper work in Chicago. +He wrote regularly on the various dailies of that city. He was also one of +a group that issued the _Four O'Clock Magazine_, a literary +publication which flourished for several years. He died, perhaps, twenty +years ago. He was the author of _Echoes from The Cabin and +Elsewhere_, a volume of poems. + +CARMICHAEL, WAVERLEY TURNER. A young man who had never been out of his +native state of Alabama until several years ago when he entered one of the +summer courses at Harvard University. His education to that time had been +very limited and he had endured poverty and hard work. His verses came to +the attention of one of the Harvard professors. He has since published a +volume, _From the Heart of a Folk_. He served with the 367th +Regiment, "The Buffaloes," during the World War and saw active service in +France. At present he is employed as a postal clerk in Boston, Mass. + +CORROTHERS, JAMES D., 1869-1919. Born in Cass County, Michigan. Student in +Northwestern University, minister and poet. Many of his poems appeared in +_The Century Magazine_. + +COTTER, JOSEPH S., JR., 1895-1919. Born at Louisville, Kentucky, in the +room in which Paul Laurence Dunbar first read his dialect poems in the +South. He was precocious as a child, having read a number of books before +he was six years old. All through his boyhood he had the advantage and +inspiration of the full library of poetic books belonging to his father, +himself a poet of considerable talent. Young Cotter attended Fisk +University but left in his second year because he had developed +tuberculosis. A volume of verse, _The Band of Gideon_, and a number +of unpublished poems were written during the six years in which he was an +invalid. + +DANDRIDGE, RAY G. Born at Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882. Educated in the grammar +and high school of his native city. In 1912, as the result of illness, he +lost the use of both legs and his right arm. He does most of his writing +lying flat in bed and using his left hand. He is the author of _The Poet +and Other Poems_. + +DAVIS, DANIEL WEBSTER. Born in Virginia, near Richmond. For a number of +years he was a minister and principal of the largest public school in +Richmond. He died in that city some years ago. He was the author of +_'Weh Down Souf_, a volume of verse. He was very popular as an orator +and a reader of his own poems. + +DETT, R. NATHANIEL. Born at Drummondville, Canada, 1882. Graduate of the +Oberlin Conservatory of Music. He is a composer, most of his compositions +being based on themes from the old "slave songs." His "Listen to de Lambs" +is widely used by choral societies. He is director of music at Hampton +Institute. He is also the author of _The Album of a Heart_, a volume +of verse. + +DU BOIS, W. E. BURGHARDT. Born at Great Barrington, Mass., 1868. Educated +at Fisk University, Harvard University and the University of Berlin. For a +number of years professor of economics and history at Atlanta University. +Author of the _Suppression of the Slave Trade, The Philadelphia Negro, +The Souls of Black Folk, John Brown, Darkwater_, etc. He is the editor +of _The Crisis_. + +DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE. Born at Dayton, Ohio, 1872; died 1906. Dunbar was +educated in the public schools. He wrote his early poems while working as +an elevator boy. His first volume of poems, _Oak and Ivy_, was +published in 1893 and sold largely through his own efforts. This was +followed by _Majors and Minors, Lyrics of Lowly Life, Lyrics of the +Hearthside, Lyrics of Love and Laughter, Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_ +and _Howdy, Honey, Howdy_. _Lyrics of Lowly Life_, published in +New York in 1896 with an introduction written by William Dean Howells, +gained national recognition for Dunbar. In addition to poetical works, +Dunbar was the author of four novels, _The Uncalled, The Love of Landry, +The Sport of the Gods_, and _The Fanatics_. He also published +several volumes of short stories. Partly because of his magnificent voice +and refined manners, he was a very successful reader of his own poems and +was able to add greatly to their popularity. + +FAUSET, JESSIE REDMON. Born at Snow Hill, New Jersey. She was educated in +the public schools of Philadelphia, at Cornell University and the +University of Pennsylvania. For a while she was teacher of French in the +Dunbar High School, Washington, D.C. Author of a number of uncollected +poems and several short stories. She is literary editor of _The +Crisis_. + +HILL, LESLIE PINCKNEY. Born at Lynchburg, Va., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools at Lynchburg and at Harvard University. On graduation +he became a teacher of English and methods at Tuskegee. Author of the +_Wings of Oppression_, a volume of verse. He is principal of the +Cheyney Training School for Teachers at Cheyney, Pa. + +HOLLOWAY, JOHN WESLEY. Born in Merriweather County, Ga, 1865. His father, +who learned to read and write in slavery, became one of the first colored +teachers in Georgia after the Civil War. Mr. Holloway was educated at +Clark University, Atlanta, Ga., and at Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn. +He was for a while a member of the Fisk Jubilee Singers. Has been a +teacher and is now a preacher. He is the author of _From the Desert_, +a volume of verse. + +JAMISON, ROSCOE C. Born at Winchester, Tenn., 1888; died 1918. He was a +graduate of Fisk University. + +JOHNSON, CHARLES BERTRAM. Born at Callao, Mo., 1880. He was educated in +the public schools of his home town and at Western College, Lincoln +Institute and at Chicago University. He was a teacher for a number of +years and is now a pastor of a church at Moberly, Mo. He is the author of +_Songs of My People_. + +JOHNSON, FENTON. Born at Chicago, 1888. He was educated in the public +schools and at the University of Chicago and Northwestern University. The +author of _A Little Dreaming, Songs of the Soil_ and _Visions of +the Dusk_. He has devoted much time to journalism and the editing of a +magazine. + +JOHNSON, GEORGIA DOUGLAS. Born in Atlanta, Ga., 1886. She was educated in +the public schools of that city and at Atlanta University. She is the +author of a volume of verse, _The Heart of a Woman_ and other poems. + +JOHNSON, JAMES WELDON. Born at Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. He was educated +in the public schools of Jacksonville, at Atlanta University and at +Columbia University. He taught school in his native town for several +years. Later he came to New York with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, +and began writing for the musical comedy stage. He served seven years as +U. S. Consul in Venezuela and Nicaragua. Author of _The Autobiography of +an Ex-colored Man, Fifty Years and Other Poems_, and the English +libretto to _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera, produced at the +Metropolitan Opera House in 1915. + +JONES, EDWARD SMYTH. Attracted national attention about ten years ago by +walking some hunderds of miles from his home in the South to Harvard +University. Arriving there, he was arrested on a charge of vagrancy. While +in jail, he wrote a poem, "Harvard Square." The poem created a sentiment +that led to his quick release. He is the author of _The Sylvan +Cabin_. + +JONES, JOSHUA HENRY, JR. He is engaged in newspaper work in Boston and is +the author of a volume of poems, _The Heart of the World_. + +MARGETSON, GEORGE REGINALD. Was born at St. Kitts, British West Indies, in +1877. He was educated at the Moravian school in his district. He came to +the United States in 1897. Mr. Margetson has found it necessary to work +hard to support a large family and his poems have been written in his +spare moments. He is the author of two volumes of verses, _Songs of +Life_ and _The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society_ and, in +addition, a large number of uncollected poems. Mr. Margetson lives in +Boston. + +McCLELLAN, GEORGE MARION. Born at Belfast, Tenn., 1860. Graduate of Fisk +University and Hartford Theological Seminary, teacher, principal and +author. He is the author of _The Path of Dreams_. + +McKAY, CLAUDE. Born in Jamaica, West Indies, 1889. Such education as he +gained in boyhood he received from his brother. He served for a while as a +member of the Kingston Constabulary. In 1912 he came to the United States. +For two years he was a student of agriculture at the Kansas State College. +Since leaving school Mr. McKay has turned his hand to any kind of work to +earn a living. He has worked in hotels and on the Pullman cars. He is +to-day associate editor of _The Liberator_. He is the author of two +volumes of poems, _Songs of Jamaica_ and _Spring in New +Hampshire_, the former published in Jamaica and the latter in London. + +MOORE; WILLIAM H. A. Was born in New York City and received his education +in the public schools and at the City College. He also did some special +work at Columbia University. He has had a long career as a newspaper man, +working on both white and colored publications. He now lives in Chicago. +He is the author of _Dusk Songs_, a volume of poems. + +NELSON, ALICE MOORE (DUNBAR). Born at New Orleans, La., 1875. She was +educated in the schools of New Orleans and has taken special courses at +Cornell University, Columbia University, and the University of +Pennsylvania. Author of _Violets and Other Tales, The Goodness of St. +Rocque, Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence_, and _The Dunbar +Speaker_. She was married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. She has been +a teacher and is well known on the lecture platform and as an editor. + +ROGERS, ALEX. Born at Nashville, Tenn., 1876. Educated in the public +schools of that city. For many years a writer of words for popular songs. +He wrote many of the songs for the musical comedies in which Williams and +Walker appeared. He is the author of _The Jonah Man, Nobody_ and +other songs made popular by Mr. Bert Williams. + +SHACKELFORD, THEODORE HENRY. Author of _Mammy's Cracklin' Bread and +Other Poems_, and _My Country and Other Poems_. + +SPENCER, ANNE. Born in Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated at the Virginia +Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. She lives at Lynchburg and takes great pride and +pleasure in her garden. + +WATKINS, LUCIAN B., was born in Virginia. He served overseas in the great +war and lost his health. He died in 1921. He was the author of a large +number of uncollected poems. + + + + +INDEX OF TITLES + +After the Winter +And What Shall You Say? +At the Carnival +At the Closed Gate of Justice + +Band of Gideon, The +Banjo Player, The +Barrier, The +Before the Feast of Shushan +Big Bell in Zion, The +Black Mammies +Brothers +Butterfly in Church, A + +Calling the Doctor +Chaucer +Children of the Sun +Christmas at Melrose +Christmas Eve in France +Compensation +Corn Song, The +Creation, The +Cunjah Man, De + +Dawn's Awake! The +Dead Fires +Death Song, A +Debt, The +Del Cascar +Dogwood Blossoms +Dream and the Song +Drum Majah, De +Dunbar +Dusk Song + +Feet of Judas, The +Fifty Years +Flame-Heart + +Harlem Dancer, The +Harlem Shadows +Haunted Oak, The +Heart of a Woman, The +Hills of Sewanee, The +Hog Meat + +If We Must Die +Indignation Dinner, An +In the Matter of Two Men +Ironic: LL.D. +Is It Because I Am Black? +'Ittle Touzle Head +It Was Not Fate +I Want to Die While You Love Me + +Keep Me, Jesus, Keep Me + +La Vie C'est la Vie +Litany of Atlanta, A +Little Brown Baby +Little Cabin, A +Lost Illusions +Lover's Lane +Lynching, The + +Miss Melerlee +Mother Night +My Hero +My Little Dreams + +Negro Love Song, A +Negro Poets +Negro Serenade +Negro Singer, The +Negro Soldiers, The +New Day, The + +O Black and Unknown Bards +Oblivion +Ol' Doc' Hyar +Oriflamme +O Southland + +Paul Laurence Dunbar +Prayer, A + +Rain Music +Rain Song, The +Rhapsody +Road to the Bow, The +Rubinstein Staccato Etude, The + +Sandy Star and Willie Gee +Scarlet Woman, The +Scintilla +Sence You Went Away +Ships That Pass in the Night +Sic Vita +Song of Thanks, A +Sonnet +Sprin' Fevah +Spring in New Hampshire +Stanzas from The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society +Star of Ethiopia +Summer Magic +Supplication + +Teacher, The +Time to Die +Tired +Tired Worker, The +To a Skull +To O. E. A +To Our Friends +To the White Fiends +Translation +Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves +Tuskegee +Two-an'-Six +Two Points of View + +Uncle Eph's Banjo Song + +Washer-Woman, The +'Weh Down Souf +Welt +When de Co'n Pone's Hot +When Ol' Sis Judy Pray +White Witch, The +Why Adam Sinned +Wife-Woman, The +Winter Is Coming + +Youth + +Zalka Peetruza + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of American Negro Poetry +by Edited by James Weldon Johnson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY *** + +***** This file should be named 11986.txt or 11986.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/1/9/8/11986/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Charles M. 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