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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 06:49:03 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-27 06:49:03 -0800 |
| commit | 0f4c584b8337152aa94449963213a36771f13891 (patch) | |
| tree | ad8d56b1ffe4fa4def6db23ea173ce74966a6ea8 /old/60003-h | |
| parent | 4dbb16af7a9654431e290af184a45ed5728c7622 (diff) | |
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diff --git a/old/60003-h/60003-h.htm b/old/60003-h/60003-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index f3d4b99..0000000 --- a/old/60003-h/60003-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10540 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Negro Poets -and Their Poems, by Robert T. Kerlin. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cpom {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; -margin:1em auto auto auto;font-size:90%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -div.smblk {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto 1em auto;} - -.hang1 {text-indent:-2%;margin-left:2%;font-size:90%;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - -.nonvis {display:inline;} - @media print, handheld - {.nonvis - {display: none;} - } - -.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} - -.rt {text-align:right;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -big {font-size: 130%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-weight:normal;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} - - h3,h4 {margin:4% auto 2% auto;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} - - hr {width:90%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - -th {padding-top:1em;padding-bottom:.5em;} - -td.spr {padding-top:1em;padding-bottom:.5em;} - -.tpsmc {padding-top:1em;} - - body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:none;} - -.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;font-size:90%;} - -.blockquothang {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;font-size:95%;} -.blockquothang p{margin-left:4em;text-indent:-2em;} - -.caption {font-weight:normal;} -.caption p{font-size:75%;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.figcenter {margin-top:3%;margin-bottom:3%;clear:both; -margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - @media handheld, print - {.figcenter - {page-break-before: avoid;} - } - -.figleft {float:left;clear:left;margin-left:0;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:1em;margin-right:1em;padding:0;text-align:center;} - -.figright {float:right;clear:right;margin-left:1em;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:1em;margin-right:0;padding:0;text-align:center;} - -.footnotes {border:dotted 3px gray;margin-top:5%;clear:both;} - -.footnote {width:95%;margin:auto 3% 1% auto;font-size:0.9em;position:relative;} - -.label {position:relative;left:-.5em;top:0;text-align:left;font-size:.8em;} - -.fnanchor {vertical-align:30%;font-size:.8em;} - -div.poetry {text-align:center;} - -div.poetry1 {text-align:left;margin-left:15%;} - -div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; -display: inline-block; text-align: left;} - -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem .stanza1 {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em; -font-size:120%;} - -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i3 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 7em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i13 {display: block; margin-left: 13em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.ispc {display: block; margin-left: 5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; -letter-spacing:1em;} -.poem span.ispc1 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; -letter-spacing:1em;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -Project Gutenberg's Negro Poets and Their Poems, by Robert T. Kerlin - -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/license - - -Title: Negro Poets and Their Poems - -Author: Robert T. Kerlin - -Release Date: July 28, 2019 [EBook #60003] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEGRO POETS AND THEIR POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="[Image of -the book's cover unavailable.]" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS"><span class="smcap">Contents</span>.</a><br /> -<a href="#INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND"><span class="smcap">Index of Authors</span></a>.<br /> -<a href="#INDEX_OF_TITLES"><span class="smcap">Index of Titles</span></a>.<br /> -<a href="#ILLUSTRATIONS"><span class="smcap">List of Illustrations</span></a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> - -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c">NEGRO POETS<br /> -AND THEIR POEMS</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_001" id="ill_001"></a> -<a href="images/i_frontispiece_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_frontispiece_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p> -EMANCIPATION<br /> -By<br /> -<span class="smcap">Meta Warrick Fuller</span><br /> -</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -NEGRO POETS<br /> -AND THEIR POEMS</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -ROBERT T. KERLIN<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF “THE VOICE OF THE NEGRO”</small> -</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Still comes the Perfect Thing to man<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As came the olden gods, in dreams.<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><span class="smcap">J. Mord Allen.</span><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -<i>ILLUSTRATED</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -ASSOCIATED PUBLISHERS, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span>,<br /> -WASHINGTON, D. C.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span><br /> -<br /> -Copyright, 1923,<br /> -By<br /> -THE ASSOCIATED PUBLISHERS, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p> - -<p>To the Black and Unknown Bards who gave to the world the priceless -treasure of those “canticles of love and woe,” the camp-meeting -Spirituals; more particularly, to those untaught singers of the old -plantations of the South, whose melodious lullabies to the babes of both -races entered with genius-quickening power into the souls of Poe and -Lanier, Dunbar and Cotter: to them, for whom any monument in stone or -bronze were but mockery, I dedicate this monument of verse, budded by -the children of their vision.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi">{vi}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii">{vii}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td colspan="4"> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_xiii">xiii</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Present-Day Negro Heritage of Song</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Untaught Melodies: Folk Song</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_4">4</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Spirituals</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_6">6</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Seculars</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_12">12</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">The Earlier Poetry of Art</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_20">20</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles L. Reason</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_24">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Moses Horton</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_25">25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_26">26</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_32">32</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Paul Laurence Dunbar</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">J. Mord Allen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Present Renaissance of the Negro</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_51">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">A Glance at the Field</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_51">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Some Representatives of the Present Era</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii">{viii}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">The Cotters, Father and Son</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James David Corrothers</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_85">85</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">A Group of Singing Johnsons:</td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">James Weldon Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Charles Bertram Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Fenton Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Adolphus Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_104">104</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Stanley Braithwaite</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Reginald Margetson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Moore</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_111">111</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">8.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Walter Everette Hawkins</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_119">119</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">9.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Claude McKay</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">10.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leslie Pinckney Hill</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_131">131</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Heart of Negro Womanhood</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Eva A. Jessye</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Angelina W. Grimké</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Mrs. Anne Spencer</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Miss Jessie Fauset</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Ad Astra per Aspera</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Per Aspera</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Edward Smythe Jones</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ix" id="page_ix">{ix}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Raymond Garfield Dandridge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">George Marion McClellan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_173">173</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles P. Wilson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leon R. Harris</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_180">180</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Irvin W. Underhill</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Ad Astra</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James C. Hughes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Leland Milton Fisher</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">W. Clarence Jordan</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Roscoe C. Jamison</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_191">191</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The New Forms of Poetry</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Free Verse</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Will Sexton</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Andrea Razafkeriefo</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Langston Hughes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_200">200</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Prose Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">W. E. Burghardt DuBois</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Kelly Miller</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_206">206</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Charles H. Conner</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_209">209</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">William Edgar Bailey</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_213">213</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">R. Nathaniel Dett</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_214">214</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Dialect Verse</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_218">218</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">1.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Waverly Turner Carmichael</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">2.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">3.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Raymond Garfield Dandridge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_221">221</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">4.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Sterling M. Means</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_x" id="page_x">{x}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">5.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">J. Mord Allen</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">6.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">James Weldon Johnson</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" valign="top">7.</td><td valign="top" colspan="2">Theodore Henry Shackleford</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">The Poetry of Protest</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_229">229</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2"> </td><td colspan="2">Lucian B. Watkins</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="5"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="4" class="spr"><span class="smcap">Miscellaneous</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">I.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Eulogistic Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top">II.</td><td valign="top" colspan="3">Commemorative and Occasional Poems</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_254">254</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND">Index of Authors, with Biographical and Bibliographical Notes</a></span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_269">269</a></td></tr> -<tr><td> </td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="smcap"><a href="#INDEX_OF_TITLES">Index of Titles</a></span>: -<a href="#A">A</a>, -<a href="#B">B</a>, -<a href="#C">C</a>, -<a href="#D">D</a>, -<a href="#E">E</a>, -<a href="#F">F</a>, -<a href="#G">G</a>, -<a href="#H">H</a>, -<a href="#I">I</a>, -<a href="#J">J</a>, -<a href="#L">L</a>, -<a href="#M">M</a>, -<a href="#N">N</a>, -<a href="#O">O</a>, -<a href="#P">P</a>, -<a href="#R">R</a>, -<a href="#S">S</a>, -<a href="#T">T</a>, -<a href="#V">V</a>, -<a href="#W">W</a>, -<a href="#Y">Y</a>, -<a href="#Z">Z</a> </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_281">281</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xi" id="page_xi">{xi}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_001">Emancipation, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#ill_001"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_002">Inspiration, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_11">11</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_003">Dancers</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_16">16</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_004">Phillis Wheatley</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_23">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_005">Charles L. Reason</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_24">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_006">Frances E. W. Harper</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_27">27</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_007">James Madison Bell</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_33">33</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_008">Paul Laurence Dunbar</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_38">38</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_009">Ethiopia—Awakening, by Meta V. W. Fuller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_45">45</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_010">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_011">Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_012">J. D. Corrothers</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_86">86</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_013">James Weldon Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_91">91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_014">Charles Bertram Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_015">George Reginald Margetson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_016">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_017">Walter Everette Hawkins</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_018">Claude McKay</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_019">Leslie Pinckney Hill</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_131">131</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xii" id="page_xii">{xii}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_020">Eva A. Jessye</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_021">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_022">Alice Dunbar Nelson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_023">Mrs. G. D. Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_024">Angelina Grimké</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_152">152</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_025">Mrs. Anne Spencer</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_157">157</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_026">Jessie Redmon Fauset</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_027">Edward Smythe Jones</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_028">Raymond G. Dandridge</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_169">169</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_029">George M. McClellan</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_173">173</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_030">Leon R. Harris</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_181">181</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_031">Irvin W. Underhill</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_032">Roscoe C. Jamison</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_192">192</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_033">Langston Hughes</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_199">199</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_034">W. E. B. Du Bois</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_035">Kelly Miller</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_206">206</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_036">Charles H. Conner</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_210">210</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_037">R. Nathaniel Dett</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_215">215</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_038">Theodore H. Shackleford</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_039">Equality and Justice for All, from the Schurz Monument</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_229">229</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_040">Lucian B. Watkins</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="smcap" valign="top"><a href="#ill_041">Mae Smith Johnson</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiii" id="page_xiii">{xiii}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> - -<p><i>Ad astra per aspera</i>—that is the old Roman adage. Magnificent is it, -and magnificently is it being in these days exemplified by the American -Negroes, particularly by the increasing number of educated and talented -American Negroes, and most particularly by those who feel the urge to -express in song the emotions and aspirations of their people. A -surprisingly large number is this class. Without exhausting the -possibilities of selection I have quoted in this anthology of -contemporary Negro poetry sixty odd writers of tolerable verse that -exhibits, besides form, at least one fundamental quality of poetry, -namely, passion.</p> - -<p>The mere number, large as it is, would of course not signify by itself. -Nor does the phrase “tolerable verse,” cautiously chosen, seem to -promise much. What this multitude means, and whether the verse be worthy -of a more complimentary description, I leave to the reader’s judgment. -Quality of expression and character of content are of course the -prepotent considerations.</p> - -<p>While, in a preliminary section, I have passed in review the poetry of -the Negro up to and including Dunbar, not neglecting the old religious -songs of the plantation, or “Spirituals,” and the dance, play, and -nursery rhymes, or “Seculars,” yet strictly speaking this is a -representation of new Negro voices, an anthology of present-day Negro -verse, with biographical items and critical, or at least appreciative -comment.</p> - -<p>I wish most heartily to express my obligations to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xiv" id="page_xiv">{xiv}</a></span> publishers and -authors of the volumes I have drawn upon for selections. They are named -in the Index and Biographical and Bibliographical Notes at the end of -the text. But for the reader’s convenience I collect their names here:</p> - -<p>Richard E. Badger, publisher of Walter Everette Hawkins’s <i>Chords and -Discords</i>; A. B. Caldwell, Atlanta, Ga., publisher of Sterling M. Means’ -<i>The Deserted Cabin and Other Poems</i>; the Cornhill Company, publishers -of Waverley Turner Carmichael’s <i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>; Joseph S. -Cotter’s <i>The Band of Gideon</i>; Georgia Douglas Johnson’s <i>The Heart of a -Woman</i>; Charles Bertram Johnson’s <i>Songs of My People</i>; James Weldon -Johnson’s <i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i>; Joshua Henry Jones’s <i>Poems of -the Four Seas</i>; Dodd, Mead and Company, publishers of Dunbar’s <i>Poems</i>; -the Grafton Press, publishers of H. Cordelia Ray’s <i>Poems</i>; Harcourt, -Brace & Company, publishers of W. E. Burghardt DuBois’s <i>Darkwater</i>; -Pritchard and Ovington’s <i>The Upward Path</i>; the Macmillan Company, -publishers of Thomas W. Talley’s <i>Negro Folk Rhymes</i>; the Neale -Publishing Company, publishers of Kelley Miller’s <i>Out of the House of -Bondage</i>; J. L. Nichols & Company, Naperville, Ill., publishers of Mrs. -Dunbar-Nelson’s <i>The Dunbar Speaker and Entertainer</i>, and <i>The Life and -Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar</i>; the Stratford Company, publishers of -Joshua Henry Jones’s <i>The Heart of the World and Other Poems</i>; and -Leslie Pinckney Hill’s <i>The Wings of Oppression</i>. It is with their kind -permission I am privileged to use selections from the books named. To -<i>The Crisis</i>, <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>, and <i>The Messenger</i>, I am -indebted for several selections, which I gratefully acknowledge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xv" id="page_xv">{xv}</a></span></p> - -<p>To readers who are disposed to study the poetry of the Negro I would -commend Dr. James Weldon Johnson’s <i>The Book of American Negro Poetry</i> -(Harcourt, Brace & Co.) and Mr. Arthur A. Schomburg’s <i>A Bibliographical -Checklist of American Negro Poetry</i> (Charles F. Hartman, New York). I am -indebted to both these books and authors. To Mr. Schomburg I am also -indebted for the loan of many of the pictures of the earlier poets.</p> - -<p class="r"> -R. T. K.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"> -West Chester, Pa.<br /> -March 22, 1923.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_xvi" id="page_xvi">{xvi}</a></span></p> - -<h1>NEGRO POETS AND<br /> THEIR POEMS</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I<br /><br /> -<small>THE NEGROES HERITAGE OF SONG</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">As</span> an empire may grow up within an empire without observation so a -republic of letters within a republic of letters. That thing is -happening today in this land of ours. A literature of significance on -many accounts, and not without various and considerable merits. Its -producers are Negroes. Culture, talent, genius—or something very like -it—are theirs. Nor is it “the mantle of Dunbar” they wrap themselves -in, but an unborrowed singing robe, that better fits “the New Negro.” -The list of names in poetry alone would stretch out, were I to start -telling them over, until I should bring suspicion upon myself as no -trustworthy reporter. Besides, the mere names would mean nothing, since, -as intimated, this little republic has grown up unobserved in our big -one.</p> - -<p>It may be more for the promise held forth by their thin little volumes -than for the intrinsic merit of their performance that we should esteem -the verse-makers represented in this survey of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> contemporary Negro -poetry. Yet on many grounds they should receive candid attention, both -from the students of literature and the students of sociology. -Recognition of real literary merit will be accorded by the one class of -students, and recognition of new aspects of the most serious race -problem of the ages will be forced upon the second class. Justification -enough for the present survey and exhibition will be acknowledged by all -who are earnestly concerned either with literature or with life.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, unconsciously, in my comments and estimates I have not -steadfastly kept before me absolute standards of poetry. But where and -when was this ever done? Doubtless in critiques of master poets by -master critics, and only there. In writing of contemporary verse, by -courtesy called poetry, we compromise, our estimates are relative, we -make allowances, our approvals and disapprovals are toned according to -the known circumstances of production. And this is right.</p> - -<p>If the prospective reader opens this volume with the demand in his mind -for novelty of language, form, imagery, idea—novelty and quaintness, -perhaps amusing “originality”, or grotesqueness—let him reflect how -unreasonable a similar demand on the part of English critics was a -century ago relative to the beginnings of American poetry. Were not -American poets products of the same culture as their contemporaries in -England? What other language had they than the language<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> of Shakespeare -and Wordsworth, Keats and Tennyson? The same is essentially true of the -American Negro—or the Negro American, if you choose. He is the heir of -Anglo-Saxon culture, he has been nurtured in the same spiritual soil as -his contemporary of the white race, the same traditions of language, -form, imagery, and idea are his. Everything possible has been done to -stamp out his own African traditions and native propensities. Therefore, -let no unreasonable demand be laid upon these Negro rhymers.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding, something distinctive, and something uniquely -significant, may be discerned in these verse productions to reward the -perusal. But this may not be the reader’s chief reward. That may be his -discovery, that, after all, a wonderful likeness rather than unlikeness -to the poetry of other races looks forth from this poetry of the -children of Ham. A valuable result would this be, should it follow.</p> - -<p>Before attempting a survey of the field of contemporary verse it will -advantage us to cast a backward glance upon the poetic traditions of the -Negro, to see what is the present-day Negro poet’s heritage of song. -These traditions will be reviewed in two sections: 1. Untaught Melodies; -2. The Poetry of Art. This backward glance will comprehend all that was -sung or written by colored people from Jupiter Hammon to Paul Laurence -Dunbar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span></p> - -<h3>I. <span class="smcap">Untaught Melodies</span></h3> - -<p>The Negro might well be expected to exhibit a gift for poetry. His gift -for oratory has long been acknowledged. The fact has been accepted -without reflection upon its significance. It should have been foreseen -that because of the close kinship between oratory and poetry the Negro -would some day, with more culture, achieve distinction in the latter -art, as he had already achieved distinction in the former art. The -endowments which make for distinction in these two great kindred arts, -it must also be remarked, have not been properly esteemed in the Negro. -In other races oratory and poetry have been accepted as the tokens of -noble qualities of character, lofty spiritual gifts. Such they are, in -all races. They spring from mankind’s supreme spiritual impulses, from -mankind’s loftiest aspirations—the aspirations for freedom, for -justice, for virtue, for honor and distinction.</p> - -<p>That these impulses, these aspirations, and these endowments are in the -American Negro and are now exhibiting themselves in verse—it is this I -wish to show to the skeptically minded. It will readily be admitted that -the Negro nature is endowed above most others, if not all others, in -fervor of feeling, in the completeness of self-surrender to emotion. -Hence we see that marvelous display of rhythm in the individual and in -the group. This capacity of submission to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> higher harmony, a grander -power, than self, affords the explanation of mankind’s highest reaches -of thought, supreme insights, and noblest expressions. Rhythm is its -manifestation. It is the most central and compulsive law of the -universe. The rhythmic soul falls into harmony and co-operation with the -universal creative energy. It therefore becomes a creative soul. Rhythm -visibly takes hold of the Negro and sways his entire being. It makes him -one with the universal Power that Goethe describes, in famous lines, as -“at the roaring loom of time, weaving for God the garment thou seest him -by.”</p> - -<p>But fervor of feeling must have some originating cause. That cause is a -conception—the vivid, concrete presentation of an object or idea to the -mind. The Negro has this endowment also. Ideas enter his mind with a -vividness and power which betoken an extraordinary faculty of -imagination. The graphic originality of language commonly exhibited by -the Negro would be sufficient proof of this were other proof wanting. No -one will deny to the Negro this gift. Whoever has listened to a colored -preacher’s sermon, either of the old or the new school, will recall -perhaps more than one example of poetic phrasing, more than one -word-picture, that rendered some idea vivid beyond vanishing. It no -doubt has been made, in the ignorant or illiterate, an object of jest, -just as the other two endowments have been; but these three gifts are -the three supreme gifts of the poet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> and the poet is the supreme -outcome of the race: power of feeling, power of imagination, power of -expression—and these make the poet.</p> - -<h4><i>1. The Spirituals</i></h4> - -<p>As a witness of the Negro’s untutored gift for song there are the -Spirituals, his “canticles of love and woe,” chanted wildly, in that -darkness which only a few rays from heaven brightened. Since they -afford, as it were, a background for the song of cultured art which now -begins to appear, I must here give a word to these crude old plantation -songs. They are one of the most notable contributions of any people, -similarly circumstanced, to the world’s treasury of song, altogether the -most appealing. Their significance for history and for art—more -especially for art—awaits interpretation. There are signs that this -interpretation is not far in the future. Dvorak, the Bohemian, aided by -the Negro composer, Harry T. Burleigh, may have heralded, in his “New -World Symphony,” the consummate achievement of the future which shall be -entirely the Negro’s. Had Samuel Coleridge-Taylor been an American -instead of an English Negro, this theme rather than the Indian theme -might have occupied his genius—the evidence whereof is that, removed as -he was from the scenes of plantation life and the tribulations of the -slaves, yet that life and those tribulations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> touched his heart and -found a place, though a minor one, in his compositions.</p> - -<p>But the sister art of poetry may anticipate music in the great feat of -embodying artistically the yearning, suffering, prayerful soul of the -African in those centuries when he could only with patience endure and -trust in God—and wail these mournfullest of melodies. Some lyrical -drama like “Prometheus Bound,” but more touching as being more human; -some epic like “Paradise Lost,” but nearer to the common heart of man, -and more lyrical; some “Divina Commedia,” that shall be the voice of -those silent centuries of slavery, as Dante’s poem was the voice of the -long-silent epoch preceding it, or some lyrical “passion play” like that -of Oberammergau, is the not improbable achievement of some descendant of -the slaves.</p> - -<p>In a poem of tender appeal, James Weldon Johnson has celebrated the -“black and unknown bards,” who, without art, and even without letters, -produced from their hearts, weighed down with sorrows, the immortal -Spirituals:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O black and unknown bards of long ago,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How came your lips to touch the sacred fire?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How, in your darkness, did you come to know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The power and beauty of the minstrel’s lyre?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who first from out the still watch, lone and long,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song?<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>So begins this noble tribute to the nameless natural poets whose hearts, -touched as a harp by the Divine Spirit, gave forth “Swing Low, Sweet -Chariot,” and “Nobody Knows de Trouble I See,” “Steal Away to Jesus,” -and “Roll, Jordan, Roll.”</p> - -<p>Great praise does indeed rightly belong to that black slave-folk who -gave to the world this treasure of religious song. To the world, I say, -for they belong as truly to the whole world as do the quaint and -incomparable animal stories of Uncle Remus. Their appeal is to every -human heart, but especially to the heart that has known great sorrow and -which looks to God for help.</p> - -<p>It is only of late their meaning has begun to dawn upon us—their -tragic, heart-searching meaning. Who in hearing these Spirituals sung -to-day by the heirs of their creators can doubt what they meant when -they were wailed in the quarters or shouted in wild frenzy in the -camp-meetings of the slaves? Even the broken, poverty-stricken English -adds infinitely to the pathos:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’m walking on borrowed land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This world ain’t none of my home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We’ll stand the storm, it won’t be long.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, walk together children,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Don’t get weary.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heavenly home is bright and fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor pain nor death can enter there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, steal away and pray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m looking for my Jesus.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, freedom! oh, freedom! oh, freedom over me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ before I’d be a slave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll be buried in my grave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And go home to my Lord an’ be free.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Not a word here but had two meanings for the slave, a worldly one and a -spiritual one, and only one meaning, the spiritual one, for the -master—who gladly saw this religious frenzy as an emotional -safety-valve.</p> - -<p>In certain aspects these Spirituals suggest the songs of Zion, the -Psalms. Trouble is the mother of song, particularly of religious song. -In trouble the soul cries out to God—“a very present help in time of -trouble.” The Psalms and the Spirituals alike rise <i>de profundis</i>. But -in one respect the songs of the African slaves differ from the songs of -Israel in captivity: there is no prayer for vengeance in the Spirituals, -no vindictive spirit ever even suggested. We can but wonder now at this. -For slavery at its best was degrading, cruel, and oppressive. Yet no -imprecation, such as mars so many a beautiful Psalm, ever found its way -into a plantation Spiritual. A convincing testimony this to that spirit -in the African slave which Christ, by precept and example, sought to -establish in His disciples. If the Negro in our present day is growing -bitter toward the white race, it behooves us to inquire why it is so, in -view of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> indisputable patience, meekness, and good-nature. We might -find in our present régime a more intolerable cruelty than belonged even -to slavery, if we investigated honestly. There is certainly a bitter and -vindictive tone in much of the Afro-American verse now appearing in the -colored press. For both races it augurs ill.</p> - -<p>But I have not yet indicated the precise place of these Spirituals in -the world’s treasury of song. They have a close kinship with the Psalms -but a yet closer one with the chanted prayers of the primitive -Christians, the Christians when they were the outcasts of the Roman -Empire when to be a Christian was to be a martyr. In secret places, in -catacombs, they sent up their triumphant though sorrowful songs, they -chanted their litanies</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">“—that came<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the volcano’s tongue of flame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up from the burning core below—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The canticles of love and woe.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>So indeed came the Spirituals of the African slave. These songs might in -truth, to use a figure of the old poets, be called the melodious tears -of those who wailed them. An African proverb says, “We weep in our -hearts like the tortoise.” In their hearts—so wept the slaves, silently -save for these mournful cries in melody. Without means of defense, save -a nature armored with faith, when assailed, insulted, oppressed, they -could but imitate the tortoise when he shuts himself up in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_002" id="ill_002"></a> -<a href="images/i_011_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_011_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Inspiration</span></p> - -<p><i>By Meta Warrick Fuller</i></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind">shell and patiently takes the blows that fall. The world knew not then, -nor fully knows now—partly because of African buoyancy, pliability, and -optimism—what tears they wept. These Spirituals are the golden vials -spoken of in Holy Writ, “full of odors, which are the prayers of -saints”—an everlasting memorial before the throne of God. Other vials -there are, different from these, and they, too, are at God’s right hand.</p> - -<p>A Negro sculptor, Mrs. Meta Warrick Fuller, not knowing of this proverb -about the tortoise which has only recently been brought from Africa, but -simply interpreting Negro life in America, has embodied the very idea of -the African saying in bronze. Under the title “Secret Sorrow” a man is -represented as eating his own heart.</p> - -<p>The interpretation in art of the Spirituals, or a poetry of art -developed along the lines and in the spirit of those songs, is something -we may expect the black singers of no distant day to produce. Already we -have many a poem that offers striking reminiscences of them.</p> - -<h4><i>2. The Seculars</i></h4> - -<p>But other songs the Negro has which are more noteworthy from the point -of view of art than the Spirituals: songs that are richer in artistic -effects, more elaborate in form, more varied and copious in expression. -These are the Negro’s secular songs and rhymes, his dance, play, and -love-making songs, his gnomic and nursery<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> rhymes.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> It is not -exaggeration to say that in rhythmic and melodic effects they surpass -any other body of folk-verse whatsoever. In wit, wisdom, and quaint -turns of humor no other folk-rhymes equal them. Prolific, too, in such -productions the race seems to have been, since so many at this late day -were to be found.</p> - -<p>It comes not within the scope of this anthology to include any of these -folk-rhymes of the elder day, but a few specimens seem necessary to -indicate to the young Negro who would be a poet his rich heritage of -song and to the white reader what essentially poetic traits the Negro -has by nature. It was “black and unknown bards,” slaves, too, who sang -or said these rhymes:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh laugh an’ sing an’ don’t git tired.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’s all gwine home, some Mond’y,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To de honey pond an’ fritter trees;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ ev’ry day’ll be Sund’y.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Pride, too, and a sense of values had the Negro, bond or free:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My name’s Ran, I wuks in de san’;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I’d druther be a Nigger dan a po’ white man.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gwinter hitch my oxes side by side,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ take my gal fer a big fine ride.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>After a description of anticipated pleasures and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> a comic interlude in -dialogue, the ballad from which these two couplets are taken concludes -with that varied repetition of the first stanza which we find so -effective in the poems of art:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’d druther be a Nigger, an’ plow ole Beck,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dan a white Hill Billy wid his long red neck.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Song or rhyme was, as ever, heart’s ease to the Negro in every trouble. -Here are two rhymes that “pack up” and put away two common troubles:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She writ me a letter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As long as my eye.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ she say in dat letter:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“My Honey!—Good-by!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dem whitefolks say dat money talk.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If it talk lak dey tell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Den ev’ry time it come to Sam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It up an’ say: “Farewell!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Going to the nursery—it was the one room of the log cabin, or the great -out-of-doors—we find the old-time Negro’s head filled with a <i>Mother -Goose</i> more enchanting than any printed and pictured one in the “great -house” of the white child:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">W’en de big owl whoops,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ de screech owl screeks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ de win’ makes a howlin’ sound;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You liddle woolly heads<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had better kiver up,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Caze de “hants” is comin’ ’round.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">A, B, C,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Doubled down D;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’se so lazy you cain’t see me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">A, B, C,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Doubled down D;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Lazy Chilluns gits hick’ry tea.<br /></span> - -<span class="ispc">****<br /></span> - -<span class="i0">Buck an’ Berry run a race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Buck fall down an’ skin his face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Buck an’ Berry in a stall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Buck, he try to eat it all.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Buck, he e’t too much, you see.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So he died wid choleree.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But it is in the dance songs that rhythm in its perfection makes itself -felt and that repetends are employed with effects which another Poe or -Lanier might appropriate for supreme art. A lively scene and gay -frolicsome movements are conjured up by the following dance songs:</p> - -<p class="cpom">CHICKEN IN THE BREAD TRAY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ dog bite?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“No, Chile! No!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A makin’ up dough.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ broom hit?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Yes, Chile!” Pop!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Flop! Flop! Flop!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Auntie, will yo’ oven bake?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Yes. Jes fry!”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“What’s dat chicken good fer?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Pie! Pie! Pie!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Auntie, is yo’ pie good?”—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Good as you could ’spec’.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chicken in de bread tray;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Peck! Peck! Peck!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><a name="ill_003" id="ill_003"></a> -<a href="images/i_016_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_016_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Dancers</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">JUBA</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Juba dis, an’ Juba dat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Juba skin dat Yaller Cat. Juba! Juba!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Juba jump an’ Juba sing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Juba cut dat Pigeon’s Wing. Juba! Juba!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Juba, kick off Juba’s shoe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Juba, dance dat Jubal Jew. Juba! Juba!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Juba, whirl dat foot about.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Juba, blow dat candle out. Juba! Juba!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Juba circle, Raise de Latch.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Juba do dat Long Dog Scratch. Juba! Juba!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Out of the pastime group I take a rhyme that is typically full of -character, delicious in its wit and proverbial lore:</p> - -<p class="cpom">FATTENING FROGS FOR SNAKES</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You needn’ sen’ my gal hoss apples,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You needn’ sen’ her ’lasses candy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She would keer fer de lak o’ you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ef you’d sen’ her apple brandy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">W’y don’t you git some common sense?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jes git a liddle! Oh fer land sakes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quit yo’ foolin’, she hain’t studyin’ you!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Youse jes fattenin’ frogs fer snakes!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In the love songs one finds that mingling of pathos and humor so -characteristic of the Negro. The one example I shall give lacks nothing -of art—some unknown Dunbar, some black Bobbie Burns, must have composed -it:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SHE HUGGED ME AND KISSED ME</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Springtime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I see’d her in de Cotton patch,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A cameing from de Ball.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She hug me, an’ she kiss me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She wrung my han’ an’ cried.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She said I wus de sweetes’ thing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dat ever lived or died.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She hug me an’ she kiss me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh Heaben! De touch o’ her han’!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She said I wus de puttiest thing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In de shape o’ mortal man.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I told her dat I love her,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dat my love wus bed-cord strong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Den I axed her w’en she’d have me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ she jes say, “Go long!”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In a very striking way these folk-songs of the plantation suggest the -old English folk-songs of unknown authorship and origin—the ancient -traditional ballads, long despised and neglected, but ever living on and -loved in the hearts of the people. This unstudied poetry of the people, -the unlettered common folk, had supreme virtues, the elemental and -universal virtues of simplicity, sincerity, veracity. It had the power, -in an artificial age, to bring poetry back to reality, to genuine -emotion, to effectiveness, to the common interests of mankind. Simple -and crude as it was it had a merit unknown to the polished verse of the -schools. Potential Negro poets might do well to ponder this fact of -literary history. There is nothing more precious in English literature -than this crude old poetry of the people.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<p>There is a book of rhymes which, every Christmas season, is the favorite -gift, the most gladly received, of all that Santa Claus brings. Nor so -at Christmas only; it is a perennial pleasure, a boon to all children, -young and old in years. This book is <i>Mother Goose’s Melodies</i>. How many -“immortal” epics of learned poets it has outlived! How many dainty -volumes of polished lyrics has this humble book of “rhymes” seen vanish -to the dusty realms of dark oblivion! In every home it has a place and -is cherished. Its contents are better known and more loved than the -contents of any other book. Untutored, nameless poets, nature-inspired, -gave this priceless boon to all generations of children, and to all -sorts and conditions—an immortal book. As a life-long teacher and -student of poetry, I venture, with no fear, the assertion that from no -book of verse in our language can the whole art of poetry be so -effectively learned as from <i>Mother Goose’s Melodies</i>. Every device of -rhyme, and melody, and rhythm, and tonal color is exemplified here in a -manner to produce the effects which all the great artists in verse aim -at. This book that we all love—and patronize—is the greatest melodic -triumph in the white man’s literature.</p> - -<p>Of like merit and certainly no less are the folk rhymes and songs, both -the Spirituals and the Seculars, of the Negro. Their art potentialities -are immense. Well may the aspirant to fame in poetry put these songs in -his memory and peruse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> them as Burns did the old popular songs of -Scotland, to make them yield suggestions of songs at the highest reach -of art.</p> - -<h3>II. <span class="smcap">The Poetry of Art</span></h3> - -<p>But another heritage of song, not so crude nor yet so precious as the -Spirituals and the Folk Rhymes has the Negro of to-day. That heritage -comes from enslaved and emancipated men and women who by some means or -another learned to write and publish their compositions. Although the -intrinsic value of this heritage of song cannot be rated high, yet, -considering the circumstances of its production, the colored people of -America may well take pride in it. Its incidental value can hardly be -overestimated. In it is the most infallible record we have of the -Negro’s inner life in bondage and in the years following emancipation. -Never broken was the tradition from Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley, -in the last half of the eighteenth century, to Paul Laurence Dunbar and -Joseph Seamon Cotter, in the end of the nineteenth, but constantly -enriched by an increasing number of men and women who sought in the form -of verse a record of their sufferings and yearnings, consolations and -hopes.</p> - -<h4><i>1. Jupiter Hammon and Phillis Wheatley</i></h4> - -<p>Jupiter Hammon was the first American Negro poet of whom any record -exists. His first extant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> poem, “An Evening Thought,” bears the date of -1760, preceding therefore any poem by Phillis Wheatley, his -contemporary, by nine years. Following the title of the poem this -information is given: “Composed by Jupiter Hammon, a Negro belonging to -Mr. Lloyd, of Queen’s Village, on Long Island, the 25th of December, -1760.” With this poem of eighty-eight rhyming lines, printed on a -double-column broadside, entered the American Negro into American -literature. For that reason alone, were his stanzas inferior to what -they are, I should include some of them in this anthology. But the truth -is that, as “religious” poetry goes, or went in the eighteenth -century—and Hammon’s poetry is all religious—this Negro slave may hold -up his head in almost any company.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, the reader must not expect poetry in the typical stanzas I -shall quote, but just some remarkable rhyming for an African slave, -untaught and without precedent. “An Evening Thought” runs in such -stanzas as the following:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dear Jesus give thy Spirit now,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy Grace to every Nation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That han’t the Lord to whom we bow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Author of Salvation.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>From “An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley, Ethiopian Poetess,” I take -the following as a representative stanza:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">While thousands muse with earthly toys,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And range about the street,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear Phillis, seek for heaven’s joys,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where we do hope to meet.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“A Poem for Children, with Thoughts on Death,” contains such stanzas as -this:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis God alone can make you wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His wisdom’s from above,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He fills the soul with sweet supplies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By his redeeming love.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Two stanzas from “A Dialogue, Entitled, The Kind Master and the Dutiful -Servant,” will show how that poem runs:</p> - -<p class="cpom">MASTER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then will the happy day appear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That virtue shall increase;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lay up the sword and drop the spear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Nations seek for peace.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">SERVANT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then shall we see the happy end,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tho’ still in some distress;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That distant foes shall act like friends,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And leave their wickedness.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Jupiter Hammon’s birth and death dates are uncommemorated because -unknown. Unknown, too, is his grave. But to his memory, no less than to -that of Crispus Attucks, there should somewhere be erected a monument.</p> - -<div class="figright"><a name="ill_004" id="ill_004"></a> -<a href="images/i_023_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_023_sml.jpg" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Phillis Wheatley</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Since Stedman included in his <i>Library of American Literature</i> a picture -of Phillis Wheatley and specimens of her verse, a few white persons, -less than scholars and more than general readers, knew, when Dunbar -appeared, that there had been at least one poetic predecessor in his -race. But the long stretch between the slave-girl rhymer of Boston and -the elevator-boy singer of Dayton was desert. They knew not of George -Moses Horton of North Carolina, who found publication for <i>Poems by a -Slave</i> in 1829, and <i>Poetical Works</i> in 1845. Horton, who learned to -write by his own efforts, is said to have been so fond of poetry that he -would pick up any chance scraps of paper he saw, hoping to find verses. -They knew not of Ann Plato,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> of Hartford, Connecticut, a slave girl who -published a book of twenty poems in 1841; nor of Frances Ellen Watkins -(afterwards Harper) whose <i>Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects</i> appeared in -1857, reaching a circulation of ten thousand copies; nor of Charles L. -Reason, whose poem entitled <i>Freedom</i>, published in 1847, voiced the cry -of millions of fellow blacks in bonds.</p> - -<h4><i>2. Charles L. Reason</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 272px;"><a name="ill_005" id="ill_005"></a> -<a href="images/i_024_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_024_sml.jpg" width="272" height="340" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles L. Reason</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Thus bursts forth Reason’s poetic cry, not unlike that of the crude -Spirituals:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Freedom! Freedom! Oh, how oft<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy loving children call on Thee!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In wailings loud and breathings soft,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beseeching God, Thy face to see.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With agonizing hearts we kneel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While ’round us howls the oppressor’s cry,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And suppliant pray that we may feel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ennobling glances of Thine eye.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>The apostrophe continues through forty-two stanzas, commemorating, with -appreciative knowledge of history, the countries, battle fields, and -heroes associated with the advance of freedom. After an arraignment of -civil rulers and a recreant priesthood, the learned and noble apostrophe -thus concludes:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, purify each holy court!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ministry of law and light!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That man no longer may be bought<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To trample down his brother’s right.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We lift imploring hands to Thee!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We cry for those in prison bound!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, in Thy strength come! Liberty!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And ’stablish right the wide world round.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We pray to see Thee, face to face:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To feel our souls grow strong and wide:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So ever shall our injured race<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By Thy firm principles abide.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>3. George Moses Horton</i></h4> - -<p>By some means or other, self-guided, the North Carolina slave, George -Moses Horton, learned to read and write. His first book, <i>Poems by a -Slave</i>, appeared in 1829, and other books followed until 1865. Like -Hammon, and true to his race, Horton is religious, and, like Reason, and -again true to his race, he loves freedom. I choose but a few stanzas to -illustrate his quality as a poet:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Alas! and am I born for this,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To wear this slavish chain?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deprived of all created bliss,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through hardship, toil, and pain?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How long have I in bondage lain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And languished to be free!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! and must I still complain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Deprived of liberty?<br /></span> -<span class="ispc">****<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come, Liberty! thou cheerful sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Roll through my ravished ears;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And drive away my fears.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>4. Frances Ellen Watkins Harper</i></h4> - -<p>A female poet of the same period as Horton wrote in the same strain -about freedom:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Make me a grave wher’er you will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a lowly plain or a lofty hill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make it among earth’s humblest graves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But not in a land where men are slaves.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Like Horton, she lived to see her prayer for freedom answered. Of the -Emancipation Proclamation she burst forth in joy:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It shall flash through coming ages,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It shall light the distant years;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And eyes now dim with sorrow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be brighter through their tears.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>This slave woman was Frances Ellen Watkins, by marriage Harper. Mrs. -Harper attained to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> greater popularity than any poet of her race prior -to Dunbar. As many as ten thousand copies of some of her poems were in -circulation in the middle of the last century. Her success was not -unmerited. Many singers of no greater merit have enjoyed greater -celebrity. She was thoroughly in the fashion of her times, as Phillis -Wheatley was in the yet prevalent fashion of Pope, or, perhaps more -accurately, Cowper. The models in the middle of the nineteenth century -were Mrs. Hemans, Whittier, and Longfellow. It is in their manner she -writes. A serene and beautiful Christian spirit tells a moral tale in -fluent ballad stanzas, not without poetic phrasing. In all she beholds, -in all she experiences, there is a lesson. There is no grief without its -consolation. Serene resignation breathes through all her poems—at least -through those written after her freedom was achieved. Illustrations of -these traits abound. A few stanzas from <i>Go Work in My Vineyard</i> will -suffice. After bitter disappointments in attempting to fulfil the -command the “lesson” comes thus sweetly expressed:</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 195px;"><a name="ill_006" id="ill_006"></a> -<a href="images/i_027_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_027_sml.jpg" width="195" height="208" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">F. E. W. Harper</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My hands were weak, but I reached them out<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To feebler ones than mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over the shadows of my life<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stole the light of a peace divine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, then my task was a sacred thing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How precious it grew in my eyes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas mine to gather the bruised grain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the Lord of Paradise.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when the reapers shall lay their grain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the floors of golden light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I feel that mine with its broken sheaves<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be precious in His sight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Though thorns may often pierce my feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the shadows still abide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mists will vanish before His smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There will be light at eventide.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>How successfully Mrs. Harper could draw a lesson from the common objects -or occurrences of the world about us may be illustrated by the following -poem:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TRUTH</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A rock, for ages, stern and high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood frowning ’gainst the earth and sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And never bowed his haughty crest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When angry storms around him prest.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Morn, springing from the arms of night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had often bathed his brow with light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kissed the shadows from his face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With tender love and gentle grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Day, pausing at the gates of rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Smiled on him from the distant West,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from her throne the dark-browed Night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Threw round his path her softest light.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yet he stood unmoved and proud,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor love, nor wrath, his spirit bowed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He bared his brow to every blast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And scorned the tempest as it passed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One day a tiny, humble seed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The keenest eye would hardly heed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fell trembling at that stern rock’s base,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And found a lowly hiding-place.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A ray of light, and drop of dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came with a message, kind and true;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They told her of the world so bright,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its love, its joy, and rosy light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lured her from her hiding-place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To gaze upon earth’s glorious face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So, peeping timid from the ground,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She clasped the ancient rock around,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And climbing up with childish grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She held him with a close embrace;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her clinging was a thing of dread;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where’er she touched a fissure spread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And he who’d breasted many a storm<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood frowning there, a mangled form.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A Truth, dropped in the silent earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May seem a thing of little worth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till, spreading round some mighty wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It saps its pillars proud and strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And o’er the fallen ruin weaves<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The brightest blooms and fairest leaves.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>The story of Vashti, who dared heroically to disobey her -monarch-husband, is as well told in simple ballad measure as one may -find it. I give it entire:</p> - -<p class="cpom">VASHTI</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She leaned her head upon her hand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And heard the King’s decree—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“My lords are feasting in my halls;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Bid Vashti come to me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I’ve shown the treasures of my house,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My costly jewels rare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But with the glory of her eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No rubies can compare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With all her queenly grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, ’mid my lords and mighty men,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unveil her lovely face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Each gem that sparkles in my crown,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or glitters on my throne,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grows poor and pale when she appears,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My beautiful, my own!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All waiting stood the chamberlains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To hear the Queen’s reply.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They saw her cheek grow deathly pale,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But light flash’d to her eye:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Go, tell the King,” she proudly said,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“That I am Persia’s Queen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And by his crowds of merry men<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I never will be seen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I’ll take the crown from off my head<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And tread it ’neath my feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before their rude and careless gaze<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My shrinking eyes shall meet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“A queen unveil’d before the crowd!—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon each lip my name!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why, Persia’s women all would blush<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And weep for Vashti’s shame!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Go back!” she cried, and waved her hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And grief was in her eye:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Go, tell the King,” she sadly said,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“That I would rather die.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They brought her message to the King;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Dark flash’d his angry eye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twas as the lightning ere the storm<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hath swept in fury by.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then bitterly outspoke the King,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through purple lips of wrath—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“What shall be done to her who dares<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To cross your monarch’s path?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then spake his wily counsellors—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“O King of this fair land!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From distant Ind to Ethiop,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All bow to thy command.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“But if, before thy servants’ eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This thing they plainly see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That Vashti doth not heed thy will<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor yield herself to thee,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“The women, restive ’neath our rule,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Would learn to scorn our name,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from her deed to us would come<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Reproach and burning shame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Then, gracious King, sign with thy hand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This stern but just decree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That Vashti lay aside her crown,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy Queen no more to be.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She heard again the King’s command,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And left her high estate;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strong in her earnest womanhood,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She calmly met her fate,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And left the palace of the King,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Proud of her spotless name—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A woman who could bend to grief<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But would not bow to shame.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Those last stanzas are quite as noble as any that one may find in the -poets whom I named as setting the American fashion in the era of Mrs. -Harper. The poems of this gentle, sweet-spirited Negro woman deserve a -better fate than has overtaken them.</p> - -<h4><i>5. James Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman</i></h4> - -<p>Although this is not a history of American Negro poetry, yet a brief -notice must be given at this point to two other writers too important to -be omitted even from a swift survey like the present one. They are J. -Madison Bell and Albery A. Whitman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 203px;"><a name="ill_007" id="ill_007"></a> -<a href="images/i_033_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_033_sml.jpg" width="203" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">James Madison Bell</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Bell, anti-slavery orator and friend of John Brown’s, was a prolific -writer of eloquent verse. His original endowments were considerable. -Denied an education in boyhood, he learned a trade and in manhood at -night-schools gained access to the wisdom of books. He became a master -of expression both with tongue and pen. His long period of productivity -covers the history of his people from the decade before Emancipation -till the death of Dunbar. Bell’s themes are lofty and he writes with -fervid eloquence. There is something of Byronic power in the roll of his -verse. An extract from <i>The Progress of Liberty</i> will be representative, -though an extract cannot show either the maintenance of power or the -abundance of resources:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Liberty, what charm so great!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">One radiant smile, one look of thine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can change the drooping bondsman’s fate,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And light his brow with hope divine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His manhood, wrapped in rayless gloom,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At thy approach throws off its pall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And rising up, as from the tomb,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stands forth defiant of the thrall.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No tyrant’s power can crush the soul<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Illumed by thine inspiring ray;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fiendishness of base control<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Flies thy approach as night from day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ride onward, in thy chariot ride,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thou peerless queen; ride on, ride on—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With Truth and Justice by thy side—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From pole to pole, from sun to sun!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor linger in our bleeding South,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor domicile with race or clan;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But in thy glorious goings forth,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be thy benignant object Man—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Of every clime, of every hue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of every tongue, of every race,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Neath heaven’s broad, ethereal blue;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh! let thy radiant smiles embrace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till neither slave nor one oppressed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Remain throughout creation’s span,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By thee unpitied and unblest<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of all the progeny of man.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We fain would have the world aspire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To that proud height of free desire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That flamed the heart of Switzer’s Tell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Whose archery skill none could excell),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When once upon his Alpine brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He stood reclining on his bow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And saw, careering in his might—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In all his majesty of flight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A lordly eagle float and swing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon his broad, untrammeled wing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He bent his bow, he poised his dart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With full intent to pierce the heart;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But as the proud bird nearer drew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His stalwart arm unsteady grew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His arrow lingered in the groove—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cord unwilling seemed to move,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For there he saw personified<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That freedom which had been his pride;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And as the eagle onward sped,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er lofty hill and towering tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He dropped his bow, he bowed his head;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He could not shoot—’twas Liberty!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Whitman, a younger contemporary of Bell’s, is the author of several long -tales in verse. Like Bell, he wrote only in standard English, and like -him also, shows a mastery of expression, with fluency of style, wealth -of imagery, and a command of the forms of verse given vogue by Scott and -Byron. Both likewise write fervently of the wrongs suffered by the black -man at the hands of the white. Thus far they resemble; but if we extend -the comparison we note important differences. Bell has more of the -fervor of the orator and the sense of fact of the historian. He adheres -closely to events and celebrates occasions. Whitman invents tragic tales -of love and romance, clothing them with the charm of the South and -infusing into them the pathos which results from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> the strife of thwarted -passions, the defeat of true love.</p> - -<p>A stanza or two from Whitman’s <i>An Idyl of the South</i> will exemplify his -qualities. The hero of this pathetic tale is a white youth of -aristocratic parentage, the heroine is an octoroon. He is thus -described:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He was of manly beauty—brave and fair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was the Norman iron in his blood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There was the Saxon in his sunny hair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That waved and tossed in an abandoned flood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But Norman strength rose in his shoulders square,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so, as manfully erect he stood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Norse gods might read the likeness of their race<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In his proud bearing and patrician face.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The heroine is thus portrayed:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A lithe and shapely beauty; like a deer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She looked in wistfulness, and from you went;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With silken shyness shrank as if in fear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kept the distance of the innocent.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, when alone, she bolder would appear;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then all her being into song was sent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bound in cascades—ripple, whirl, and gleam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A headlong torrent in a crystal stream.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Only tragedy, under the conditions, could result from their mutual -fervent love. The poet does not moralize but in a figure intimates the -sadness induced by the tale:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The hedges may obscure the sweetest bloom—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The orphan of the waste—the lowly flower;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">While in the garden, faint for want of room,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The splendid failure pines within her bower.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is a wide republic of perfume,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In which the nameless waifs of sun and shower,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That scatter wildly through the fields and woods,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make the divineness of the solitudes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>After such a manner wrote those whom we may call bards of an elder day.</p> - -<h4><i>6. Paul Laurence Dunbar</i></h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He came, a dark youth, singing in the dawn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a new freedom, glowing o’er his lyre,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Refining, as with great Apollo’s fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His people’s gift of song. And, thereupon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This Negro singer, come to Helicon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Constrained the masters, listening, to admire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And roused a race to wonder and aspire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gazing which way their honest voice was gone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ebon face uplit of glory’s crest.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who brought the cabin’s mirth, the tuneful night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But faced the morning, beautiful with light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To die while shadows yet fell toward the west,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And leave his laurels at his people’s feet.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">—<i>James David Corrothers.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Less than a generation ago William Dean Howells hailed Paul Laurence -Dunbar as “the first instance of an American Negro who had evinced -innate distinction in literature,” “the only man of pure African blood -and of American civilization to feel Negro life æsthetically and express -it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> lyrically.” It is not my purpose to give Dunbar space and -consideration in this book commensurate with his importance. Its scope -does not, strictly speaking, include him and his predecessors. They are -introduced here, but to provide an historical background. The object of -this book is to exhibit the achievement of the Negro in verse since -Dunbar. Even though it were true, which I think it is not, that no -American Negro previous to Dunbar had evinced innate distinction in -literature, this anthology, I believe, will reveal that many American -Negroes in this new day are evincing, if not innate distinction, yet -cultured talent, in literature.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 201px;"><a name="ill_008" id="ill_008"></a> -<a href="images/i_038_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_038_sml.jpg" width="201" height="294" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Paul Laurence Dunbar</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>The sonnet to Dunbar which stands at the head of this section was -composed by a Negro who was by three years Dunbar’s senior. His -opportunities in early life were far inferior to Dunbar’s. At nineteen -years of age, with almost inconsiderable schooling, he was a boot-black -in a Chicago barber shop. I give his sonnet here—other poems<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> of his I -give in another chapter—in evidence of that distinction in literature, -innate or otherwise, which is rather widespread among American Negroes -of the present time. Dunbar himself might have been proud to put his -name to this sonnet.</p> - -<p>When this marvel, a Negro poet, so vouched for, appeared in the West, -like a new star in the heavens, a few white people, a very few, knew, -vaguely, that back in Colonial times there was a slave woman in Boston -who had written verses, who was therefore a prodigy. The space between -Phillis Wheatley and this new singer was desert. But Nature, as people -think, produces freaks, or sports; therefore a Negro poet was not -absolutely beyond belief, since poets are rather freakish, abnormal -creatures anyway. Incredulity therefore yielded to an attitude scarcely -worthier, namely, that dishonoring, irreverent interpretation of a -supreme human phenomenon which consists in denominating it a freak of -nature. But Dunbar is a fact, as Burns, as Whittier, as Riley, are -facts—a fact of great moment to a people and for a people. For one -thing, he revealed to the Negro youth of America the latent literary -powers and the unexploited literary materials of their race. He was the -fecundating genius of their talents. Upon all his people he was a -tremendously quickening power, not less so than his great contemporary -at Tuskegee. Doubtless it will be recognized, in a broad view, that the -Negro people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> of America needed, equally, both men, the counterparts of -each other.</p> - -<p>It needs to be remarked for white people, that there were two Dunbars, -and that they know but one. There is the Dunbar of “the jingle in a -broken tongue,” whom Howells with gracious but imperfect sympathy and -understanding brought to the knowledge of the world, and whom the public -readers, white and black alike, have found it delightful to present, to -the entire eclipse of the other Dunbar. That other Dunbar was the poet -of the flaming “Ode to Ethiopia,” the pathetic lyric, “We Wear the -Mask,” the apparently offhand jingle but real masterpiece entitled -“Life,” the incomparable ode “Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary -eyes,” and a score of other pieces in which, using their speech, he -matches himself with the poets who shine as stars in the firmament of -our admiration. This Dunbar Howells failed to appreciate, and ignorance -of him has been fostered, as I have intimated, by professional readers -and writers. The first Dunbar, the generally accepted one, was, as -Howells pointed out, the artistic interpreter of the old-fashioned, -vanishing generation of black folk—the generation that was maimed and -scarred by slavery, that presented so many ludicrous and pathetic, -abject and lovable aspects in strange mixture. The second Dunbar was the -prophet robed in a mantle of austerity, shod with fire, bowed with -sorrow, as every true prophet has been, in whatever time,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> among -whatever people. He was the prophet, I say, of a new generation, a -coming generation, as he was the poet of a vanishing generation. The -generation of which he was the prophet-herald has arrived. Its most -authentic representatives are the poets that I put forward in this -volume as worthy of attention.</p> - -<p>Dunbar’s real significance to his race has been admirably expressed not -only by Corrothers but in the following lines by his biographer, Lida -Keck Wiggins:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Life’s lowly were laureled with verses<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sceptered were honor and worth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While cabins became, through the poet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fair homes of the lords of the earth.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>So it was. But “honor and worth” yet remain, to be “sceptered.” Such -poems as these few here given from the choragus of the present -generation of Negro singers will suggest the kind of honor and the -degree of worth to which our tribute is due.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p class="cpom">ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The magic gold which from the seeker flies;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And make the waking world a world of lies,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How all the griefs and heartaches we have known<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To work some potent spell, her magic plies.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The past which held its share of bitter pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And pangs of vague inexplicable pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Tends her far course to lands of mystery?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where shapes unknowable to being spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How questioneth the soul that other soul,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But self exposes unto self, a scroll<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In characters indelible and known;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The soul doth view its awful self alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For kissing all our passions into calm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At glooms through which our visions cannot see,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ere sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">LIFE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And never a laugh but the moans come double;<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And that is life!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A crust and a corner that love makes precious,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter:<br /></span> -<span class="i8">And that is life!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom"><i><span class="ispc">****<br /></span></i></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Mother Race! to thee I bring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This pledge of faith unwavering,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This tribute to thy glory.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know the pangs which thou didst feel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With thy dear blood all gory.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But through the land the fruitful seed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of better times was growing.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plant of freedom upward sprung,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And spread its leaves so fresh and young—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Its blossoms now are blowing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On every hand in this fair land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proud Ethiope’s swarthy children stand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beside their fairer neighbor;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The forests flee before their stroke,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They stir in honest labor.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They tread the fields where honor calls;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their voices sound through senate halls<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In majesty and power.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To right they cling; the hymns they sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up to the skies in beauty ring,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And bolder grow each hour.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy name is writ on Glory’s scroll<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In characters of fire.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High ’mid the clouds of Fame’s bright sky<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy banner’s blazoned folds now fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And truth shall lift them higher.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 318px;"><a name="ill_009" id="ill_009"></a> -<a href="images/i_045_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_045_sml.jpg" width="318" height="551" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Ethiopia—Awakening</span></p> - -<p><i>By Meta Warrick Fuller</i></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou hast the right to noble pride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose spotless robes were purified<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By blood’s severe baptism,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon thy brow the cross was laid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And labor’s painful sweat-beads made<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A consecrating chrism.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No other race, or white or black,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When bound as thou wert, to the rack,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So seldom stooped to grieving;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No other race, when free again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forgot the past and proved them men<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So noble in forgiving.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Go on and up! Our souls and eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall follow thy continuous rise;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Our ears shall list thy story<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From bards who from thy root shall spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And proudly tune their lyres to sing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of Ethiopia’s glory.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">WITH THE LARK</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the night through, though I moan in the dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the rain shall not grieve thro’ the leaves of the tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though life has been hard and death’s pathway been dark,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">WE WEAR THE MASK</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We wear the mask that grins and lies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This debt we pay to human guile;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mouth with myriad subtleties.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Why should the world be over-wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In counting all our tears and sighs?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nay, let them only see us, while<br /></span> -<span class="i4">We wear the mask.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To thee from tortured souls arise.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We sing, but oh, the clay is vile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath our feet, and long the mile;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But let the world dream otherwise,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">We wear the mask!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>7. J. Mord Allen</i></h4> - -<p>In the year of Dunbar’s death (1906), J. Mord Allen published his -<i>Rhymes, Tales, and Rhymed Tales</i>. The contents are mainly in dialect, -dialect that possesses, as it seems to me, every merit of that medium. -There is great felicity of characterization, surprising turns of wit, -quaint philosophy. In a later chapter I will give a specimen of Mr. -Allen’s dialect verse, here two standard English poems. In both mediums -his credentials are authentic, no whit less so than even Dunbar’s. Only -the question arises why his muse became silent after this one -utterance—for he was at the time but thirty-one years old. Perhaps -poetry did not go with boiler-making, his occupation. Because of the -date of his one book I place him here with Dunbar, and there are yet -other reasons.</p> - -<p>Mr. Allen affords but two standard English poems, the first and the last -of his book. Such a fact marks him as of the elder day, though that day -be less than a score of years agone. The concluding poem of his book has -a sweet sadness that must appeal to every heart whose childhood is -getting to be far away:</p> - -<p class="cpom">COUNTING OUT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, how the sad-sweet Long Ago<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Enyouths us, as by magic spell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With that old rhyme. You know it well;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">For time was, once, when e’en your eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Saw Heaven plainly, in the skies.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Past twilight, when a brave moon glowed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just o’er the treetops, and the road<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was full of romping children—say,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What was the game we used to play?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yes! Hide-and-seek. And at the base,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who first must go and hide his face?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remember—standing in a row—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo”?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How fare we children here below?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our moon is far from treetops now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Heaven isn’t up, somehow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No more for sport play we “I spy”;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our “laying low” and “peeping high”.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are now with consequences fraught;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s black disgrace in being caught.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But what’s to pay the pains we take?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let’s play the game for its own sake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, ere ’tis time to homeward flit,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let’s get some pleasure out of it.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For death will soon count down the row,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Eeny meeny miny mo.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Though of the elder day yet Allen is, like Dunbar, a herald of the -generation that is now articulate. In this rôle of herald to a more -self-assertive generation, a more aspiring and race-conscious one, he -speaks with immense significance to us in this first poem of his book, -which, as being prophetic of much we now see in the colored folk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> of -America I permit to close this summary review of earlier Negro poetry:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE PSALM OF THE UPLIFT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Still comes the Perfect Thing to man<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As came the olden gods, in dreams;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then the man—made artist—knows<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How real is the thing which seems.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, tongue or brush or magic pen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May win the world to loud acclaim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he who wrought knows in his soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That, like as tinsel is to gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His work is, to his aim.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s there ahead to him—and you<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And me. I swear it isn’t far;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Else, black Despair would cut us down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the land of hateful Things Which Are.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, just beyond our finger-tips,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Things As They Should Be shame the weak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hold the aching muscles tense<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through th’ next moment of suspense<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which triumph is to break.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And shall we strive? The years to come,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till sunset of eternity,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are given to the fairest god,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The God of Things As They Should Be.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ending? Nay, ’tis ours to do<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dare and bear and not to flinch;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To enter where is no retreat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To win one stride from sheer defeat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To die—but gain an inch.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II<br /><br /> -<small>THE PRESENT RENAISSANCE OF THE NEGRO</small></h2> - -<h4><i>I. A Glance at the Field</i></h4> - -<p><span class="smcap">Many</span> are the forms of expression that the life of a developing people or -group finds for itself—business and wealth, education and culture, -political and social unrest and agitation, literature and art. It can -scarcely happen that any people or group has a vital significance for -other peoples or groups, or any real potency, until it begins to express -itself in poetry. When, however, a race or a portion of our common race -begins to embody its aspirations, its grievances, its animating spirit -in song the world may well take notice. That race or portion of our -common race has within it an unreckoned potency of good and evil—evil -if the good be thwarted.</p> - -<p>It is not, then, to editorials and speeches and sermons, nor to -petitions, protests, and resolutions, but to poems that the wise will -turn in order to learn the temper and permanent bent of mind of a -people. Witness the recent history of Ireland. Her literary renascence -preceded her effective political agitation. The political agitation -which resulted in her independence was the work of poets. The real life -of a people finds its only ade<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>quate record in song. All of a people’s -history that is permanently or profoundly significant is distilled into -poetry.</p> - -<p>It is to the unknown poetry of a despised and rejected people that I -call attention in these pages. One of this people’s poets sings:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We have fashioned laughter<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of tears and pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the moment after—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pain and tears again.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Charles Bertram Johnson.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And when he so sings we know there is one race above all others which -these words describe. Another sings:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will suppose that fate is just,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will suppose that grief is wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I will tread what path I must<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To enter Paradise.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And when he so sings we know out of what tribulations his resignation -has been born. The resolution of despair cries out in the lines of -another:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My life were lost if I should keep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hope-forlorn and gloomy face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And brood upon my ills, and weep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mourn the travail of my race.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Leslie Pinckney Hill.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Another singer, coming out of the Black Belt of the lower South, records -the daily and life-long history of his people in these lines:</p> - -<p class="cpom">IT’S ALL THROUGH LIFE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A day of joy, a week of pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A sunny day, a week of rain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A day of peace, a year of strife;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But cling to Him, it’s all through life.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">An hour of joy, a day of fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An hour of smiles, a day of tears;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An hour of gain, a day of strife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Press on, press on, it’s all through life.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Waverley Turner Carmichael.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In the poetry which the Negro is producing to-day there is a challenge -to the world. His race has been deeply stirred by recent events; its -reaction has been mighty. The challenge, spoken by one, but for the -race, the inarticulate millions as well as the cultured few, comes thus:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO AMERICA</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How would you have us—as we are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or sinking ’neath the load we bear?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our eyes fixed forward on a star?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or gazing empty at despair?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rising or falling? Men or things?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With dragging pace, or footsteps fleet?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strong, willing sinews in your wings?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or tightening chains about your feet?<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>James Weldon Johnson.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">With slight regard for smooth words another declares his grievances, -that all may understand:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yes, I am lynched. Is it that I<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must without judge or jury die?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though innocent, am I accursed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To quench the mob’s blood-thirsty thirst?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yes, I am mocked. Pray tell me why!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did not my brothers freely die<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For you, and your Democracy—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That each and all alike be free?<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Raymond Garfield Dandridge.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">So runs the dominant note of this poetry. But it would be unjust to the -race producing it to convey the idea that this is the only note. The -harp of Ethiopia has many strings and the brothers of Memnon are many. -Sometimes the note is one of simple beauty, like that of a wild rose -blossoming by the wayside. No reader could tell what race produced such -a lyric as the one following, but any reader responsive to the beauty of -art and to the truth of passion would assert its excellence:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I will hide my soul and its mighty love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the bosom of this rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And its dispensing breath will take<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My love wherever it goes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And perhaps she’ll pluck this very rose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, quick as blushes start,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will breathe my hidden secret in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her unsuspecting heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>George Marion McClellan.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In a Negro magazine one may chance upon a sonnet that the best poet of -our times might have signed and feared no loss to his reputation, nor -would there be any mark of race in its lines. To candid judgment I -submit the following, from Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson:</p> - -<p class="cpom">VIOLETS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I had not thought of violets of late,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In wistful April days, when lovers mate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The thoughts of violets meant florists’ shops,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And garish lights, and mincing little fops,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I had forgot wide fields and clear brown streams;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The perfect loveliness that God has made—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And now unwittingly, you’ve made me dream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It needs not that a poet write an epic to prove himself chosen of the -muse. The winds of time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> may blow into oblivion all but five lines of an -<i>opus magnum</i>, in which five lines alone was the laborious author a -poet. Wise is the poet who writes but the five lines, as here:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SUNSET</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Since Poets have told of sunset,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What is left for me to tell?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I can only say that I saw the day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Press crimson lips to the horizon gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kiss the earth farewell.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Mary Effie Lee.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The theme may be as old as man and as common as humanity yet it can be -made to be felt as poetic by one who has the magic gift, as here:</p> - -<p class="cpom">LONELINESS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I cannot make my thoughts stay home;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I cannot close their door;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, oh, that I might shut them in,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And they go out no more!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For they go out, with wistful eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And search the whole world through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just hoping, in their wandering,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To catch a glimpse of you!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Winifred Virginia Jordan.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>One’s find may be in <i>The Poet’s Ingle</i> of a newspaper, where an unknown -name is attached to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> verses that have the charm which Longfellow found -in the simple and heartfelt lays of the humbler poet. From such a poem, -entitled <i>To My Grandmother</i>, by Mae Smith Johnson, I take two stanzas, -the first two as beautiful as the theme evoked:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You ’mind me of the winter’s eve<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When low the sinking sun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Casts soft bright rays upon the snow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And day, now almost done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In silence deep prepares to leave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And calmly waits the signal “Go.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Your eyes are faded vestal lights<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That once the hearth illumed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where vestal virgins vigil kept,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And budding virtue bloomed:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like stars that beam on summer nights,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Less beautiful, less original, but in another way not less appealing, -are these stanzas, also signed by an unknown name and taken from the -Christmas number of a newspaper. They are the last stanzas but one of a -poem entitled <i>The Child Is Found</i>, by Charles H. Este:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O hearts that mourn and sorrow so,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That doubt the power of God,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An angel now is bending low—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To comfort as you plod.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He speaks with tones of whispering love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With feelings true and strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sings of sweetest joys above,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For souls without a song.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Pride of race, no less than grief for wrongs endured, is one of the -notes of this living verse. Eulogies of the men and women who have lived -heroically for their people, giving vision, quickening aspiration, -opening roads of advance, find a place in every volume of verse and in -the pages of newspapers. Few white persons perhaps have paused to -reflect how noteworthy this traditionary store of heroic names really is -and how potent it is with the people inheriting it. Both practical and -poetic uses—if these two things are different—it has. One cannot -foretell to what reflections upon life the eulogist will be led ere he -concludes. From an ode to Booker T. Washington, by Roscoe Riley Dungee, -I take a stanza, by way of illustration:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet, virtue walks a path obscure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And honor struggles to endure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While arrogance and deeds impure<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Adorn the Hall of Fame.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still, power triumphs over right,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wrong is victor in the fight;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Greed, graft, and knavery excite<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Vociferous acclaim.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It has become evident to those who have seriously studied the -present-day life of the Negroes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> that there has been in these recent -years a renascence of the Negro soul. Poetry, as these pages will show, -is one of its modes of expression. Other expressions there are, very -significant ones, too, expressions which are material, tangible, -expressible in figures. Not of this kind is poetry. Yet of all forms -whereby the soul of a people expresses itself the most potent, the most -effective, is poetry. The re-born soul of the Negro is following the -tradition of all races in all times by pouring itself into that form of -words which embodies the most of passionate thought and feeling.</p> - -<p>Out of the very heart of a race of twelve million people amongst us -comes this cry which a Negro poet of Virginia utters as</p> - -<p class="cpom">A PRAYER OF THE RACE THAT GOD MADE BLACK</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be peaceful, Father—but, when we must,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Help us to thunder hard the blow that’s just!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be prayerful: Lord, when we have prayed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let us arise courageous—unafraid!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be manly—proving well our worth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then would not cringe to any god on earth!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be loving and forgiving, thus<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To love our neighbor as Thou lovest us!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be faithful, loyal to the Right—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ne’er doubting that the Day will follow Night!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We would be all that Thou hast meant for man,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up through the ages, since the world began!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">God! save us in Thy Heaven, where all is well!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We come slow-struggling up the Hills of Hell!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Lucian B. Watkins.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Too confidently, as we may learn, have we of the other race relied upon -the Negro’s innate optimism to keep him a safe citizen and a -long-suffering servant. That optimism, that gaiety and buoyancy of -spirit, if not indestructible in the African soul, is yet reducible to -the vanishing point. There are signs of something quite different in the -attitude of Negroes toward their white neighbors to-day. In their poetry -this reputed optimism, where it exists, is found in union with a note of -melancholy or of bitter complaint. A characteristic utterance of this -mood I find in a poem entitled “The Optimist,” from which I will give -one-third of its stanzas:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Never mind, children, be patient awhile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And carry your load with a nod and a smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For out of the hell and the hard of it all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Time is sure to bring sweetest honey—not gall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out of the hell and the hard of it all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bright star shall rise that never shall fall:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A God-fearing race—proud, noble, and true,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Giving good for the evil which they always knew.<br /></span> -<span class="ispc">****<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> -<span class="i0">So dry your wet pillow and lift your bowed head<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And show to the world that hope is not dead!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be patient! Wait! See what yet may befall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of the hell and the hard of it all.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Ethyl Lewis.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But in dark days the Negro has ever had refuges and sources of strength -for the want of which other races have been crushed. One of these -refuges for them is the benignant breast of nature—the deep peace of -the woods and the hills, the quiet soothing of pleasant-running water, -the benediction of bright skies. A rarely-gifted woman, Mrs. Georgia -Douglas Johnson, singing her own consolation, with a pathos that pierces -the heart, has sung for thousands of the women of her race else dumb -alike in grief and in joy, and in mingled grief and joy:</p> - -<p class="cpom">PEACE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I rest me deep within the wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drawn by its silent call;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far from the throbbing crowd of men<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On nature’s breast I fall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My couch is sweet with blossoms fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bed of fragrant dreams,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And soft upon my ear there falls<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lullaby of streams.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The tumult of my heart is stilled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within this sheltered spot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deep in the bosom of the wood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forgetting, and—forgot!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Death and the mysteries of life, the pain and the grief that flesh and -soul are heirs to, the eternal problems that address themselves to all -generations and races, produce in the soul of the Negro the same -reactions as of old they produced in the soul of David or of Homer, or -as, in our own day, in the soul of a Wordsworth or a Shelley. Of this we -have a glimpse in the following lyric, from Walter Everette Hawkins:</p> - -<p class="cpom">IN SPITE OF DEATH</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Curses come in every sound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wars spread gloom and woe around.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cannon belch forth death and doom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But still the lilies wave and bloom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Man fills the earth with grief and wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But cannot hush the bluebird’s song.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My stars are dancing on the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waves fling kisses up at me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each night my gladsome moon doth rise;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A rainbow spans my evening skies;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The robin’s song is full and fine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And roses lift their lips to mine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The jonquils ope their petals sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The poppies dance around my feet;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of winter and of death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Spring is in the zephyr’s breath.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>This poetry but re-affirms the essential identity of human nature under -black and white skins. But it will remind most of the white race of how -ignorant they have been of that black race next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> door that is acquiring -wealth and culture and is expressing in art and literature the spirit of -an aspiring people—how ignorant of their real life, their very -thoughts, their completely human joys and griefs. One of their poets was -cognizant of this unhappy ignorance—the source of so much harshness of -treatment—when he wrote:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My people laugh and sing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And dance to death—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">None imagining<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The heartbreak under breath.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Charles Bertram Johnson.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Nothing weighs more heavily upon the soul of this race to-day than this -everywhere self-betraying crass ignorance, made the more grievous to -endure by the vain boast accompanying it, that “I know the Negro better -than he knows himself.” This poetry in every line of it is a convincing -contradiction of this insulting arrogancy. Essential identity, that is -the message of these poets.</p> - -<p>This kinship of souls and essential oneness of human nature, which -Shylock, speaking for a similarly oppressed and outrageously treated -people, pressed home upon the Christian merchants of Venice, finds -typical expression in the following lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We travel a common road, Brother,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We walk and we talk much the same;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We breathe the same sweet air of heaven—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strive alike for fortune and fame;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">We laugh when our hearts fill with gladness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We weep when we’re smothered in woe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We strive, we endure, we seek wisdom;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We sin—and we reap what we sow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yes, all who would know it can see that<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When everything’s put to the test,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of our color and features,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Negro’s the same as the rest.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Leon R. Harris.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It is to be expected that, notwithstanding the Anglo-Saxon culture of -the producers of this poetry, the white reader will yet demand therein -what he regards as the African traits. Perhaps it will be crude, -artless, repetitious songs like the Spirituals. The quality of the -Spirituals is indeed not wanting in some of the most noteworthy -contemporary Negro verse. From Fenton Johnson’s three volumes of verse I -could select many pieces that exhibit this quality united with -disciplined art. For example, here is one:</p> - -<p class="cpom">I PLAYED ON DAVID’S HARP</p> - -<p class="cpom">(A Negro Spiritual)</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Last night I played on David’s harp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I played on little David’s harp<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gospel tunes of Israel;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the angels came to hear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Me play those gospel tunes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolled away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The angels shouted all the night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their “Glory, Hallelujah” shout;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Old Gabriel threw his trumpet down<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hear the songs of Israel,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On mighty David’s harp,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolled away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When death has closed my weary eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll play again on David’s harp<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The last great song in life’s brief book;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all you children born of God<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can stop awhile and hear me play,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the Jordan rolls away.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>No less certain it is that many a reader will demand something more -crude, more obscure, more mystical. Something, perhaps, at once -ridiculous and wise—with big and strangely compounded words, -ludicrously applied, yet striving at the expression of some peculiarly -African idea. Of such verse I can produce no example. The nearest I can -come to meeting such impossible demand is by submitting the following -from William Edgar Bailey:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE SLUMP</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self at the bat!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well, we’re all at the bat—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For one thing or other,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For this or for that.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ball may be hurled, in the form of this plea:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Will you please help the poor?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">God, have mercy on me!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self stops to think;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the ball cuts the plate—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He’s aware that he slumped,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grasps the bat,—but too late.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What you say, Mr. Ump?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can it be? Yes, ’tis done!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Well, I’ve said what I’ve said!”<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Mr. Self,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Strike One!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self’s face is grim.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis the critical test—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For his heart, conscience-sick,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heaves stern at his breast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Truth must be hurled, ’tis the law of the game;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If in life or in death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If in falsehood or shame.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self, strike the ball—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s a Tramp at your Gate!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self still amazed—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the ball cuts the plate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mr. Self murmured not;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The decision he knew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Well, you’ve done that before.”<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Sighed the Ump.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Strike Two!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There’s the Beggar and Gate—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But his silver and gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is amix with his blood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A part of his soul.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Nazarene stooped—as all Umpires will do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With His eye on a line,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">That his verdict be true—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just a shift of the Truth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stern, the Nazarene tried,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he tho’t of the Cross,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the blood from His side.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Your decision is false;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, have mercy on me.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But a voice from the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Whispered low.<br /></span> -<span class="i8">Strike three.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Of humorous verse there is very little produced by the Negro writers of -these times. They take their vocation seriously. When their singing -robes are on it is to the plaintive notes of the flute or the dolorous -blasts of the trumpet they tune their songs.</p> - -<p>These voices, and others like them, have but lately been lifted in song, -they are still youthful voices, and they are but preluding the more -perfect songs they are yet to sing. One voice that is now still, -silenced lately in death, at the age of twenty-three years, has sung for -them all what all feel:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE MULATTO TO HIS CRITICS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ashamed of my race?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And of what race am I?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am many in one.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through my veins there flows the blood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Red Man, Black Man, Briton, Celt, and Scot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In warring clash and tumultuous riot.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">I welcome all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But love the blood of the kindly race<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That swarths my skin, crinkles my hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And puts sweet music into my soul.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Sweet music in the soul”—that is heaven’s kind gift to this people, -music of sorrow and of faith; music, low and plaintive, of hope almost -failing; music, clear and strong, born of vision triumphant; music, -alas, sometimes marred by the strident notes of hatred and revenge. -Verily, poets learn in suffering what they teach in song.</p> - -<p>In concluding this preliminary survey it should be reiterated that, if -one meets here but with the rhythms and forms, as he may think, which -are familiar to him in the poetry of the white race, he should reflect -that only in that poetry has the Negro had an opportunity to be -educated. He has been educated away from his own heritage and his own -endowments. The Negro’s native wisdom should lead him back to his -natural founts of song. Our educational system should allow of and -provide for this. His own literature in his schools is a reasonable -policy for the Negro.</p> - -<p>As regards the essential significance of this poetry, one of its makers, -Miss Eva A. Jessye, has said in a beautiful way almost what I wish to -say. Her poem shall therefore conclude this presentation:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">THE SINGER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Because his speech was blunt and manner plain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Untaught in subtle phrases of the wise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because the years of slavery and pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ne’er dimmed the light of faith within his eyes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because of ebon skin and humble pride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world with hatred thrust the youth aside.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But fragrance wafts from every trodden flower,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And through our grief we rise to nobler things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Within the heart in sorrow’s darkest hour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A well of sweetness there unbidden springs;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Despised of men, discarded and alone—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world of nature claimed him as her own.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She taught him truths that liberate the soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From bonds more galling than the slaver’s chain—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That manly natures, lily-wise, unfold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Amid the mire of hatred void of stain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus in his manhood, clean, superbly strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To him was born the priceless gift of song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The glory of the sun, the hush of morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whisperings of tree-top faintly stirred,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The desert silence, wilderness forlorn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Far ocean depths, the tender lilt of bird;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of hope, despair, he sang, his melody<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The endless theme of life’s brief symphony.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And nations marveled at the minstrel lad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who swayed emotions as his fancy led;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With him they wept, were melancholy, sad;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis but a cunning jest of Fate,” they said;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They did not dream in selfish sphere apart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That song is but the essence of the heart.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>II. Representatives of the Present Era</i></h4> - -<h3>I. <span class="smcap">The Cotters, Father and Son</span></h3> - -<h4><i>The Father</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_010" id="ill_010"></a> -<a href="images/i_070_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_070_sml.jpg" width="196" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>On the Kentucky plantation where Stephen Collins Foster one June -morning, when the mocking birds were singing and “the darkies were gay,” -composed and his sister sang, “My Old Kentucky Home,” there was among -those first delighted listeners who paused in their tasks to hear the -immortal song at its birth a slave girl in whose soul were strange -melodies of her own. Born of free people of color, she was bonded to the -owner of this plantation, yet her soul was such as must be free. -Faithful in her work, respectful and obedient, she was yet a dangerous -character among slaves, being too spirited. Hence her master ordered her -to leave, fearing she would demoralize discipline in the quarters. She -de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span>manded to be taken away as she had been brought—in a wagon; and it -was so done. It seems that one-half of her blood was African and the -other half was divided between Indian and English, though it is -impossible to be sure of the exact proportion. An account of her in -those days by one who knew her reveals her as one of nature’s poets—a -Phillis Wheatley of the wash-tubs. “She was very fervent in her -religious devotions”—so runs this account—“and a very hard worker. She -would sometimes wash nearly all night and then have periods of prayer -and exaltation. Then again during the day she would draw from her bosom -a favorite book and pause to read over the wash-tub. She had a strong -dramatic instinct and would frequently make up little plays of her own -and represent each character vividly.” Of such mothers are seers and -poets born. And so in this instance it proved to be.</p> - -<p>At the age of twenty, while yet a slave, she was married, under the -common law—though marriage it was not called—to a Scotch-Irishman, a -prominent citizen of Louisville, her employer at the time, who was -distinguished by a notably handsome physique and a great fondness for -books. Of this union was born, at Bardstown, a son, Joseph, so named for -the dreamer of biblical story.</p> - -<p>The vision-seeing slave mother, her mind running on the bondage of her -people, named her son Joseph in the hope of his becoming great in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> -service of his people, like the Hebrew Joseph. She lived to see her hope -fulfilled. The boy’s earliest education was in song and story invented -and sung or told by his mother. He got a few terms of school, reaching -the third grade. At ten years of age he went to work in a brickyard of -Louisville to help support his mother. Even there the faculty that -afterwards distinguished him appears in action, to his relief in time of -trouble. Bigger boys, white and black, working in the same yard, hazed -and harried him. Fighting to victory was out of the question, against -such odds. Brains won where brawn was wanting. He observed that the men -at their noon rest-hour, the time of his distress, told stories and -laughed. He couldn’t join them, but he tried story-telling in the boy -group. It worked. The men, hearing the laughter, came over and joined -them. The persecuted boy became the entertainer of both groups. He had -won mastery by wit, the proudest mastery in the world.</p> - -<p>Then, until he was twenty-two years of age, he was a teamster on the -levee. At this time the desire for an education mastered him and he -entered a night school—the primary grade. Hard toil and the struggle to -get on had not killed his soul but had wiped out his acquisitions of -book-knowledge. In two terms he was qualified to teach. He is now the -principal of the Samuel Coleridge-Taylor High School in Louisville, the -author of several books, a maker of songs and teller of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> stories, and a -man upright in conduct and wise in counsel.</p> - -<p>It was at Bardstown, February 2, 1861, that Joseph Seamon Cotter was -born. Let Bardstown be put on the literary map of America, not because -Stephen Collins Foster wrote “My Old Kentucky Home” there, but because -one was born there the latchet of whose poetic shoes he was not worthy -to unloose. “A poet, a bard, to be born in Bardstown—how odd, and how -appropriate!” one exclaims. And <i>bard</i> seems exactly the right -appellation for this song-maker and story-man. But it is not altogether -so. In character bardlike, but not in appearance. Bards have long, -unkempt, white hair, which mingles with beards that rest on their -bosoms. Cotter’s square-cut chin is clean-shaven, and his large -brain-dome shows like a harvest moon. But he makes poems and invents and -discovers stories, and, bard-like, recites or relates them to whatever -audience may call for them—in schools, in churches, at firesides. Minus -the hairy habiliments he is a bard.</p> - -<p>Some of Cotter’s stories come out of Africa and are “different,” as the -word goes. Some are “current among the colored folks of Louisville.” -These, too, are different. Some are tragedies and some are comedies and -some are tragi-comedies of everyday life among the Negroes. I will give -one entire tale here, selecting this particular one because of its -brevity, not its pre-eminence:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">THE BOY AND THE IDEAL</p> -<div class="smblk"> -<p>Once upon a time a Mule, a Hog, a Snake, and a Boy met. Said the Mule: -“I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the heels. It is fine to have -heels so gifted. My heels make people cultivate distance.”</p> - -<p>Said the Hog: “I eat and labor that I may grow strong in the snout. It -is fine to have a fine snout. I keep people watching for my snout.”</p> - -<p>“No exchanging heels for snouts,” broke in the Mule.</p> - -<p>“No,” answered the Hog; “snouts are naturally above heels.”</p> - -<p>Said the Snake: “I eat to live, and live to cultivate my sting. The way -people shun me shows my greatness. Beget stings, comrades, and stings -will beget glory.”</p> - -<p>Said the Boy: “There is a star in my life like unto a star in the sky. I -eat and labor that I may think aright and feel aright. These rounds will -conduct me to my star. Oh, inviting star!”</p> - -<p>“I am not so certain of that,” said the Mule. “I have noticed your kind -and ever see some of myself in them. Your star is in the distance.”</p> - -<p>The Boy answered by smelling a flower and listening to the song of a -bird. The Mule looked at him and said: “He is all tenderness and care. -The true and the beautiful have robbed me of a kinsman. His star is -near.”</p> - -<p>Said the Boy: “I approach my star.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so certain of that,” interrupted the Hog. “I have noticed your -kind and I ever see some of myself in them. Your star is a delusion.”</p> - -<p>The Boy answered by painting the flower and setting the notes of the -bird’s song to music.</p> - -<p>The Hog looked at the boy and said: “His soul is attuned by nature. The -meddler in him is slain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I can all but touch my star,” cried the Boy.</p> - -<p>“I am not so certain of that,” remarked the Snake. “I have watched your -kind and ever see some of myself in them. Stings are nearer than stars.”</p> - -<p>The Boy answered by meditating upon the picture and music. The Snake -departed, saying that stings and stars cannot keep company.</p> - -<p>The Boy journeyed on, ever led by the star. Some distance away the Mule -was bemoaning the presence of his heels and trying to rid himself of -them by kicking a tree. The Hog was dividing his time between looking -into a brook and rubbing his snout on a rock to shorten it. The Snake -lay dead of its own bite. The Boy journeyed on, led by an ever inviting -star.</p> - -<p>(Negro Tales.—Joseph S. Cotter, The Cosmopolitan Press, New York, -1912.)</p> - -</div> - -<p>Yes—Uncle Remus, in reality—and not exactly so. No copy. Not every -like is the same. An Uncle Remus with culture and conscious art, yet -unspoilt, the native qualities strong. And how poetic those qualities -are!</p> - -<p>Well might one expect a teacher, if he writes verse, to write didactic -verse. But I think you will pronounce him to be an extraordinary teacher -and verse-writer who writes as Mr. Cotter does, for example, in:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE THRESHING FLOOR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thrice blessed he who wields the flail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon this century’s threshing floor;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A few slight strokes by him avail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More than a hundred would of yore.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Around him lies the ripened grain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From every land and every age;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The weakest thresher should attain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unto the wisdom of the sage.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ambitious youth, this is the wealth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The ages have bequeathed to thee.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou canst not take thy share by stealth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor by mere ingenuity.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy better self must spur thee on<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To win what time has made thy own;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No hand but labor’s yet has drawn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The sweets that labor’s hand has sown.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In verse presuming to be lyrical we hearken for the lyrical cry. That -cry is in his lines, melodiously uttered, and poignant. For example:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The flowers take the tears<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the weeping night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And give them to the sun<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the day’s delight.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My passion takes the joys<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the laughing day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And melts them into tears<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For my heart’s decay.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The sweet sadness of those stanzas lingers with one. A stanza from a -poem entitled “The Nation’s Neglected Child” may help us to their -secret:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am not thy pampered steed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I am not thy welcome dog;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am of a lower breed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Even than thy Berkshire hog;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am thy neglected child—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Make me grow, but keep me wild.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In many of Cotter’s verses there is a sonorous flow which is evidence of -poetic power made creative by passion. Didacticism and philosophy do not -destroy the lyrical quality. In <i>The Book’s Creed</i> this teacher-poet -makes an appeal to his generation to be as much alive and as creative as -the creed makers of other days were. The slaves of the letter, the -mummers of mere formulas, he thus addresses:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You are dead to all the Then,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You are dead to all the Now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you hold that former men<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wore the garland for your brow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Time and tide were theirs to brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Time and tide are yours to stem.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bow not o’er their open grave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till you drop your diadem.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Honor all who strove and wrought,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Even to their tears and groans;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But slay not your honest thought<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through your reverence for their bones.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Cotter is a wizard at rhyming. His “Sequel to the Pied Piper of Hamelin” -surpasses the original<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>—Browning’s—in technique—that is, in rushing -rhythms and ingenious rhymes. It is an incredible success, with no hint -of a tour-de-force performance. Its content, too, is worthy of the -metrical achievement. I will lay the proof before the competent reader -in an extract or two from this remarkable accomplishment:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The last sweet notes the piper blew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Were heard by the people far and wide;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And one by one and two by two<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They flocked to the mountain-side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Some came, of course, intensely sad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came looking fiercely mad,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came singing solemn hymns,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came showing shapely limbs,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came bearing the tops of yews,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came wearing wooden shoes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came saying what they would do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And some came praying (and loudly too),<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all for what? Can you not infer?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A-searching and lurching for the Pied Piper,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the boys and girls he had taken away.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all were ready now to pay<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Any amount that he should say.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">So begins the <i>Sequel</i>. Another passage, near the end, will indicate the -trend of the story:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The years passed by, as years will do,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When trouble is the master,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And always strives to bring to view<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A new and worse disaster;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sorrow, like a sorcerer,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Spread out her melancholy pall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So that its folds enveloped all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And each became her worshipper.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And not a single child was born<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through all the years thereafter;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If words sprang from the lips of scorn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">None came from those of laughter.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Finally, the inhabitants of Hamelin are passing through death’s portal, -and when all had departed:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—a message went to Rat-land<br /></span> -<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lo! a race of rats was at hand<br /></span> -<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They swarmed into the highest towers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And loitered in the fairest bowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sat down where the mayor sat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And also in his Sunday hat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gnawed revengefully thereat.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With rats for mayor and rats for people,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With rats in the cellar and rats in the steeple,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With rats without and rats within,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood poor, deserted Hamelin.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Like Dunbar, Cotter is a satirist of his people—or certain types of his -people—a gentle, humorous, affectionate satirist. His medium for satire -is dialect, inevitably. Sententious wisdom, irradiated with humor, -appears in these pieces in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> homely garb. In standard English, without -satire or humor that wisdom thus appears:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What deeds have sprung from plow and pick!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What bank-rolls from tomatoes!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No dainty crop of rhetoric<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Can match one of potatoes.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The gospel of work has been set forth by our poet in a four-act poetic -drama entitled <i>Caleb, the Degenerate</i>. All the characters are Negroes. -The form is blank verse—blank verse of a very high order, too. The -language, like Shakespeare’s—though Browning rather than Shakespeare is -suggested—is always that of a poet. The wisdom is that of a man who has -observed closely and pondered deeply. Idealistic, philosophical, -poetical—such it is. It bears witness to no ordinary dramatic ability.</p> - -<p>“Best bard, because the wisest,” says our Israfel. Verily. “Sage” you -may call this man as well as “bard.” The proof is in poems and tales, -apologues and apothegms. Joseph Seamon Cotter is now sixty years of age. -Yet the best of him, according to good omens, is yet to be given forth, -in song, story, precept, and drama. His nature is opulent—the -cultivation began late and the harvest grows richer.</p> - -<p>The chief event of his life, I doubt not, remains to be mentioned—a -very sad one. This was the untimely death of his poet-son, Joseph S. -Cotter, Jr. Born of this sorrow was the following lyric:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, my way and thy way,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And life’s joy and wonder,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thy day and my day<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are cloven asunder.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, my trust and thy trust,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fair April weather,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thy dust and my dust<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall mingle together.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>The Son</i></h4> - -<p>Dead at the age of twenty-three years, Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., left -behind a thin volume of lyrics, entitled <i>The Band of Gideon</i>, and about -twenty sonnets of an unfinished sequence, and a little book of one-act -plays. I will presently place the remarkable title-poem of his book of -lyrics before the reader, but first I will give two minor pieces, -without comment:</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_011" id="ill_011"></a> -<a href="images/i_081_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_081_sml.jpg" width="196" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">RAIN MUSIC</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On the dusty earth-drum<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beats the falling rain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now a whispered murmur,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now a louder strain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Slender silvery drumsticks,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On the ancient drum,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beat the mellow music,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Bidding life to come.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Chords of earth awakened,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Notes of greening spring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rise and fall triumphant<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Over everything.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Slender silvery drumsticks<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beat the long tattoo—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God the Great Musician<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Calling life anew.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">COMPENSATION</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I plucked a rose from out a bower fair,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That overhung my garden seat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wondered I if, e’er before, bloomed there<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A rose so sweet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Enwrapt in beauty I scarce felt the thorn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That pricked me as I pulled the bud;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till I beheld the rose, that summer morn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stained with my blood.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sang a song that thrilled the evening air,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With beauty somewhat kin to love,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all men knew that lyric song so rare<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Came from above.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And men rejoiced to hear the golden strain;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But no man knew the price I paid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor cared that out of my soul’s deathless pain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The song was made.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>The lyrical faculty is evinced by such poems. But other singers of our -day might have produced them—singers of the white race. Not so, I -think, of “The Band of Gideon.” Upon that poem is the stamp, not of -genius only, but of Negro genius. In it is re-incarnated, by a cultured, -creative mind, the very spirit of the old plantation songs and sermons. -The reader who has in his possession that background will respond to the -unique and powerful appeal of this poem.</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE BAND OF GIDEON</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The band of Gideon roam the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The howling wind is their war-cry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The thunder’s roll is their trumpet’s peal<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And men below rear temples high<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mock their God with reasons why,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And live in arrogance, sin, and shame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And rape their souls for the world’s good name.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The band of Gideon roam the sky<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And view the earth with baleful eye;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In holy wrath they scourge the land<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With earthquake, storm, and burning brand.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In agony searching for their God.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And men repent and then forget<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That heavenly wrath they ever met.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The band of Gideon yet will come<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Each black cloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Is a fiery steed.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And they cry aloud<br /></span> -<span class="i4">With each strong deed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“The Sword of the Lord and Gideon.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The reader, I predict, will be drawn again and again to this mysterious -poem. It will continue to haunt his imagination, and tease his thought. -The stamp of the African mind is upon it. Closely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> allied, on the one -hand by its august refrain to the Spirituals, on the other hand it -touches the most refined and perfected art; such, for example, as -Rossetti’s ballads or Vachel Lindsay’s cantatas. It can scarcely be -wondered at that the people of his race should call this untimely dead -singer their Negro Lycidas.</p> - -<h3>II. <span class="smcap">James David Corrothers</span></h3> - -<p class="cpom">THE DREAM AND THE SONG</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So oft our hearts, beloved lute,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In blossomy haunts of song are mute;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er loveliness unutterable;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So vain is all our passion strong!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lingering blossoms tenderly<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Refute our wilding minstrelsy.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a name<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But “writ in water”? Woe is me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To grieve o’er floral faëry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My Phasian doves are flown so long—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The golden-winged bird is gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only the swallow-twittering eaves.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What art may house or gold prolong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A dream far lovelier than a song?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lilting witchery, the unrest<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My lute, must to the gods belong.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream is lovelier than the song.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Cherokee-Indian, Scotch-Irish, French, and African blood in James David -Corrothers, the author of this poem, makes his complexion, he supposed, -“about that of the original man.” The reader has already had, at the -beginning of the discussion of Dunbar, a sonnet from this poet. The -sonnet, the above poem, and the others given here were published in <i>The -Century Magazine</i>. Not unworthy of <i>The Century’s</i> standards, the reader -must say.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 199px;"><a name="ill_012" id="ill_012"></a> -<a href="images/i_086_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_086_sml.jpg" width="199" height="256" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">J. D. Corrothers</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>James David Corrothers was born in Michigan, July 2, 1869. His mother in -giving him life sur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span>rendered her own. His father never cared for him. -Sheltered for a few years by maternal relatives, he was out on the world -in early boyhood, dependent on his own resources. Soon, because he was a -Negro, he was a wanderer for work through several states. Often without -money, friends, or food, he slept out of doors, sometimes in zero -weather. At nineteen years of age, as before stated, he was shining -shoes in a Chicago barber shop. There he was “discovered.”</p> - -<p>Henry D. Lloyd was having his boots shined by young Corrothers when the -two fell into book talk. The distinguished writer was astonished at the -knowledge possessed by one engaged in such a menial occupation. Out of -this circumstance, it seems, the Negro boot-black became a student in -Northwestern University at Evanston, Illinois. By mowing lawns and doing -whatever odd jobs he could find he worked his way for three years in the -university. Then, by the kindness of Frances E. Willard, he had a year -in Bennett College, Greensboro, North Carolina. Prior to his entrance at -Northwestern there had been but one brief opportunity in his life for -attending school. But the wandering youth, battling against the adverse -fates, or, concretely stated, the disadvantage of being a Negro, had -managed somehow to make great books his companions. Hence, he had -entered what Carlyle calls “the true modern university.” Hence, his -literary conversation with Mr. Lloyd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<p>Out of those early struggles, and perhaps also out of later bitter -experiences, came such poems as the following:</p> - -<p class="cpom">AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Demands forgiveness. Bruised with blow on blow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Betrayed, like him whose woe-dimmed eyes gave bliss,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still must one succor those who brought one low,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Demands rare patience—patience that can wait<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In utter darkness. ’Tis the path to miss,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And knock, unheeded, at an iron gate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Demands strange loyalty. We serve a flag<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which is to us white freedom’s emphasis.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! one must love when truth and justice lag,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To be a Negro in a day like this—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alas! Lord God, what evil have we done?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Still shines the gate, all gold and amethyst<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I pass by, the glorious goal unwon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Merely a Negro”—in a day like <i>this</i>!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Even though his face be “red like Adam’s,” and even though his art be -noble like that of the masters of song, yet had Mr. Corrothers, even in -the republic of letters, felt the handicap of his complexion, as this -sonnet bears witness:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO SINGER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O’er all my song the image of a face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lieth, like shadow on the wild, sweet flowers.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The golden lyre’s delights, bring little grace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To bless the singer of a lowly race.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long hath this mocked me: aye, in marvelous hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Hera’s gardens gleamed, or Cynthia’s bowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or Hope’s red pylons, in their far, hushed place!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I shall dig me deeper to the gold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So shall men know me, and remember long,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor my dark face dishonor any song.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Death has silenced the muse of this dark singer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">one of the best hitherto. That his endowment was<br /></span> -<span class="i0">uncommon and that his achievement, as evinced by<br /></span> -<span class="i0">these poems, is one of distinction, to use Mr.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Howells’s word, every reader equipped to judge<br /></span> -<span class="i0">of poetry must admit.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3>III. <span class="smcap">A Group of Singing Johnsons</span></h3> - -<p>In all rosters the name Johnson claims liberal space. Five verse-smiths -with that cognomen will be presented in this book, and there is a sixth. -These many Johnsons are no further related to one another, so far as I -know, than that they are all Adam’s offspring, and poets. Only three of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> -them will be presented in this chapter: James Weldon Johnson, of -Florida, author of <i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i> (1917); Charles Bertram -Johnson, of Missouri, author of <i>Songs of My People</i> (1918); Fenton -Johnson, of Chicago, author of <i>A Little Dreaming</i> (1914); <i>Unions of -the Dusk</i> (1915), and <i>Songs of the Soil</i> (1916). The fourth and fifth -are women, and will find a place in another group; the sixth is Adolphus -Johnson, author of <i>The Silver Chord</i>, Philadelphia, 1915. The three -mentioned above will be treated in the order in which they have been -named.</p> - -<h4><i>1. James Weldon Johnson</i></h4> - -<p>Now of New York, but born in Florida and reared in the South, James -Weldon Johnson is a man of various abilities, accomplishments, and -activities. He was graduated with the degrees of A. B. and A. M. from -Atlanta University and later studied for three years in Columbia -University. First a school-principal, then a practitioner of the law, he -followed at last the strongest propensity and turned author. His -literary work includes light operas, for which his brother, J. Rosamond -Johnson, composed the music, and a novel entitled <i>The Autobiography of -an Ex-Colored Man</i>. Having been United States consul in two -Latin-American countries, he is a master of Spanish and has made -translations of Spanish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> plays and poems. The English libretto of -<i>Goyescas</i> was made by him for the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915. -He is also one of the ablest editorial writers in the country. In the -<i>Public Ledger’s</i> contest of 1916 he won the third prize. His editorials -are widely syndicated in the Negro weekly press. Poems of his have -appeared in <i>The Century</i>, <i>The Crisis</i>, and <i>The Independent</i>.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 202px;"><a name="ill_013" id="ill_013"></a> -<a href="images/i_091_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_091_sml.jpg" width="202" height="293" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">James Weldon Johnson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Professor Brander Matthews in his Introduction to <i>Fifty Years and Other -Poems</i> speaks of “the superb and soaring stanzas” of the title-poem and -describes it as “a poem sonorous in its diction, vigorous in its -workmanship, elevated in its imagination, and sincere in its emotion.” -Doubtless this will seem like the language of exaggeration. The sceptic, -however, must withhold judgment until he has read the poem, too long for -presentation here. Mr. Johnson’s poetical qualities can be represented -in this place only by briefer though inferior productions. A poem of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> -special significance, and characterized by the qualities noted by -Professor Matthews in “Fifty Years,” is the following:</p> - -<p class="cpom">O SOUTHLAND!</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Southland! O Southland!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have you not heard the call,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The trumpet blown, the word made known<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the nations, one and all?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The watchword, the hope-word,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Salvation’s present plan?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A gospel new, for all—for you:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Man shall be saved by man.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Southland! O Southland!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Do you not hear to-day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mighty beat of onward feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And know you not their way?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis forward, ’tis upward,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On to the fair white arch<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Freedom’s dome, and there is room<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For each man who would march.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Southland, fair Southland!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then why do you still cling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To an idle age and a musty page,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To a dead and useless thing?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis springtime! ’Tis work-time!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The world is young again!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And God’s above, and God is love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And men are only men.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Southland! my Southland!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O birthland! do not shirk<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The toilsome task, nor respite ask,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But gird you for the work.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remember, remember<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That weakness stalks in pride;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That he is strong who helps along<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The faint one at his side.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>For pure lyric beauty and exquisite pathos, Wordsworthian in both -respects, but no hint of imitation, the following stanzas may be set, -without disadvantage to them, by the side of any in our literature:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The glory of the day was in her face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beauty of the night was in her eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over all her loveliness, the grace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of Morning blushing in the early skies.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And in her voice, the calling of the dove;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like music of a sweet, melodious part.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in her smile, the breaking light of love;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all the gentle virtues in her heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Yet one other poem of this fine singer’s I will give, selecting from not -a few that press for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> restricted space. The easy flow of the verse -and the ready rhyme will be remarked—and that supreme quality of good -lyric poetry, austere simplicity.</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE YOUNG WARRIOR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mother, shed no mournful tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But gird me on my sword;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And give no utterance to thy fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But bless me with thy word.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lines are drawn! The fight is on!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A cause is to be won!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mother, look not so white and wan;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Give Godspeed to thy son.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now let thine eyes my way pursue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where’er my footsteps fare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when they lead beyond thy view,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Send after me a prayer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But pray not to defend from harm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor danger to dispel;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I fight the battle well.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart and purpose strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My sword unsullied and ready to leap<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unsheathed against the wrong.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Arduous labors in other fields than poetry threaten to silence Mr. -Johnson’s muse, and that is to be regretted.</p> - -<h4>2. <i>Charles Bertram Johnson</i></h4> - -<p>School-teacher, preacher, poet—this is Charles Bertram Johnson of -Missouri. And in Missouri there is no voice more tuneful, no artistry in -song any finer, than his. Nor in so bold an assertion am I forgetting -the sweet voice and exquisite artistry of Sarah Teasdale. Mr. Johnson’s -art is not unlike hers in all that makes hers most charming. Only there -is not so much of his that attains to perfection of form. On pages 52 -and 63 were given two of his quatrain poems. These were of his people. -But a lyric poet should sing himself. That is of the essence of lyric -poetry. In so singing, however, the poet reveals not only his individual -life, but that of his race to the view of the world. Another quatrain -poem, personal in form, may be accepted as of racial interpretation:</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_014" id="ill_014"></a> -<a href="images/i_095_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_095_sml.jpg" width="197" height="259" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles Bertram Johnson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">SOUL AND STAR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So oft from out the verge afar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The dear dreams throng and throng,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sometimes I think my soul a star,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And life a pulséd song.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Born at Callao, Missouri, October 5, 1880, of a Kentucky mother and a -Virginia father, Charles Bertram Johnson attended a one-room school -“across the railroad track,” where—who can explain this?—he was -“Introduced to Bacon, Shakespeare, and the art of rhyming.” It reads -like an old story. Some freak of a schoolmaster whose head is filled -with “useless” lore—poetry, tales, and “such stuff”—nurturing a child -of genius into song. But it was Johnson’s mother who was the great -influence in his life. She was an “adept at rhyming” and “she initiated -me into the world of color and melody”—so writes our poet. It is always -the mother. Then, by chance—but how marvelously chance comes to the aid -of the predestined!—by chance, he learns of Dunbar and his poetry. The -ambition to be a poet of his people like Dunbar possesses him. He knows -the path to that goal is education. He therefore makes his way to a -little college at Macon, Missouri, from which, after five years, he is -graduated—without having received any help in the art of poetry, -however. Two terms at a summer school and special instruction by -correspondence seem to have aided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> him here, or to have induced the -belief that he had been aided. For twenty-odd years he followed the -profession of teaching. For ten years of that period he also preached. -The ministry now claims his entire energies, and the muse knocks less -and less frequently at his door.</p> - -<p>Yet he still sings. In a recent number of <i>The Crisis</i> I find a poem of -his that in suggesting a life of toil growing to a peaceful close is -filled with soothing melody:</p> - -<p class="cpom">OLD FRIENDS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sit here before my grate,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Until it’s ashen gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or till the night grows late,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And talk the time away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I cannot think to sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And miss your golden speech,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My bed of dreams will keep—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You here within my reach.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have so much to say,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The time is short at best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bit of toil and play,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And after that comes rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But you and I know now<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The wisdom of the soul,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The years that seamed the brow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have made our visions whole.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sit here before my grate<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Until the ash is cold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The things you say of late<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are fine as shriven gold.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Even though one be born to sing, if circumstances have made him a -preacher he may be expected to moralize his song. Whether we shall be -reconciled to this will depend on the art with which it is done. If the -moral idea be a sweet human one, and if the verse still be melifluous, -we will submit, and our delight will be twofold—ethical and esthetical. -We will put our preacher-poet of Missouri to the test:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SO MUCH</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So much of love I need,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And tender passioned care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of human fault and greed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To make me unaware:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So much of love I owe,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That, ere my life be done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How shall I keep His will<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To owe not any one?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Truth is, Mr. Johnson is not given to preaching in verse any more than -other poets. His sole aim is beauty. He assures me it is truth. Instead -of admitting disagreement I only assert that, being a poet, he must find -all truth beautiful. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> is only for relative thinking we need the three -terms, truth, goodness, and beauty.</p> - -<p>I will conclude this presentation of the Missouri singer with a lyrical -sermonette:</p> - -<p>A RAIN SONG</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Chill the rain falls, chill!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dull gray the world; the vale<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rain-swept; wind-swept the hill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“But gloom and doubt prevail,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My heart breaks forth to say.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ere thus its sorrow-note,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Cheer up! Cheer up, to-day!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To-morrow is to be!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Babbled from a joyous throat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A robin’s in a mist-gray tree.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then off to keep a tryst—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He preened his drabbled cloak—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Doughty little optimist!—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As if in answer, broke<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sunlight through that oak.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>3. Fenton Johnson</i></h4> - -<p>Dreams and visions—such are the treasures of suffering loyal hearts: -dreams, visions, and song. Happy even in their sorrows the people to -whom God has given poets to be their spokesmen to the world. Else their -hearts should stifle with woe. As the prophet was of old so in these -times the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> poet. As a prophet speaks Fenton Johnson, his heart yearning -toward the black folk of our land:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THESE ARE MY PEOPLE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These are my people, I have built for them<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A castle in the cloister of my heart;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I shall fight that they may dwell therein.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The God that gave Sojourner tongue of fire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Has made with me a righteous covenant<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That these, my brothers of the dusk, shall rise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Sinai and thence in purple walk<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A newer Canaan, vineyards of the West.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rods that chasten us shall break as straw<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fire consume the godless in the South;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The hand that struck the helpless of my race<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall wither as a leaf in drear November,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And liberty, the nectar God has blest,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall flow as free as wine in Babylon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O God of Covenants, forget us not!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Fenton Johnson seems to be more deeply rooted in the song-traditions of -his people than are most of his fellow-poets. To him the classic -Spirituals afford inspiration and pattern. Whoever is familiar with -those “canticles of love and woe” will recognize their influence -throughout Mr. Johnson’s three volumes of song. I shall make no attempt -here to illustrate this truth but shall rather select a piece or two -that will represent the poet’s general qualities. Other poems more -typical of him as a melodist could be found but these have special -traits that commend them for this place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">THE PLAINT OF THE FACTORY CHILD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mother, must I work all day?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All the day? Ay, all the day?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must my little hands be torn?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my heart bleed, all forlorn?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am but a child of five,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the street is all alive<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With the tops and balls and toys,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pretty tops and balls and toys.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Day in, day out, I toil—toil!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all that I know is toil;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never laugh as others do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never cry as others do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Never see the stars at night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor the golden glow of sunlight,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all for but a silver coin,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just a worthless silver coin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Would that death might come to me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That blessed death might come to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And lead me to waters cool,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lying in a tranquil pool,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up there where the angels sing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the ivy tendrils cling<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the land of play and song,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fairy land of play and song.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE MULATTO’S SONG</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Die, you vain but sweet desires!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Die, you living, burning fires!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am like a Prince of France,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like a prince whose noble sires<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have been robbed of heritage;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I am phantom derelict,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drifting on a flaming sea.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Everywhere I go, I strive,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Vainly strive for greater things;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Daisies die, and stars are cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And canary never sings;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where I go they mock my name,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Never grant me liberty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chance to breathe and chance to do.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><i>The Vision of Lazarus</i>, contained in <i>A Little Dreaming</i>, is a -blank-verse poem of about three-hundred lines, original, well-sustained, -imaginative, and deeply impressive.</p> - -<p>In one of the newer methods of verse, and yet with a splendid suggestion -of the old Spirituals, I will take from a recent magazine a poem by Mr. -Johnson that will show how the vision of his people is turned toward the -future, from the welter of struggling forces in the World War:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEW DAY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince of Peace hovering over No Man’s Land.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Loud the whistles blew and thunder of cannon was drowned by the happy shouting of the people.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant from the throats of white-robed angels:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Blow your trumpets, little children!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the East and from the West,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the cities in the valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From God’s dwelling on the mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blow your blast that Peace might know<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She is Queen of God’s great army.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the crying blood of millions<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We have written deep her name<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the Book of all the Ages;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the lilies in the valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the roses by the Mersey,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the golden flower of Jersey,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We have crowned her smooth young temples.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where her footsteps cease to falter<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Golden grain will greet the morning,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where her chariot descends<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be broken down the altar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the gods of dark disturbance.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nevermore shall men know suffering,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nevermore shall women wailing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shake to grief the God of Heaven.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the East and from the West,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From the cities in the valley,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From God’s dwelling on the mountain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Little children, blow your trumpets!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">From Ethiopia, groaning ’neath her heavy burdens I heard the music of the old slave songs.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the crimson in my veins leapt furiously:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In No Man’s Land that peace might come again!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Red blood to save the freedom of the world!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We were not free, our tawny hands were tied;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But Belgium’s plight and Serbia’s woes we shared<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Each rise of sun or setting of the moon.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So when the bugle blast had called us forth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We went not like the surly brute of yore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The freedom that we never knew nor shared.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As Samson in the temple of the gods;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Unloosen them and let us breathe the air<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For we have been with thee in No Man’s Land,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And now we ask of thee our liberty,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man’s Land.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4>4. <i>Adolphus Johnson</i></h4> - -<p>From the <i>Preface</i> of Adolphus Johnson’s <i>The Silver Chord</i> I will take -a paragraph that is more poetic and perfect in expression than any -stanza in his book. Poetry, I think, is in him, but when he wrote these -rhymes he was not yet sufficiently disciplined in expression. But this -is how he can say a thing in prose:</p> - -<p>“As the Goddess of Music takes down her lute, touches its silver chords, -and sets the summer melodies of nature to words, so an inspiration<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> -comes to me in my profoundest slumbers and gently awakens my highest -faculties to the finest thought and serenest contemplation herein -expressed. Always remember that a book is your best friend when it -compels you to think, disenthralls your reason, enkindles your hopes, -vivifies your imagination, and makes easier all the burdens of your -daily life.”</p> - -<h4><i>IV. William Stanley Braithwaite</i></h4> - -<p>The critical and the creative faculties rarely dwell together in -harmony. One or the other finally predominates. In the case of Mr. -Braithwaite it seems to be the critical faculty. He has preferred, it -seems, to be America’s chief anthologist, encouraging others up rugged -Parnassus, rather than himself to stand on the heights of song. Since -1913 he has edited a series of annual anthologies of American magazine -verse, which he has provided with critical reviews of the verse output -of the respective year. Of several anthologies of English verse also he -is the editor. Three books of original verse stand to his credit: -<i>Lyrics of Life and Love</i> (1904), <i>The House of Falling Leaves</i> (1908), -and <i>Sandy Star and Willie Gee</i> (1922). These dates seem to prove that -the creative impulse has waned.</p> - -<p>Verse artistry, in simple forms, reaches a degree of excellence in Mr. -Braithwaite’s lyrics that has rarely been surpassed in our times. -Graceful and esthetically satisfying expression is given to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> elusive or -mystical and rare fancies. I will give one of his brief lyrics as an -example of the qualities to which I allude:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SANDY STAR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">No more from out the sunset,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No more across the foam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No more across the windy hills<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Will Sandy Star come home.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He went away to search it,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With a curse upon his tongue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And in his hands the staff of life<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Made music as it swung.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I wonder if he found it,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And knows the mystery now:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our Sandy Star who went away<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the secret on his brow.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In a number of Mr. Braithwaite’s lyrics, as in this one, there is an -atmosphere of mystery that, with the charming simplicity of manner, -strongly suggests Blake. There is a strangeness in all beauty, it has -been said. There is commonly something of Faëryland in the finest lyric -poetry. Another lyric illustrating this quality in Mr. Braithwaite is -the following:</p> - -<p class="cpom">IT’S A LONG WAY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s a long way the sea-winds blow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Over the sea-plains blue,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But longer far has my heart to go<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Before its dreams come true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s work we must, and love we must,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And do the best we may,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And take the hope of dreams in trust<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To keep us day by day.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It’s a long way the sea-winds blow—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But somewhere lies a shore—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus down the tide of Time shall flow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My dreams forevermore.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mr. Braithwaite’s art rises above race. He seems not to be -race-conscious in his writing, whether prose or verse. Yet no man can -say but that race has given his poetry the distinctive quality I have -indicated. In this connection a most interesting poem is his “A New -England Spinster.” The detachment is perfect, the analysis is done in -the spirit of absolute art. I will quote but two of its dozen or so -stanzas:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She dwells alone, and never heeds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How strange may sound her own footfall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yet is prompt to others’ needs,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or ready at a neighbor’s call.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But still her world is one apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Serene above desire and change;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There are no hills beyond her heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Beyond her gate, no winds that range.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Here is the true artist’s imagination that penetrates to the secrets of -life. No poet’s lyrics, with their deceptive simplicity, better reward -study for a full appreciation of their idea. So<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> much of suggestion to -the reader of the poems which follow:</p> - -<p class="cpom">FOSCATI</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Blest be Foscati! You’ve heard tell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How—spirit and flesh of him—blown to flame,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaped the stars for heaven, dropped back to hell,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And felt no shame.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I here indite this record of his journey:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The splendor of his epical will to perform<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life’s best, with the lance of Truth at Tourney—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till caught in the storm.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Of a woman’s face and hair like scented clover,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Te Deums, Lauds, and Magnificat, he<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Praised with tongue of saint, heart of lover—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Missed all, but found Foscati!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">AUTUMN SADNESS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The warm October rain fell upon his dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When once again the autumn sadness stirred,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And murmured through his blood, like a hidden stream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a forest, unheard.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The drowsy rain battered against his delight<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of the half forgotten poignancies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That settle in the dusk of an autumn night<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On a world one hears and sees.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One was, he thought, an echo merely,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A glow enshadowed of truths untraced;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the autumn sadness, brought him yearly,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Was a joy embraced.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THANKING GOD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The way folks had of thanking God<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He found annoying, till he thought<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of flame and coolness in the sod—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of balms and blessings that they wrought.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so the habit grew, and then—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of when and how he did not care—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He found his God as other men<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The mystic verb in a grammar of prayer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He never knelt, nor uttered words—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His laughter felt no chastening rod;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“My being,” he said, “is a choir of birds,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And all my senses are thanking God.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mr. Braithwaite is thoroughly conversant, as these selections indicate, -with the subtleties and finest effects of the art poetic, and his -impulses to write spring from the deepest human speculations, the purest -motives of art. Hence in his work he takes his place among the few.</p> - -<h4><i>V. George Reginald Margetson</i></h4> - -<p>Under tropical suns, amid the tropical luxuriance of nature, developed -the many-hued imagination of the subject of this sketch. His nature is -tropical, for Mr. Margetson is a prolific bard: <i>Songs of Life</i>, <i>The -Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society</i>, <i>Ethiopia’s Flight</i>, <i>England in -the West Indies</i>—four published books, and more yet un<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span>published—are -proof. No excerpts can fully reveal the distinctive quality of Mr. -Margetson’s poetry—its sonorous and ever-varying flow, like a mountain -stream, its descriptive richness in which it resembles his native -islands. For he was born in the British West Indies, and there lived the -first twenty years of his life. Coming to America in 1897, his home has -been in Boston or its environment since that time. Educated in the -Moravian School at St. Kitts, he has lived with and in the English poets -from Spenser to Byron—Byron seems to have been his favorite—and so has -cultivated his native talent. I can give here but one brief lyric from -his pen.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_015" id="ill_015"></a> -<a href="images/i_110_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_110_sml.jpg" width="196" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">George Reginald Margetson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE LIGHT OF VICTORY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the East a star is rising,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Breaking through the clouds of war,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a light old arts revising<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shattering steel and iron bar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Freedom’s heirs with banners blazing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Emblems of Democracy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the magic light are gazing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Battling with Autocracy.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Through the night brave souls are marching<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the armies of the Free;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the Stars and Stripes o’er-arching<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Form a sheltering canopy.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Allies! hold a front united!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shaping well our destiny;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let each brutal wrong be righted<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the drive for Liberty!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>VI. William Moore</i></h4> - -<p>The productions I have seen in the Negro magazines and newspapers from -William Moore’s pen give me the idea of a poet distinctly original and -distinctly endowed with imagination. If there appears some obscurity in -his poems let it not be too hastily set down against him as a fault. -Some ideas are intrinsically obscure. The expression of them that should -be lucid would be false, inadequate. Some poets there needs must be who, -escaping from the inevitable, the commonplace, will transport us out -into infinity to confront the eternal mysteries. Mr. Moore does this in -two sonnets which I will give to represent his poetic work:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">EXPECTANCY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I do not care for sleep, I’ll wait awhile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Love to come out of the darkness, wait<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For laughter, gifted with the frequent fate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of dusk-lit hope, to touch me with the smile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of moon and star and joy of that last mile<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before I reach the sea. The ships are late<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mayhap laden with the precious freight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dawn brings from Life’s eternal summer isle.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And should I find the sweeter fruits of dream—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The oranges of love and mating song—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll laugh so true the morn will gayly seem<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Endless and ships full laden with a throng<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of beauty, dreams and loves will come to me<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out of the surge of yonder silver sea.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">AS THE OLD YEAR PASSED</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I stood with dear friend Death awhile last night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out where the stars shone with a lustre true<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In sacred dreams and all the old and new<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of love and life winged in a silver flight<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Off to the sea of peace that waits where white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pale silences melt in the tranquil blue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of skies so tender beauty doth imbue<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The time with holiness and singing light.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart is Life, my soul, O Death, is thine!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is thine to kiss with yearning life again,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is thine to strengthen and to sweet incline<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To peace and mellowed dream of joy’s refrain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll stand with Death again to-night, I think,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Out where the stars reveal life’s deeper brink.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>VII. Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_016" id="ill_016"></a> -<a href="images/i_113_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_113_sml.jpg" width="196" height="266" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Poets are born and nurtured in all conditions of life: Joseph Cotter the -elder was a slave-woman’s child; Dunbar wrote his first book between the -runs of the elevator he tended; Leon R. Harris was left in infancy to -the dreary shelter of an orphanage, then indentured to a brutal farmer; -Carmichael came from the cabin of an unlettered farmer in the Black Belt -of Alabama; of a dozen others the story is similar. Born in poverty, up -through adversities they struggled, with little human help save perhaps -from the croons and caresses of a singing mother, and a few terms at a -wretched school, they toiled into the kingdom of knowledge and entered -the world of poetry. Some, however, have had the advantages afforded by -parents of culture and of means. Among these is the subject of this -sketch, the son of Bishop J. H. Jones, of the African Methodist -Episcopal Church. He has had the best educa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span>tional opportunity offered -by American colleges. He is a graduate of Brown University. Writing has -been his employment since graduation, and he has been on the staffs of -several New England papers. His first book of poems, entitled <i>The Heart -of the World</i> (1919), now in the second edition, reveals at once a -student of poetry and an independent artist in verse. His second book, -<i>Poems of the Four Seas</i> (1921), shows that his vein is still rich in -ore.</p> - -<p>In Chapter VIII I give his “Goodbye, Old Year.” Another poem of similar -technique takes for its title the last words of Colonel Roosevelt: “Turn -out the light, please.” The reader cannot but note the sense of proper -effect exhibited in the short sentences, the very manner of a dying man. -But more than this will be perceived in this poem. It will seem to have -sprung out of the world-weary soul of the young poet himself. Struggle, -grief, weariness in the strife, have been his also. Hence:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TURN OUT THE LIGHT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Turn out the light. Now would I slumber,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’m weary with the toil of day.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let me forget my pains to number.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Turn out the light. Dreams come to play.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Turn out the light. The hours were dreary.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Clouds of despair long hid the sun.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve battled hard and now I’m weary.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Turn out the light. My day is done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve done life’s best gloom’s ways to brighten—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’ve scattered cheer from heart to heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And where I could I’ve sought to righten<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The wrongs of men ere day depart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This morn ’twas bright with hope—and cheery.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This noon gave courage—made me brave.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But as the sun sank I grew weary<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till now my soul for rest doth crave.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Turn out the light. I’ve done my duty<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To friend and enemy as well.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I go to sleep where things of beauty<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In glitt’ring chambers ever dwell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Turn out the light. Now would I slumber.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To rest—to dream—soon go we all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let’s hope we wake soul free of cumber.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Turn out the light. Dream comrades call.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The next piece I select from Mr. Jones’s first book will represent his -talent in another sphere. I suggest that comparison might be made -between this song in literary English and Mr. Johnson’s Negro love song -in dialect, page <a href="#page_226">226.</a></p> - -<p class="cpom">A SOUTHERN LOVE SONG</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Dogwoods all a-bloom<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Perfume earth’s big room,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">White full moon is gliding o’er the sky serene.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Quiet reigns about,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In the house and out;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hoot owl in the hollow mopes with solemn mien.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Birds have gone to rest<br /></span> -<span class="i6">In each tree-top nest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Cotton fields a-shimmer flash forth silver-green.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">O’er the wild cane brake,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Whip-poor-wills awake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they speak in tender voicings, Heart, of You.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Answering my call,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Through the leafy hall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Telling how I’m waiting for your tripping, Sue.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">All the world is glad,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Just because I’m mad.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sense-bereft am I through my great love for you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Night is all a-smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Happy all the while.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That is why my heart so filled with song o’erflows.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">I have tarried long,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Lilting here my song.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I’ll ever waiting be till life’s step slows.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Come to me, my girl,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Precious more than pearl,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll be waiting for you where the grapevine grows.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">How my heart doth yearn,<br /></span> -<span class="i6">And with anguish burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hungry for sweet pains awaked with your embrace.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Starward goes my cry.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Echo hears my sigh.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heaven itself its pity at my plight shows trace.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Parson waits to wed.<br /></span> -<span class="i6">Soon the nuptials said.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ve a rose-clad cottage reared for you to grace.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>The title-piece of Mr. Jones’s first volume reveals his mastery of -effective form and his command of the language of passionate appeal. The -World War, in which the Negroes of the country gave liberally and -heroically, both of blood and treasure, for democracy, quickened failing -hopes in them and kindled anew their aspirations. In this poem the -writer speaks for his entire race:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE HEART OF THE WORLD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for peace—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Up-surging, symphonic roar.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis ill of all clashings; it seeks release<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From fetters of greed and gore.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The winds of the battlefields echo the sigh<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of heroes slumbering deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who gave all they had and now dreamlessly lie<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the bayonets sent them to sleep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2"><i>Peace for the wealthy; peace for the poor;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Peace on the hillside, and peace on the moor.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for right:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For fingers to bind up the wound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Slashed deep by the ruthless, harsh hand of might,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When Justice is crushed to the ground.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Tis ill of the fevers of fear of the strong—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of jealousies—prejudice—pride.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Is there no ideal that’s proof against wrong?”<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Man asks of the man at his side.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2"><i>Right for the lowly; right for the great;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Right all to pilot to happiness’ gate.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call for love:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">White heart—Red—Yellow—and Black.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Each face turns to Bethlehem’s bright star above,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Though wolves of self howl at each back.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The whole earth is lifting its voice in a prayer<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That nations may learn to endure,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Without killing and maiming, but doing what’s fair<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With a soul that is noble and pure.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2"><i>Love in weak peoples; love in the strong;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Love that will banish all hatred and wrong.</i><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the heart of the world is the call of God;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">East—West—and North—and South.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stirring, deep-yearning, breast-heaving call for God<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A-tremble behind each mouth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The heart’s ill of torments that rend men’s souls.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Skyward lift all faiths and hopes;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Across all the oceans the evidence rolls,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Refreshing all life’s arid slopes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2"><i>God in the highborn; God in the low;</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>God calls us, world-brothers. Hark ye! and know.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>From <i>Poems of the Four Seas</i> I will take a piece that gives the Negro -background for the yearning expressed in the foregoing poem:</p> - -<p class="cpom">BROTHERS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They bind his feet; they thong his hands<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With hard hemp rope and iron bands.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They scourge his back in ghoulish glee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bleed his flesh;—men, mark ye—free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">They still his groans with fiendish shout,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where flesh streams red they ply the knout.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thus sons of men feed lust to kill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And yet, oh God! they’re brothers still.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They build a pyre of torch and flame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While Justice weeps in deepest shame.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E’en Death in pity bows its head,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet ’midst these men no prayer is said.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They gather up charred flesh and bone—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mementos—boasting brave deed done.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They sip of gore their souls to fill;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Drink deep of blood their hands did spill.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Go tell the world what men have done<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who prate of God and yet have none;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Think of themselves as wholly good,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blaspheme the name of brotherhood;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who hearken not as brothers cry<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For brother’s chance to live and die.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To keep a demon’s murder tryst<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’d rend the sepulcher of Christ.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>VIII. Walter Everette Hawkins</i></h4> - -<p class="cpom">CREDO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I am an Iconoclast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I break the limbs of idols<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And smash the traditions of men.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I am an Anarchist.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I believe in war and destruction—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not in the killing of men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But the killing of creed and custom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I am an Agnostic.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I accept nothing without questioning.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is my inherent right and duty<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To ask the reason why.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To accept without a reason<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is to debase one’s humanity<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And destroy the fundamental process<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the ascertainment of Truth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I believe in Justice and Freedom.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To me Liberty is priestly and kingly;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Freedom is my Bride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Liberty my Angel of Light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justice my God.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i4">I oppose all laws of state or country,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All creeds of church and social orders,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All conventionalities of society and system<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which cross the path of the light of Freedom<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or obstruct the reign of Right.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>This is a faithful self-characterization—such a man in reality is -Walter Everette Hawkins. A fearless and independent and challenging -spirit. He is the rare kind of man that must put everything to the -severe test of absolute principles. He hates shams, hypocrisies, -compromises, chicaneries, injustices. His poems are the bold and -faithful expressions of his personality. Free he has ever been, free he -will be ever, striking right out for freedom and truth. Such a -personality is refreshing to meet, whether you encounter it in the flesh -or in a book.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 199px;"><a name="ill_017" id="ill_017"></a> -<a href="images/i_121_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_121_sml.jpg" width="199" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Walter Everette Hawkins</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Born about thirty-five years ago, on a little farm in North Carolina, -the thirteenth child of ex-slave parents, young Hawkins, one may -imagine, was not opulent in this world’s goods. Nor were his -opportunities such as are usually considered thrilling. A few terms of -miserable schooling in the village of Warrenton, the fragments of a few -more terms in a school maintained by the African Methodist Church, -then—“the University of Hard Knocks.” In the two first-named schools -the independent-spirited lad seems not to have gotten along well with -his teachers, hence a few dismissals. Always too prone to ask -troublesome, challenging questions, too prone to doubts and reflections, -he was thought incorrigible. In his “University” he chose his own -masters—the great free spirits of the ages—and at the feet of these he -was teachable, even while the knocks were hardest.</p> - -<p>A lover of wild nature and able to commune with nature’s spirit, deeply -fond also of commun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>ing with the world’s master minds in books, Mr. -Hawkins is by necessity—while his spirit soars—the slave of routine -toil, being, until recently, a mail clerk in the post office of the City -of Washington. “My only recreation,” he writes me, “is in stealing away -to be with the masters, the intellectual dynamos, of the world, who -converse with me without wincing and deliver me the key to life’s -riddle.”</p> - -<p>A true expression of himself I said Mr. Hawkins’s poems are. In no -degree are they fictions. As a companion to <i>Credo</i>, quoted to introduce -him, I will give the last poem in his book, which will again set him -before us as he is:</p> - -<p class="cpom">HERO OF THE ROAD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let me seek no statesman’s mantle,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Let me seek no victor’s wreath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let my sword unstained in battle<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Still lie rusting in its sheath;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let my garments be unsullied,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Let no man’s blood to me cling;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life is love and earth is heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If I may but soar and sing.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">This then is my sternest struggle,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ease the load and sing my song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lift the lame and cheer the cheerless<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As they plod the road along;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And we see ourselves transfigured<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a new and bigger plan;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Man transformed, his own Messiah,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">God embodied into man.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>For the whining craven class of men Mr. Hawkins has little respect:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The man who complains<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When the world is all song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or dares to sit mute<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When the world is all wrong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who barters his freedom<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Vile honors to win,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Deserves but to die<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With the vilest of men.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Upon the times in which we live his judgment is severe. His -condemnation, however, bears witness to that earnestness of soul and -that idealism of spirit which will not let the world repose in its -wickedness. From a list of several poems attesting this I select the -following as perhaps the most complete in form:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE DEATH OF JUSTICE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These the dread days which the seers have foretold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These the fell years which the prophets have dreamed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Visions they saw in those full days of old,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The fathers have sinned and the children blasphemed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We have come to the travail of troublous times,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Justice must bow before Moloch and Baal;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blasphemous prayers for the triumph of crimes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">High sounds the cry of the children who wail.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In the brute strength of the sword men rely,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They count not Justice in reckoning things;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whom their lips worship their hearts crucify,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This the oblation the votary brings.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Locked in death-struggle humanity’s host,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seeking revenge with the dagger and sword;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This is the pride which the Pharisees boast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Man damns his brother in the name of his Lord.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Time dims the glare of the pomp and applause,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Vainglorious monarchs and proud princes fall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until the death of Time revokes his laws,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His awful mandate shall reign over all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>A number of Mr. Hawkins’s productions reveal possibilities of beauty and -effectiveness, which he had not the patience or the skill to realize. -One imagines that he has never been able to bring his spirit to a -submissive study of the minutiæ of metrical composition. A poet <i>in -esse</i>—or <i>in posse</i>—is all that nature ever makes. And even the most -free spirit must know well the traditions. Whether this iconoclast knows -the Cavalier traditions of English poetry may be left to conjecture, but -the following piece, illustrating Mr. Hawkins’s faults and virtues as a -singer, will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> prove his kinship to the poetic tribe of which Lovelace -and Suckling were conspicuous members:</p> - -<p class="cpom">ASK ME WHY I LOVE YOU</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And I will ask the rose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why it loves the dews of Spring<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the Winter’s close;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why the blossoms’ nectared sweets<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Loved by questing bee,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will gladly answer you,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If they answer me.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will ask the flower<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why it loves the Summer sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or the Summer shower;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I will ask the lover’s heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Why it loves the moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or the star-besprinkled skies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In a night in June.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will ask the vine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why its tendrils trustingly<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Round the oak entwine;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why you love the mignonette<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Better than the rue,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you will but answer me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will answer you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ask me why I love you, dear,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Let the lark reply,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why his heart is full of song<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When the twilight’s nigh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why the lover heaves a sigh<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When her heart is true;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you will but answer me,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I will answer you.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>IX. Claude McKay</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_018" id="ill_018"></a> -<a href="images/i_126_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_126_sml.jpg" width="194" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Claude McKay</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>An English subject, being born and growing to manhood in Jamaica, Claude -McKay, a pure blood Negro, was first discovered as a poet by English -critics. In Jamaica, as early as 1911, when he was but twenty-two years -of age, his <i>Constab Ballads</i>, in Negro dialect, was published. Even in -so broken a tongue this book revealed a poet—on the constabulary force -of Jamaica. In 1920 his first book of poems in literary English, <i>Spring -in New Hamp-Shire</i>, came out in England, with a <i>Preface</i> by Mr. I. A. -Richards, of Cambridge, England.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> Meanwhile, shortly after the -publication of his first book, he had come to the United States.</p> - -<p>Here he has worked at various occupations, has taken courses in -Agriculture and English in the Kansas State College, and has thus become -acquainted with life in the States. He is now on the editorial staff of -the <i>Liberator</i>, New York. There has been no poet of his race who has -more poignantly felt and more artistically expressed the life of the -American Negro. His poetry is a most noteworthy contribution to -literature. From <i>Spring in New Hampshire</i> I am privileged to take a -number of poems which will follow without comment:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Too green the springing April grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Too blue the silver-speckled sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For me to linger here, alas,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While happy winds go laughing by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wasting the golden hours indoors,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Washing windows and scrubbing floors.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Too wonderful the April night,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stars too gloriously bright,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For me to spend the evening hours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE LYNCHING</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His Father, by the cruelest way of pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Had bidden him to his bosom once again;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The awful sin remained still unforgiven:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All night a bright and solitary star<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(Perchance the one that ever guided him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ghastly body swaying in the sun:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The women thronged to look, but never a one<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And little lads, lynchers that were to be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE HARLEM DANCER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blown by black players upon a picnic day.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The light gauze hanging loose about her form;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon her swarthy neck, black, shiny curls<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Devoured her with eager, passionate gaze:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I knew her self was not in that strange place.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">IN BONDAGE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I would be wandering in distant fields<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where man, and bird, and beast live leisurely,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the old earth is kind and ever yields<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her goodly gifts to all her children free;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where life is fairer, lighter, less demanding,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And boys and girls have time and space for play<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before they come to years of understanding,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Somewhere I would be singing, far away;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For life is greater than the thousand wars<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men wage for it in their insatiate lust,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And will remain like the eternal stars<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When all that is to-day is ashes and dust:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But I am bound with you in your mean graves,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, black men, simple slaves of ruthless slaves.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Distinction of idea and phrase inheres in these poems. In them the Negro -is esthetically conceived, and interpreted with vision. This is art -working as it should. Mr. McKay has passion and the control of it to the -ends of art. He has the poet’s insight, the poet’s understanding.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the most arresting poem in this list, and the one most surely -attesting the genius of the writer, is <i>The Harlem Dancer</i>. It is an -achievement in portrayal sufficient by itself to establish a poetic -reputation. The divination that penetrates to the secret purity of soul, -or nobleness of character, through denying appearances—how rare is the -faculty, and how necessary! Elsewhere I give a poem from a Negro woman -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> evinces the same divine gift in the author, exhibited in a poem -no less original and no less deeply impressive—Mrs. Spencer’s <i>At the -Carnival</i>. Here I will companion <i>The Harlem Dancer</i> with one from Mr. -Dandridge, for the comparison will deepen the effect of each:</p> - -<p class="cpom">ZALKA PEETRUZA</p> - -<p class="c">(<i>Who Was Christened Lucy Jane</i>)</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With swaying arms and flying feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her all was dancing—save her face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A conscience, dumb to brooding fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Companioned hearing deaf to cheers;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A body, marshalled by the will,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Kept dancing while a heart stood still:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And eyes obsessed with vacant stare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Looked over heads to empty air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As though they sought to find therein<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Redemption for a maiden sin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Twas thus, amid force-driven grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We found the lost look on her face;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then, to us, did it occur<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That, though we saw—we saw not her.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Returning to Mr. McKay, we may assert that his new volume of verse, -<i>Harlem Shadows</i>, con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span>firms and enhances the estimate of him we have -expressed.</p> - -<h4><i>X. Leslie Pinckney Hill</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 191px;"><a name="ill_019" id="ill_019"></a> -<a href="images/i_131_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_131_sml.jpg" width="191" height="260" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Leslie Pinckney Hill</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Bearing the diploma of the Lyric Muse, Mr. Leslie Pinckney Hill, -schoolmaster of Cheyney, Pennsylvania, and authentic singer, is one of -the newest arrivals on the slopes of Parnassus. A first glance tells -that he is an agile climber, sinewy, easy of movement, light of step, -with both grace and strength. Every indication in form and motion is for -some point far up toward the summit. Youthful he is, ambitious, plainly, -and, in spite of a burden, buoyant. “Climber,” I said. I will drop the -figure. Poets were never pedestrians. Mr. Hill comes not afoot. If not -on the wings of Pegasus, yet on wings he comes—<i>the wings of -oppression</i>. Sad wings! yet it must be remarked that it is commonly on -such wings that poets of whatever race and time rise. And Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> Hill’s -race knows no other wings. On the wings of oppression the Negro poet and -the Negro people are rising toward the summits of Parnassus, Pisgah, and -other peaks. This they know, too, and of it they are justly proud.</p> - -<p>In his <i>Foreword</i> Mr. Hill thus states the case of his people, and, by -implication, of himself: “Nothing in the life of the nation has seemed -to me more significant than that dark civilization which the colored man -has built up in the midst of a white society organized against it. The -Negro has been driven under all the burdens of oppression, both material -and spiritual, to the brink of desperation, but he has always been saved -by his philosophy of life. He has advanced against all opposition by a -certain elevation of his spirit. He has been made strong in tribulation. -He has constrained oppression to give him wings.”</p> - -<p>The significant thing about these wings, in a critical view, is that -they fulfill the proper function of wings—bear aloft and sustain in -flight through the azure depths. Mr. Hill’s wings do bear aloft and -sustain: if not always, nor even ever, into the very empyrean of poetry -yet invariably, seventy times, into the ampler air. Like all his race, -he has suffered much; and, like all his race still, he has gathered -wisdom from sorrow. As a true poet should have, he has philosophy, also -vision and imagination—vision for himself and his people, imagination -that sees facts in terms of beauty and presents truths with vital<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> -imagery. Add thereto craftsmanship acquired in the best traditions of -English poetry and you have Hill the poet.</p> - -<p>The merit of his book cannot be shown by lines and stanzas. As ever with -true art, the merit lies in the whole effect of complete poems. Still, -we may here first detach from this and that poem a stanza or two, -despite the wrong to art. The first and fourth stanzas of the title-poem -will indicate Mr. Hill’s technique and philosophy:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I have a song that few will sing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In honor of all suffering,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A song to which my heart can bring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The homage of believing—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A song the heavy-laden hears<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above the clamor of his fears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While still he walks with blinding tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And drains the cup of grieving.<br /></span> -<span class="ispc1">******<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So long as life is steeped in wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And nations cry: “How long, how long!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I look not to the wise and strong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For peace and self-possession;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But right will rise, and mercy shine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And justice lift her conquering sign<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where lowly people starve and pine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath a world oppression.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The character and temper of the Negro in those gentler aspects which -make such an appeal to the heart are revealed in the following sonnet:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">MATER DOLOROSA</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O mother, there are moments when I know<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God’s presence to the full. The city street<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May wrap me in the tumult and the heat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of futile striving; bitter winds may blow<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With winter-wilting freeze of hail and snow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all my hopes lie shattered in defeat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But in my heart the springtime blossoms sweet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And heaven seems very near the way I go.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These moments are the angels of that prayer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which thou hast breathed for many a troubled year<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With bended knee and swarthy-streaming face—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Uphold him, Father, with a double care:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He is but mortal, yet his days must bear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The world cross, and the burden of his race.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>If these poems, taken collectively, do not declare “what is on the -Negro’s mind” they yet truly reveal, to the reflecting person, what has -sunk deep into his heart. They are therefore a message to America, a -protest, an appeal, and a warning. They will penetrate, I predict, -through breast-armor of <i>aes triplex</i> into the hearts of those whom -sermons and editorials fail to touch in the springs of action. Such is -the virtue of music wed to persuasive words. In strong lines of soaring -blank verse, in which Mr. Hill is particularly capable, he makes a -direct appeal to America in behalf of his people, in a poem entitled -Armageddon:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Because ye schooled them in the arts of life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gave to them your God, and poured your blood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Into their veins to make them what they are,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They shall not fail you in the hour of need.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They own in them enough of you to feel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All that has made you masters in your time—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear art and riches, unremitting toil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proud types of beauty, an unbounded will<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To triumph, wondrous science and old law—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These have they learned to covet and to share.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But deeper in them still is something steeled<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hot abhorrence and unmeasured dread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of your undaunted sins against the light—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Red sins of lust, of envy and of hate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of guilty gain extorted from the weak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of brotherhood traduced, and God denied.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All this have they beheld without revolt,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And borne the brunt in agonizing prayer.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For other strains of blood that flow from times<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Older than Egypt, whence the dark man gave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rudiments of learning to all lands,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have been a strong constraint. And they have dreamed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of a peculiar mission under heaven,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And felt the force of unexampled gifts<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That make for them a rare inheritance—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gift of cheerful confidence in man,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gift of calm endurance, solacing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An infinite capacity for pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gift of an unfeigned humility,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blinding the eyes of strident arrogance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bigot pride to that philosophy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that far-glancing wisdom which it veils,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of joy in beauty, hardihood in toil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of hope in tribulation, and of wide<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Adaptive power without a parallel<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In chronicles of men.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>A sonnet entitled <i>To a Caged Canary in a Negro Restaurant</i> will present -the poet’s people with the persuasiveness of pathos as the foregoing -poem with the persuasiveness of reason:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thou little golden bird of happy song!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A cage cannot restrain the rapturous joy<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which thou dost shed abroad. Thou dost employ<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy bondage for high uses. Grievous wrong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is thine; yet in thy heart glows full and strong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The tropic sun, though far beyond thy flight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And though thou flutterest there by day and night<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Above the clamor of a dusky throng.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So let my will, albeit hedged about<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By creed and caste, feed on the light within;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So let my song sing through the bars of doubt<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With light and healing where despair has been;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So let my people bide their time and place,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hindered but a sunny-hearted race.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>It would be an injustice to this poet did I convey the idea that his -seventy-odd poems are exclusively occupied with race wrongs and -oppression. Not a few of them bear no stamp of an oppressed or afflicted -spirit, though of sorrow they may have been nurtured.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span></p> - -<p>A lyric of pure loveliness is the following, entitled</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO A NOBLY-GIFTED SINGER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All the pleasance of her face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Telleth of an inward grace;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In her dark eyes I have seen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sorrows of the Nazarene;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the proud and perfect mould<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of her body I behold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rounded in a single view,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The good, the beautiful, the true;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when her spirit goes up-winging<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On sweet airs of artless singing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Surely the heavenly spheres rejoice<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In union with a kindred voice.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Schoolmaster I said Mr. Hill was. To represent his didactic quality, not -his purer lyrical note, nor yet his narrative beauty, I choose the -following piece:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SELF-DETERMINATION</p> - -<h4><i>The Philosophy of the American Negro</i></h4> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Four things we will not do, in spite of all<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That demons plot for our decline and fall;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We bring four benedictions which the meek<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Unto the proud are privileged to speak,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Four gifts by which amidst all stern-browed races<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We move with kindly hearts and shining faces.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>We will not hate.</i> Law, custom, creed and caste,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All notwithstanding, here we hold us fast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down through the years the mighty ships of state<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have all been broken on the rocks of hate.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>We will not cease to laugh and multiply.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">We slough off trouble, and refuse to die.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Indian stood unyielding, stark and grim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We saw him perish, and we learned of him<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To mix a grain of philosophic mirth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With all the crass injustices of earth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>We will not use the ancient carnal tools.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">These never won, yet centuries of schools,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of priests, and all the work of brush and pen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have not availed to win the wisest men<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From futile faith in battleship and shell:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We see them fall, and mark that folly well.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>We will not waver in our loyalty.</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">No strange voice reaches us across the sea;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No crime at home shall stir us from this soil.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ours is the guerdon, ours the blight of toil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But raised above it by a faith sublime<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We choose to suffer <i>here</i> and bide our time.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And if we hold to this, we dream some day<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our countrymen will follow in our way.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But though teacher Leslie Pinckney Hill is singer too. And though he has -a message for America he also has music. His powers are rich, varied, -cultured, and developing. His second book will be better than his -excellent first.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III<br /><br /> -<small>THE HEART OF NEGRO WOMANHOOD</small></h2> - -<h4><i>I. Miss Eva A. Jessye</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_020" id="ill_020"></a> -<a href="images/i_139_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_139_sml.jpg" width="194" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Eva A. Jessye</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">From</span> newspapers I have clipt several poems by Miss Jessye that exhibit a -nature touched to the finer things of the world and of life. She has -fancy, and skill in expression. I concluded section I of chapter II with -a poem of hers, and I will here give two more. The first, in a lighter -vein, betrays the human nature of a school-teacher in the midst of her -vexations while she tries to appear above the reach of common desires.</p> - -<p class="cpom">SPRING WITH THE TEACHER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis now the time of silver moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of swelling bud and fancies free<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As western winds, but then, ah me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May cannot come too soon;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rover calls in every child,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And sets his pulses running wild!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Do stop that noise and take your seat!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Joe, learn to study quietly!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why girl, it surely has me beat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How you forget geography!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brazil’s in Spain? Here, close that book!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What caused the Civil War, you say?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Suzanna says somebody took<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her beads; return them right away!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Now boy, I told you once before<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To put that story book away!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll call the roll: Beatrice Moore,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why were you absent yesterday?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why yes, I heard that mocking bird.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lee Arthur, straighten up your face!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well, surely, class, you never heard<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of adverbs having tense and case!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Now, James, explain the term ‘per cent,’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My, my, ’tis surely not forgot!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If it were fun or devilment<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’d know it all, sir, like as not!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who put that bent pin in my chair?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">No one of course—bent pins can walk!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll tell you though, had I sat there<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d make these straps and switches talk.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“A picnic on for Saturday?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">(I wish that I were going, too!)<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, no! I couldn’t get away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have so many things to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well, there’s the bell! Goodbye, goodbye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And be good children, don’t forget.”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Well, thank the Lord they’re gone, but I<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Can hear their joyous laughter yet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis now the time of silver moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of swelling bud and fancies free<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As western winds, but then, ah me!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May cannot come too soon!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Though the moral motive is rarely consistent with the artistic, yet in -the next poem of Miss Jessye’s I shall give there is a perfect -reconciliation. Original no doubt is the idea of this poem, but Sappho, -it seems to me, as one of her fragments bears witness, had meditated -upon the very same idea twenty-five centuries ago.</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO A ROSEBUD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O dainty bud, I hold thee in my hand—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A castaway, a dead, a lifeless thing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A few days since I saw thee, wet with dew,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A bud of promise to thy parent cling,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Now thou art crushed yet lovely as before,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The adverse winds but waft thy fragrance more.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How small, how frail! I tread thee underfoot<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And crush thy petals in the reeking ground:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perchance some one in pity for thy state<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will pick thee up in reverence profound—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lo, thou art pure with virtue more intense,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy perfume grows from earthly detriments.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Why do we grieve? Let each affliction bear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A greater beauty springing from the sod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May sweetness well as incense from the urn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Which, rising high, enshrouds the throne of God.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Envoy of Hope, this lesson I disclose—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Be Ever Sweet,” thou humble, fragrant rose!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Miss Jessye, now a teacher of the piano in Muskogee, Oklahoma, was born -in Kansas and was graduated from Western University. She has taken -prizes in oratory, poetry, and essay-writing. Yet in her early twenties, -she has a volume of verse ready for publication.</p> - -<h4><i>II. Mrs. J. W. Hammond</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_021" id="ill_021"></a> -<a href="images/i_142_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_142_sml.jpg" width="198" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. J. W. Hammond</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Self-taught, and disclaiming knowledge of books, Mrs. Hammond of Omaha, -Nebraska, contributes to <i>The Monitor</i> of that city verses of musical -cadences and gentle beauty. Her response to the scenes and objects of -nature is that of a poetic mind. The spirit of joy sings through her -verses. As a representative poem the following may be accepted:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">THE OPTIMIST</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who would have the sky any color but blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or the grass any color but green?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or the flowers that bloom the summer through<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of other color or sheen?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How the sunshine gladdens the human heart—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How the sound of the falling rain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Will cause the tender tears to start,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And free the soul from pain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, this old world is a great old place!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And I love each season’s change,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The river, the brook of purling grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The valley, the mountain range.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when I am called to quit this life,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My feet will not spurn the sod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though I leave this world with its beauty rife,—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There’s a glorious one with God!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>One other poem of Mrs. Hammond’s I will give that is beautiful alike in -feeling and treatment.</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO MY NEIGHBOR BOY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When sweet Aurora lifts her veil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And floods the world with rosy light,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When morning stars, grown dim and pale,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proclaim the passing of the night—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With waking bird and opening flower,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I greet with joy the new-born day—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For oft at this exquisite hour,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hear a strange new roundelay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">No syncopating “jazz” or “blues,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Insults my eager listening ear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But softly as the falling dews,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The strains come stealing sweet and clear.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With lilting grace they rise above<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The early traffic’s sordid din—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My neighbor boy is making love<br /></span> -<span class="i4">To his beloved violin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes I catch a quivering note—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An over-burdened wordless cry.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I say: “Those are the lines he wrote<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The day he told some one goodbye.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But when I hear a joyous strain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of melody serene and clear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I smile and say: “All’s well again—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The little maiden must be near!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But best of all I love the mood<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That prompts a soft sweet minor key.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My longing soul forgets to brood,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While drinking in the melody.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My restless spirit will not rove,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor lose its faith in God and men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The while my neighbor boy makes love<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To his beloved violin.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>III. Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson</i></h4> - -<p>A sonnet has already been given from Mrs. Dunbar-Nelson to which I think -Mrs. Browning or Christina Rossetti might have appended her signature -without detriment to her fame. It is one of a series entitled <i>A Dream -Sequence</i>, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> rest of the sequence being as yet unpublished. Instead -of pillaging this sequence, marring the effect of the individual member -so dislocated, I will take from her compilation, <i>The Dunbar -Speaker</i>,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> so named for her first husband, the poet, two of her -original poems. The first is a war poem, doubtless, but the occasion is -immaterial. The spirit of rebellion against confinement to the petty -thing while the something big calls afar might be evoked into play by -any of a hundred situations.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_022" id="ill_022"></a> -<a href="images/i_145_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_145_sml.jpg" width="196" height="253" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Alice Dunbar-Nelson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">I SIT AND SEW</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But—I must sit and sew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Once men. My soul in pity flings<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Appealing cries, yearning only to go<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But—I must sit and sew.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The little useless seam, the idle patch;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That beckons me—this pretty futile seam,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The second poem I shall give is also not unrelated to the recent World -War, and to all war: the lights alluded to, shining across and down the -Delaware for miles, are the lights of the DuPont powder mills. It is a -poem of fine symmetry, highly poetic diction, and great allusive -meaning—a poem that will bear and repay many readings, never growing -less beautiful.</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE LIGHTS AT CARNEY’S POINT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O white little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You shine so clear o’er the Delaware;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the moon rides high in the silver sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then you gleam, white gems on the Delaware.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Diamond circlet on a full white throat,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You laugh your rays on a questing boat;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is it peace you dream in your flashing gleam,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the quiet flow of the Delaware?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the lights grew dim at the water’s brim,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the smoke of the mills shredded slow between;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the smoke was red, as is new bloodshed,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the lights went lurid ’neath the livid screen.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O red little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You glower so grim o’er the Delaware;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the moon hides low sombrous clouds below,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then you glow like coals o’er the Delaware.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blood red rubies on a throat of fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You flash through the dusk of a funeral pyre;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are there hearth fires red whom you fear and dread<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the turgid flow of the Delaware?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the lights gleamed gold o’er the river cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For the murk of the furnace shed a copper veil;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the veil was grim at the great cloud’s brim,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the lights went molten, now hot, now pale.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O gold little lights at Carney’s Point,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You gleam so proud o’er the Delaware;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the moon grows wan in the eastering dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then you sparkle gold points o’er the Delaware.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aureate filigree on a Crœsus’ brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You hasten the dawn on a gray ship’s prow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Light you streams of gold in the grim ship’s hold<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the sullen flow of the Delaware?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And the lights went gray in the ash of day,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For a quiet Aurora brought a halcyon balm;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sun laughed high in the infinite sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And the lights were forgot in the sweet, sane calm.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mrs. Dunbar-Nelson has not applied herself to poetry as she has to prose -fiction. As a short-story writer she has special distinction.</p> - -<h4><i>IV. Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_023" id="ill_023"></a> -<a href="images/i_148_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_148_sml.jpg" width="196" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. G. D. Johnson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Exquisite artistry in verse, with infallible poetic content, is -exhibited in Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson’s <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>. It -is also the saddest book produced by her race. Perfect lyrical notes, -the most poignant pathos—that is an exact description of it. Triple -bronze cannot armor any breast successfully against its appeal. For the -heart that speaks here is a heart that has known its garden of sorrows, -its Gethsemane. This is the harvest of her sorrows—dreams and songs, of -which she comments:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The dreams of the dreamer<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are life-drops that pass<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The break in the heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the Soul’s hour-glass.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The songs of the singer<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are tones that repeat<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cry of the heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till it ceases to beat.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Neither in memory nor in dreams is there a refuge for the life-wounded -heart of this woman:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What need have I for memory,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When not a single flower<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Has bloomed within life’s desert<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For me, one little hour?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What need have I for memory,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Whose burning eyes have met<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The corse of unborn happiness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Winding the trail regret?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>And thus of her dreams, on the last page of her book:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am folding up my little dreams<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Within my heart to-night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And praying I may soon forget<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The torture of their sight.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>What are the experiences and what the conditions of life—what must they -have been—which have had the tragic power to make a soul “try to forget -it has dreamed of stars?” The world little kens what hearts in it are -breaking, and why. To the grave the secret goes with the many, one in a -million betrays it in a cry. But not here is it betrayed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">SMOTHERED FIRES</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A woman with a burning flame<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Deep covered through the years<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With ashes—ah! she hid it deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And smothered it with tears.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes a baleful light would rise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From out the dusky bed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then the woman hushed it quick<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To slumber on, as dead.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">At last the weary war was done,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The tapers were alight,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with a sigh of victory<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She breathed a soft—goodnight!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Not without hurt to itself may the oyster produce its pearl. These poems -from the heart of a woman remind me of nothing so much as a string of -pearls. Each one is witness to a bruise or gash to the spirit. The lyric -cry has not been more piercing in anything written on American soil, -piercing all the more for the perfect restraint, the sure artistry. It -was a heart surcharged with sorrow in which these pearls of poesy took -shape from secret wounds. The heart of one woman speaks in them for -thousands in America, else inarticulate. “We weep,” says the African -proverb, “we weep in our hearts like the tortoise.” Without one word or -hint of race in all the book there is yet between its covers the -unwritten,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> unwritable tragedy of that borderland race which knows not -where it belongs in the world, a truly homeless race in soul. A sadder -book could hardly be.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson was born in Atlanta, Georgia, and received -her academic education in Atlanta University and a musical education at -Oberlin. She now lives in Washington, D. C. She is at the beginning of -her career as an author. Two other books of lyrics, under the titles of -<i>An Autumn Love Cycle</i>, and <i>Bronze</i>,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> she has in preparation for the -press at this time. Some of their contents have already appeared in -magazines. These two new volumes will make an advance in power and in -richness of content beyond <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>. They will also -provide the key to the tragic mystery concealed in that book. A poem -that is to appear in <i>Bronze</i> will be given in a later chapter. I will -here give another. Both have already been published in magazines.</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE OCTOROON</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">One drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsating stream<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Marks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forevermore her step she bends, insular, strange, apart—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And none can read the riddle of her strangely warring heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty sea<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Against the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For refuge, succor, peace, and rest, she seeks that humble fold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>V. Miss Angelina W. Grimké</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_024" id="ill_024"></a> -<a href="images/i_152_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_152_sml.jpg" width="197" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Angelina Grimké</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Not less distinctive in quality than Mrs. Johnson’s, and not less -beautiful in artistry, are the brief lyrics of Miss Angelina W. Grimké, -also of the city of Washington. If hers should be called imagist poetry -or no I cannot say, but I am certain that more vivid imaging of objects -has not been done in verse by any contemporary. This, too, in stanzas -that suggest in their perfection of form the work of the old lapidaries. -Nor is there but a surface or formal beauty. There is passion, there is -beauty of idea, the soul of lyric poetry is there as well as the form. I -am weighing well my words in giving this praise, and I know that not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> -one in the thousand of those who write good verse would deserve them. -But I ask the sceptical individual to re-read them after he has perused -the poems themselves.</p> - -<p>I will present several without interrupting comment:</p> - -<p class="cpom">DAWN</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Grey mist, grey hush;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then, frail, exquisite, afar,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A hermit-thrush.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">A WINTER TWILIGHT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A silence slipping around like death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One path that knows where the corn flowers were;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And over it softly leaning down,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE PUPPET-PLAYER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE WANT OF YOU</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A hint of gold where the moon will be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And oh! the crying want of you.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">EL BESO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Twilight—and you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Quiet—the stars;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Snare of the shine of your teeth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your provocative laughter,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gloom of your hair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lure of you, eye and lip;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yearning, yearning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Languor, surrender;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your mouth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And madness, madness,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tremulous, breathless, flaming,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The space of a sigh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then awakening—remembrance,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pain, regret—your sobbing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And again quiet—the stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Twilight—and you.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">AT THE SPRING DAWN</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I watched the dawn come,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Watched the spring dawn come.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the red sun shouldered his way up<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through the grey, through the blue,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through the lilac mists.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The quiet of it! The goodness of it!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">And one bird awoke, sang, whirred<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A blur of moving black against the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sang again—afar off.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stretched to my finger tips,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And I laughed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">At the dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">At the spring dawn.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">TO KEEP THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE FORTEN GRIMKÉ</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Still are there wonders of the dark and day;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The muted shrilling of shy things at night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So small beneath the stars and moon;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the light<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lies softly on the leaves at noon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These are, and these will be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The birds about her window wake and sing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And far away each day some lark<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know is singing where the grasses swing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some robin calls and calls at dark.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">These are, and these will be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But not for eyes that loved them best;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Only her little pansies are all gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Some lying softly on her breast.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And flowers will bud and be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until Eternity;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But she who loved them well has gone away.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Where has she gone? And who is there to say?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But this we know: her gentle spirit moves<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And is where beauty never wanes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perchance by other streams, ’mid other groves;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to us here, ah! she remains<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A lovely memory<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until Eternity.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She came, she loved, and then she went away.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The subject of these beautiful memorial verses was not simply in feeling -but in expression also a poet herself. From “A June Song” written by her -I will take a stanza in evidence:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How shall we crown her bright young head?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crown it with roses, rare and red;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crown it with roses, creamy white,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Crown it with roses as pink as shell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In which the voices of ocean dwell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And a fairer queen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall ne’er be seen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than our lovely, laughing June.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>VI. Mrs. Anne Spencer</i></h4> - -<p>Who can fathom to its depths the heart of womanhood? Under the -conditions of American<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_025" id="ill_025"></a> -<a href="images/i_157_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_157_sml.jpg" width="197" height="263" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anne Spencer</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">life the Negro woman’s heart offers difficulties peculiar to itself. -These various writers—talented, cultured, with the keen sensibilities -of a specially sensitive people—have given us glimpses into some of the -depths, not all. A poet of the other sex, Mr. McKay, with that -divination which belongs to the poet, intimates in <i>The Harlem Dancer</i>, -quoted on page 128, that the index of the heart is not always in the -occupation or the face:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I knew her self was not in that strange place.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>No, her self was free and too noble to be smirched by the “passionate -gaze of wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys.” It is a paradox that has puzzled -a recent white novelist. Cissie Dildine, in Mr. Stribling’s -<i>Birthright</i>, pilferer though she is, and sacrificer of her maidenhood, -yet does not lose caste among her people. They speak affectionately of -her and minister lovingly to her in jail, with no hint of re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span>proach. It -is not other standards, as the novelist intimates, that we must apply, -but only right standards, in view of circumstances.</p> - -<p>I am able to give here a poem that may start in the reader’s mind a -fruitful train of reflections, tending toward profound ethical truth. -The writer, Mrs. Anne Spencer of Lynchburg, Virginia, in all of her work -that I have seen, has marked originality. Her style is independent, -unconventional, and highly compressed. The poem which follows will -fairly represent her work and at the same time open another avenue to -the secret chambers of the Negro woman’s heart:</p> - -<p class="cpom">AT THE CARNIVAL</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I desire a name for you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nice, as a right glove fits;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For you—who amid the malodorous<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mechanics of this unlovely thing,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are darling of spirit and form.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know you—a glance, and what you are<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sits-by-the-fire in my heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My Limousine-Lady knows you, or<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bull-necked man knows you—this first time<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thinks not of his avocation.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I came incuriously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Set on no diversion save that my mind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the presence of a blind crowd.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The color of life was gray.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Everywhere the setting seemed right<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For my mood!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Here the sausage and garlic booth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sent unholy incense skyward;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There a quivering female-thing<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gestured assignations, and lied<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To call it dancing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There, too, were games of chance<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With chances for none;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The gaze you send the crowd,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As though you know the dearth of beauty<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In its sordid life.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We need you—my Limousine-Lady,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bull-necked man, and I.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seeing you here brave and water-clean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am swift to feel that what makes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plodder glad is good; and<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whatever is good is God.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wonder is that you are here;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I have seen the queer in queer places,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But never before a heaven-fed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Naiad of the Carnival-Tank!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Little Diver, Destiny for you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like as for me, is shod in silence;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Years may seep into your soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bacilli of the usual and the expedient;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>VII. Miss Jessie Fauset</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 193px;"><a name="ill_026" id="ill_026"></a> -<a href="images/i_160_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_160_sml.jpg" width="193" height="260" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Miss Jessie Redmon Fauset</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>By way of indicating the idealistic aspirations of the colored people I -gave at the end of Chapter I. J. Mord Allen’s poem <i>The Psalm of the -Uplift</i>. For the same purpose I will give here, at the end of this -chapter, a poem of the very present day from one of the most -accomplished young women of the Negro race. Besides its intrinsic merit -as a poem it has the further recommendation for a place in this chapter -that it celebrates a woman of the black race who was the very embodiment -of its noblest qualities—illiterate slave though she was. It is a -splendid testimonial to her people of this later day that Negro -literature is filled with tributes to Sojourner Truth. She was indeed a -wonderful woman, altogether worthy to be ranked with the noble heroines -of biblical story. From a Negro historian I take the following -restrained account of her:<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Two Negroes, because of their unusual gifts, stood out with great -prominence in the agitation. These were Sojourner Truth and -Frederick Douglass. Sojourner Truth was born of slave parents about -1798 in Ulster County, New York. She remembered vividly in later -years the cold, wet cellar-room in which slept the slaves of the -family to which she belonged, and where she was taught by her -mother to repeat the Lord’s Prayer and to trust in God at all -times. When in the course of gradual emancipation in New York she -became legally free in 1827, her master refused to comply with the -law. She left, but was pursued and found. Rather than have her go -back, a friend paid for her services for the rest of the year. Then -came an evening when, searching for one of her children that had -been stolen and sold, she found herself a homeless wanderer. A -Quaker family gave her lodging for the night. Subsequently she went -to New York City, joined a Methodist Church, and worked hard to -improve her condition. Later, having decided to leave New York for -a lecturing tour through the East, she made a small bundle of her -belongings and informed a friend that her name was no longer -Isabella but Sojourner. She went on her way, lecturing to people -where she found them assembled and being entertained in many -aristocratic homes. She was entirely untaught in the schools, but -she was witty, original, and always suggestive. By her tact and her -gift of song she kept down ridicule, and by her fervor and faith -she won many friends for the anti-slavery cause. As to her name she -said: “And the Lord gave me Sojourner because I was to travel up -an’ down the land showin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>’ the people their sins an’ bein’ a sign -unto them. Afterwards I told the Lord I wanted another name, ’cause -everybody else had two names, an’ the Lord gave me Truth, because I -was to declare the truth to the people.”</p></div> - -<p>The poem follows, with the author’s note on the saying of Sojourner -Truth which occasioned it:</p> - -<p class="cpom">ORIFLAMME</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>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.</p></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I think I see her sitting bowed and black,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Still looking at the stars.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Still visioning the stars!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Still visioning the stars”—that is the idealism of the Negro. The soul -of Sojourner Truth goes marching on, star-led.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV<br /><br /> -<small>AD ASTRA PER ASPERA</small></h2> - -<h3><span class="smcap">I. per aspera</span></h3> - -<h4><i>I. Edward Smythe Jones</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_027" id="ill_027"></a> -<a href="images/i_163_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_163_sml.jpg" width="194" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Edward Smythe Jones</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> has not frequently happened in these times that a poet has dated a -poem from a prison cell, or dedicated a book of poems to the judge of a -police court. Mr. Edward Smythe Jones, however, has done this, and there -is an interesting story by way of explanation. From the poem alluded to -it seems that Mr. Jones in his over-mastering desire to drink at the -Harvard fountain of learning tramped out of the Southland up to -Cambridge. Arriving travel-worn, friendless, moneyless, hungry, he was -preparing to bivouac on the Harvard campus his first night in the -University city,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> when, being misunderstood, and not believed, he was -apprehended as a vagabond and thrown into jail. A poem, however, the -poem which tells this story, delivered him. The judge was convinced by -it, kindly entreated the prisoner, and set him free to return to the -academic shades. <i>Ad astra per aspera.</i></p> - -<p>It was in “Cell No. 40, East Cambridge Jail, Cambridge, Massachusetts, -July 26, 1910,” that the unlucky bard committed to verse this story, -transmuting harsh experience to the joy of artistic production. The last -half of his version runs as follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As soon as locked within the jail,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Deep in a ghastly cell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Methought I heard the bitter wail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of all the fiends of hell!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“O God, to Thee I humbly pray<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No treacherous prison snare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall close my soul within for aye<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From dear old Harvard Square.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Just then I saw an holy Sprite<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shed all her radiant beams,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And round her shone the source of light<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of all the poets’ dreams!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I plied my pen in sober use,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And spent each moment spare<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In sweet communion with the Muse<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I met in Harvard Square!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I cried: “Fair Goddess, hear my tale<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of sorrow, grief and pain.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That made her face an ashen pale,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But soon it glowed again!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“They placed me here; and this my crime,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Writ on their pages fair;—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">‘He left his sunny native clime,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And came to Harvard Square!’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy weary journey long—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But thus I choose my favorite bard<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To sing my sweetest song.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’ll strike the key-note of my art<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And guide with tend’rest care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And breathe a song into thy heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To honor Harvard Square.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I called old Homer long ago,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And made him beg his bread<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through seven cities, ye all know,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His body fought for, dead.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spurn not oppression’s blighting sting,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor scorn thy lowly fare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The songs of Harvard Square.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“I placed great Dante in exile,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Byron had his turns;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my immortal Burns!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But thee I’ll build a sacred shrine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A store of all my ware;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing<br /></span> -<span class="i2">‘A place in Harvard Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“To some a store of mystic lore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To some to shine a star:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The first I gave to Allan Poe,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The last to Paul Dunbar.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Since thou hast waited patient, long,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Now by my throne I swear<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To give to thee my sweetest song<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To sing in Harvard Square.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And when she gave her parting kiss<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And bade a long farewell,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I sat serene in perfect bliss<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As she forsook my cell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon the altar-fire she poured<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Some incense very rare;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its fragrance sweet my soul assured<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’d enter Harvard Square.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Reclining on my couch, I slept<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A sleep sweet and profound;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O’er me the blessed angels kept<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their vigil close around.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With dawning’s smile, my fondest hope<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shone radiant and fair:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Justice cut each chain and rope<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Tween me and Harvard Square!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Of all the Negro poets whose writings I have perused, Edward Smythe -Jones is the most difficult to estimate with certainty. There is an -eloquence and luxuriance of language and imagery in his stanzas which -perplexes the critic and yet persuades him to repeated readings. The -result,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> however, fails to become clear. If, with his copiousness, the -reserve of disciplined art ever becomes his, and his critical faculty is -trained to match his creative, then poetry of noteworthy merit may be -expected from him. His deeply religious bent, his aspiration after the -best things of the mind, his ambition to treat lofty themes, augur well -for him.</p> - -<p>Mr. Jones’s two best poems, <i>The Sylvan Cabin: A Centenary Ode on the -Birth of Abraham Lincoln</i> and <i>An Ode to Ethiopia: to the Aspiring Negro -Youth</i>, are too long for insertion here. I will give a shorter patriotic -ode, not included in his book, but written, I believe, during the World -War:</p> - -<p class="cpom">FLAG OF THE FREE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Flag of the free, our sable sires<br /></span> -<span class="i2">First bore thee long ago<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Into hot battles’ hell-lit fires,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Against the fiercest foe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And when he shook his shaggy mien,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And made the death-knell ring,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brave Attucks fell upon the Green,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy stripes first crimsoning.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy might and majesty we hurl,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Against the bolts of Mars;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And from thy ample folds unfurl<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy field of flaming stars!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fond hope to nations in distress,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thy starry gleam shall give;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The stricken in the wilderness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall look to thee and live.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What matter if where Boreas roars,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or where sweet Zephyr smiles?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What matter if where eagle soars,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or in the sunlit isles?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy flowing crimson stripes shall wave<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Above the bluish brine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Emblazoned ensign of the brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Liberty enshrine!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Flag of the Free, still float on high<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Through every age to come;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bright beacon of the azure sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">True light of Freedom’s dome.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till nations all shall cease to grope<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In vain for liberty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, shine, last lingering star of hope<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of all humanity!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Is there, in all our American poetry, a more eloquent apostrophe to our -flag than that, not excepting even Joseph Rodman Drake’s? Perhaps the -allusion to Attucks in the first stanza will require a note for the -white reader. Every colored school-child, however, knows that Crispus -Attucks was a brave and stalwart Negro, who, in the van of the patriots -of Boston that resisted the British soldiers in the so-called “Boston -Massacre,” March 5, 1770, fell with two British bullets in his breast, -among the first martyrs for independence:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thus Attucks brave, without a moment’s pause,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full bared his breast in Freedom’s holy cause,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">First fell and tore the code of Tyranny’s cruel laws—<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">so writes of him this same poet in his <i>Ode to Ethiopia</i>.</p> - -<h4><i>II. Raymond Garfield Dandridge</i></h4> - -<p>Twelve years ago a young house-decorator in Cincinnati was stricken down -with partial paralysis, since which time he has been bedfast and all but -helpless. On this bed of distress he learned what resources were within -himself, powers that in health he knew not of. The fountain of poetry -sprang up in what threatened to be a desert life.—The artist-nature -within manifested itself in a new realm, the realm of words set to -tuneful measures. This artisan, turned by affliction into a poet, is -Raymond Garfield Dandridge. Again, <i>ad astra per aspera</i>.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 190px;"><a name="ill_028" id="ill_028"></a> -<a href="images/i_169_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_169_sml.jpg" width="190" height="266" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Raymond G. Dandridge</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>It is not great poetry that Dandridge is giving to the world, but it is -poetry. His musings shaped into rhyme reach the heart. They have -sweetness and light—“the two most precious things in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> world.” All -the art he has acquired, untaught, from his reading and unaided -thinking. Naturally one would not expect that art to be flawless. His -initial poem, while not literally a self-description, will serve to -introduce this adopted son of the lyric Muse:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE POET</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The poet sits and dreams and dreams;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He scans his verse; he probes his themes.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then turns to stretch or stir about,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest, like his thoughts, his strength give out.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then off to bed, for he must rise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And cord some wood, or tamp some ties,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Or break a field of fertile soil,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or do some other manual toil.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He dare not live by wage of pen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Most poorly paid of poor paid men,<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With shoes o’er-run, and threadbare clothes,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And editors among the foes<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Who mock his song, deny him bread,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then sing his praise when he is dead.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>A secret consolation is intimated in the following lines:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Though many are the dreams I dream,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’re born within a single theme.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The same kind voice I ever hear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Instilling faith, upbraiding fear:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The same consoling smile appears<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To snuff my sighs and dry my tears:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And fondest heart, of purest gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is hers whose name I here withhold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And pray naught ever change my theme,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or wake me from my dream.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Reflections upon the deeper meanings of life and death are inevitable to -one situated as Mr. Dandridge is, provided he is given to serious -reflections at all. And the thoughts of such a person are apt to have -value for their sincerity. Two brief meditations in rhyme, as we may -call them, will represent his thinking on such themes:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TIME TO DIE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Black Brother, think you life so sweet<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That you would live at any price?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Does mere existence balance with<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The weight of your great sacrifice?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or, can it be you fear the grave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Enough to live and die a slave?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, Brother! be it better said,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When you are gone and tears are shed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That your death was the stepping stone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your children’s children cross’d upon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men have died that men might live:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Look every foeman in the eye!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If necessary, your life give<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For something, ere in vain you die.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">ETERNITY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Vast realm beyond the gate of death,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where craven scavengers and kings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Alike, with passing final breath,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Relinquish claim to earthly things:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Endless, unexplored expanse,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where souls, bereft of mortal clay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wander at will, in peace, perchance—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Perchance in strife, who dare would say?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Even in the confinement to which his affliction has subjected him, Mr. -Dandridge has felt the strong pulse-throbs of his people’s new kindled -aspirations. The strength of the soul may indeed increase with the -weakness of the body. These lines are surely not wanting in the passion -without which “facts” are cold:</p> - -<p class="cpom">FACTS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Triumphant Sable Heroes homeward turning,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Arrayed in medals bright, and half-healed scars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have service, life, and limb been given earning<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trophies issued at the hand of Mars?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If your sole gain has been these “marks of battle,”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If valiant deeds insure no greater claim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If you are still to be the herder’s cattle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then ill spilt blood fell short of Freedom’s aim.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Democracy means more than empty letters,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And Liberty far more than partly free;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet, both are void as long as men in fetters<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are at eclipse with Opportunity.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>III. George Marion McClellan</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_029" id="ill_029"></a> -<a href="images/i_173_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_173_sml.jpg" width="197" height="268" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">George Marion McClellan</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Aptly has Mr. McClellan entitled his book of poems <i>The Path of Dreams</i>. -A dreamer is he and the home of his spirit is dreamland:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet-scented winds move inward from the shore,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Blythe is the air of June with silken gleams,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My roving fancy treads at will once more<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The golden path of dreams.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And that path leads the poet ever back to the golden days of his youth, -when Southern suns and Southern moons steeped his very being in dreams -and Southern birds gave him their melodies and Southern mountains lifted -his soul heavenward. A wanderer upon the earth he appears to have been, -and as all wanderers’ hearts turn back to some loved region or spot so -his to Dixie. Seldom has the longing for distant, remembered scenes, for -spring’s returning and for summer’s glow, been more sweetly expressed in -rhyme than in the various poems of <i>The Path of Dreams</i>. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> yet, -sweeter songs than those are locked up in his breast, not to be sung:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The summer sweetness fills my heart with songs<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I cannot sing, with loves I cannot speak.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">When harsh necessity imprisons him in the city he sighs:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I think the sight of fields and shady lanes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would ease my heart of pains.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">But what contradictions poets have ever found in their experiences! The -ministrants of joy but wring the cry of pain from the yearning heart. -Lovely May is harder to endure, in exile, than gloomy December. The -city’s discordant cries may be endured, bringing neither grief nor joy, -while a bird’s carol may be exquisite torture:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The woodlark’s tender warbling lay,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which flows with melting art,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is but a trembling song of love<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That serves to break my heart.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Musing on whatever scene, the poet’s thoughts are tinged with that -sadness which to every sensitive nature has a sweetness in it:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sun went down in beauty,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">While I stood musing alone,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stood watching the rushing river<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And heard its restless moan;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Longings, vague, intenable,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So far from speech apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the endless rush of the river,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Went surging through my heart.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>With no less sadness or beauty, and with that philosophy towards which -poetry ever has a bias, our poet of dreams thus reflects, on watching -the ephemera that dart with glimmering wings in keen delight where the -breezes fling the sweets of May:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Creatures of gauze and velvet wings,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With a day of gleams and flowers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who knows—in the light of eternal things—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your life is less than ours?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Weary at last, it is ours, like you,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When our brief day is done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Folding our hands, to say adieu,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And pass with the setting sun.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>One must say of George Marion McClellan: “Here is a finely touched -spirit that responds deeply to the mystery and charm of mountains and -starry skies, and that charm and mystery he is capable of expressing in -stanzas of lyric beauty.” Every page of his book will confirm for the -reader the estimate he may have formed from the quotations already -given. Without rifling it of its choicest treasures I will put before -the reader a few entire poems which I am sure will give increased -delight on repeated readings:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">TO HOLLYHOCKS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Gay hollyhocks with flaming bells<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And waving plumes, as gently swells<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The breeze upon the Summer air,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You bind me still with magic spells<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When to the wind, in grave farewells,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You bow in all your graces fair.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You bring me back the childhood view,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where arching skies and deepest blue<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stretch on in endless lengths above;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To see you so awakes anew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long past emotions, from which grew<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My wild and first heart-throbs of love.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There is in all your brilliant dyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your gorgeousness and azure skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A joy like soothing summer rain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet in the scene there vaguely lies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A something half akin to sighs,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Along the borderland of pain.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE HILLS OF SEWANEE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sewanee Hills of dear delight,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Prompting my dreams that used to be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know you are waiting me still to-night<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By the Unika Range of Tennessee.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The blinking stars in endless space,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The broad moonlight and silvery gleams,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To-night caress your wind-swept face,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And fold you in a thousand dreams.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Your far outlines, less seen than felt,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Which wind with hill propensities,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In moonlight dreams I see you melt<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Away in vague immensities.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And, far away, I still can feel<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your mystery that ever speaks<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of vanished things, as shadows steal<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Across your breast and rugged peaks.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O dear blue hills, that lie apart,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And wait so patiently down there,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your peace takes hold upon my heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And makes its burden less to bear.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE FEET OF JUDAS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dark and evil passions of his soul,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His secret plot, and sordidness complete,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His bargain with the priest, and more than this,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And so ineffable his love ’twas meet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That pity fill his great forgiving heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And tenderly he wash the traitor’s feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And thus a girded servant, self-abased,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was ever too great to wholly be effaced,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And, though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so if we have ever felt the wrong<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Christ washed the feet of Judas.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">IN MEMORY OF KATIE REYNOLDS, DYING</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">O Death!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If thou hast aught of tenderness,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be kindly in thy touch<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of her whose fragile slenderness<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Was overburdened much<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With life. And let her seem to go to sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As often does a tired child, when it has grown<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Too tired to longer weep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">A rose but half in bloom—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She is too young and beautiful to die,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But yet, if she must go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Let her go out as goes a sigh<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From tired life and woe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let her keep, in death’s brief space<br /></span> -<span class="i2">This side the grave, the dusky beauty still<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Belonging to her face.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">She must have been<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of those upon the trembling lyre<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of whom the poets sung:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Whom the gods love” and desire<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fade and “die young.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her life so loved on earth was brief,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But yet withal so beautiful there is no cause,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But in our loss, for grief.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>This poet, formerly a school principal in Louisville, Kentucky, is now -in Los Angeles, California, whither he took his tubercular son—in -vain—endeavoring to establish there a sanitarium for persons of his -race afflicted as his son was. For the third time: <i>ad astra per -aspera</i>.</p> - -<h4><i>IV. Charles P. Wilson</i></h4> - -<p>The following verses were written by a man in the Missouri State -Penitentiary. He might prefer that his name be withheld. He will shortly -go forth a free man and a better one—so resolved to be—with verses -enough composed during his period of incarceration to make a small book:</p> - -<p class="cpom">SOMEBODY’S CHILD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Don’t be too quick to condemn me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Because I have made a bad start;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remember you see but the surface,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And know not what’s in the heart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I may bear the marks of a sinful life,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And I may have been a bit wild;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But back of all remains this fact,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My cheeks by tears may be polished,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And my heart is no stranger to pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know what it is to be friendless,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And to learn each affliction means gain.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I may be out in life’s storm,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And misfortune around me has piled;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But kindly remember this little fact,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Probably to-night you’ll be happy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In some joys or pleasures you’ll share:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And that very same moment may find me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tearfully pleading in prayer.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So don’t be too harsh when you judge me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For your judgment with God will be filed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You would know—could you see past the surface—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That I am somebody’s child.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>And so a fourth time the motto—or is it a proverb?—<i>ad astra per -aspera.</i></p> - -<h4><i>V. Leon R. Harris</i></h4> - -<p>Now editor of the Richmond (Indiana) <i>Blade</i>, contributor of -short-stories to <i>The Century Magazine</i>, an honored citizen and the head -of a respected family, Leon R. Harris was an orphan asylum’s ward. Most -splendidly has he, yet in his early thirties, illustrated the old adage -chosen as a heading for this chapter. His father, a roving musician, -took no interest in the future poet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> His mother died and left him -almost in the cradle. The orphanage which became his refuge gave him at -least food, shelter, and schooling to the fourth grade. Then he was -given to a Kentucky family to be reared. It was virtual slavery, and the -boy ran away from over-work and beatings. Making his escape to -Cincinnati he was befriended by a traveling salesman and began to find -himself. At eleven years of age, some of his verses were printed in a -Cincinnati daily with “Author Unknown” attached. He now made his way to -Berea and worked his way for two years in that good old college. Then -for three years he worked his way in Tuskegee.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 196px;"><a name="ill_030" id="ill_030"></a> -<a href="images/i_181_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_181_sml.jpg" width="196" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Leon R. Harris</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>We next find him in Iowa, married; then in North Carolina, teaching -school; then in Ohio, working in steel mills. This last was his -employment until about two years ago. His short stories and poems are -right out of his life. In the former the peonage system, prevalent in -some sections of the South, and the cruelties of the convict labor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> -camps are more powerfully portrayed than anywhere else in American -literature. The following poem will represent his writings in verse:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE STEEL MAKERS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Filled with the vigor such jobs demand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strong of muscle and steady of hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before the flaming furnaces stand<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The men who make the steel.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Midst the sudden sounds of falling bars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Midst the clang and bang of cranes and cars,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where the earth beneath them jerks and jars,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They work with willing zeal.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They meet each task as they meet each day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ready to labor and full of play;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their faces are grimy, their hearts are gay,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There is sense in the songs they sing;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While stooped like priests at the holy mass,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the beaming light of the lurid gas,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their jet black shadows each other pass,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And their hammers loudly ring.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What do they see through the furnace door,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From which the dazzling white lights pour?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, more than the sizzling liquid ore<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They see as they gaze within!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For a band of steel engirdles the earth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Binds men to men from their very birth,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Through all that exists of any worth<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There courses a steely vein.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Steamers that ply o’er the ocean deep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trains which over the mountains creep,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ships of the air that dart and leap<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the screaming eagles soar;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The plow which produces the nation’s food,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The bars that keep the bad from the good,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Skyscrapers standing where forests stood,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They see through their furnace door.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They see the secretive submarines,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the noisy, whirring big machines,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Grinding steel into numberless things<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The people know and need;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The scissors that fashion wee babies’ clothes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The beds where the pallid sick repose,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The knife that the nervy surgeon holds<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er the wounds that gape and bleed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yet more they see through the furnace door!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They see the bursting hot shells pour<br /></span> -<span class="i0">On the battle-fields as in days of yore<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Deluge waters fell.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They see the bloody bayonet blade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The unsheathed sword and the hand grenade,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The havoc, the wreck and the ruin made<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By the steel they roll and sell.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All this through the furnace door they see<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As they work and laugh—they are full and free;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their steel has purchased their liberty<br /></span> -<span class="i2">From want and the tyrant’s sway.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And just as long as their gas shall burn,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In times of need will the people turn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To them for their product and they shall learn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Its value endures for aye.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For of what they make we are servants all,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They have bound our lives in an iron thrall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We do their bidding, we heed their call,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As they work with willing zeal.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So tap your heats with a courage bold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’re worth to your world a thousand fold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">More than the men who mine her gold,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You men who make her steel!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Intrinsic merit is in that poem, apart from the circumstance of its -being written by a workman himself. As an interpretation of the life of -his fellow-workmen—their imaginative, inner life—it is a human -document to be reflected upon. As for the artistic quality of the verses -they place you in imagination amid the sights and sounds described and -they have something in them suggestive of the steel bars the men are -making.</p> - -<h4><i>VI. Irvin W. Underhill</i></h4> - -<p>In what strange disguises comes ofttimes the call to nobler things! Our -happiness not seldom springs out of seeming misfortune. An illustration -is afforded by Mr. Irvin W. Underhill, of Philadelphia, to whom -blindness brought a more glorious seeing—the seeing of truth, of -greater meaning in life, of greater beauty in the world. Out of this new -vision springs a corresponding message in verse, a message not of -bitterness for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_031" id="ill_031"></a> -<a href="images/i_185_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_185_sml.jpg" width="197" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Irvin W. Underhill</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">what might to another man, in the middle years of his life, have seemed -a bitter loss, but of love, and exhortation, and encouragement. Blind, -he lives in the Light. In his little book, entitled <i>Daddy’s Love and -Other Poems</i>, are poems witnessing to a beautiful spirit, poems of -beauty. Because of its sage counsel, however, I pass over some of these -lovelier expressions of sentiment and choose a didactic piece:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO OUR BOYS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I speak to you, my Colored boys,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I bid you to be men,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Don’t put yourselves upon the rack<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like pigeons in a pen.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Come out and face life’s problem, boys,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With faith and courage too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And justify that wondrous faith,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Abe Lincoln had in you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Don’t treat life as a little toy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A dance or a game of ball;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Those things are all right in their place,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But they are not life’s all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Life is a problem serious,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Give it the best you have,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Succeed in all you undertake<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And help your brother live.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If farming seems to be your call,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then take hold of the plough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stick it down into the soil<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till sweat runs down your brow.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then make this resolution firm:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“I’m going to do my best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stick this good old plough of mine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down deeper than the rest.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If you’re to be a carpenter<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Then train your hand and eye<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To work out angles, clean and clear<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As any metal die.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then read up on materials,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On beauty and on style,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And prove to all, the house you build<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is sure to be worth while.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Why sure, a banker, you can be,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A lawyer or a priest;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or you can be a merchant prince,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Their work is not the least.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It makes no difference what you try<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If you would get the best,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ll have to stick that plough of yours<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Down deeper than the rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Don’t fawn up to another man<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And beg him for a job;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Remember that your brain and his<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Were made by the same God.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So use it boys, with all your might,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With faith and courage too,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And justify that wondrous faith<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Abe Lincoln had in you.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h3><span class="smcap">II. ad astra</span></h3> - -<h4><i>I. James C. Hughes</i></h4> - -<p>There are tragic stories of Negro aspirants for poetic fame that read -like the old stories of English poets in London in the days when the -children of genius starved and died young. As typical of not a few there -is the story of James C. Hughes, of Louisville, Kentucky. The Louisville -<i>Times</i>, March 10, 1905, contained his picture and an article by Joseph -S. Cotter in appreciation of his compositions. “This young man,” writes -Cotter, speaking of a collection of verses and prose sketches which -Hughes then had ready for publication, “this young man has the -essentials of the poet, and to me his work is interesting. It is -serious, and preaches while it sings.”</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>To illustrate the range and quality of Hughes I will quote from this -article two selections, one in prose and one in dialect verse:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">ASPIRATION</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“True love is the same to-day as when the vestal virgins held their -mystic lights along the path of virtue. Virtue wears the same -vesture that she wore upon the ancient plain that led to fame -immortal. Now the royal gates of honor stand ajar for men of -courage, souls who will not time their spirit-lyre to suit the -common chord. Our nation has known men who held within their palms -our country’s destiny: and, smiling in the armor of a fearless -truth, have thrown away their lives. Awake, O countrymen, awake, -this noble flame. The gods will fan it, and the world shall burn -with honor and pure love.”</p></div> - -<p>The bit of dialect verse follows, taken from a poem entitled <i>Apology -for Wayward Jim</i>:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“You has offen tole us, Massy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We’s as free as we kin be;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But we needs some kind o’ check, suh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So’s we’d keep on bein’ free.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Please do’ whip ole Jim dis time, suh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Marse, I ’no’s you’s good an’ kind;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ain’t no slabery on dis ’arth, suh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like de slabery ob de mind.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“You has offen said obejence<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wuz de key to freedom’s do’—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When we l’arned dis golden lesson<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We wuz free foreber mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span>’.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“But you see dese darkies’ minds, suh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ain’t so flexerbul as dat,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dey can’t zackly understand, suh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What you means by saying dat.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Hain’t but one compound solution<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To dis problem, as I see;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long’s a human soul’s a slabe, suh,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ain’t no way to make it free.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The young author of these selections, failing to get his book published, -lost his mind and “disappeared from view.” So ends his story.</p> - -<h4><i>II. Leland Milton Fisher</i></h4> - -<p>Another sad story, more frequently repeated in the lives of the writers -represented in this book, is that of Leland Milton Fisher. First I shall -give one of his poems, as passionately sweet a lyric as can be found in -American literature:</p> - -<p class="cpom">FOR YOU, SWEETHEART</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For you, sweetheart, I’d have your skies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As bright as are your own bright eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all your day-dreams warm and fair<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As is the sunshine in your hair.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Fates to you should be as kind<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As are the thoughts in your pure mind,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And every bird I’d have impart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Its sweetest song to you, sweetheart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For you, sweetheart, I’d have each dart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Sorrow fashions for your tender heart,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thrust in my own thrice happy breast,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That yours might have unbroken rest.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If you should fall asleep and lie<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So very still and quiet that I<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Would know your soul had slipped away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From your divinely molded clay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then, looking in your fair, sweet face<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’d pray to God: “In thy good grace,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, Father, let me sleep, nor wake<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Again on earth, for her dear sake.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Born in Humbolt, Tennessee, in 1875, Fisher died of tuberculosis, ere -yet thirty years of age, leaving behind an unpublished volume of poems.</p> - -<h4><i>III. W. Clarence Jordan</i></h4> - -<p>In another chapter I have written of a poet whose birthplace was -Bardstown, Kentucky. W. Clarence Jordan, a Negro schoolmaster of -Bardstown, now dead, wrote the following lines in answer to the -questions, so frequently asked in derision, which stands as its title:</p> - -<p class="cpom">WHAT IS THE NEGRO DOING?</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">As we pass along life’s highway,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Day by day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thousands daily ask the question,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">“What, I pray,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell me what’s the Negro doing?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And what course is he pursuing?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What achievements is he strewing<br /></span> -<span class="i4">By the way?”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Many say he’s retrograding<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Very fast;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Others say his glory’s fading,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Cannot last;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That his prospects now are blighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That his chances have been slighted,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This his wrongs cannot be righted.<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Time has passed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Friends, lift up your eyes; look higher;<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Higher still.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There’s the vanguard of our army<br /></span> -<span class="i4">On the hill.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ve been looking at the rear guard.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lift your eyes, look farther forward;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thousands are still pressing starward—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Ever will.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>IV. Roscoe C. Jamison</i></h4> - -<p>Roscoe C. Jamison was fortunate in leaving behind him a friend at his -early death, some three years since, who treasured his fugitive verses -sufficiently to gather them together, though but a handful, and send -them out to the world in a little pamphlet. Fortunate also was he in -another friend able to write his elegy:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Too soon is hushed his silver speech,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The music dies upon his lute,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The cadence falls beyond our reach;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Too soon the Poet’s lips are mute.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_032" id="ill_032"></a> -<a href="images/i_192_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_192_sml.jpg" width="198" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Roscoe C. Jamison</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>So wrote in this elegy, <i>Lacrimae Aethiopiae</i>, Charles Bertram Johnson, -of this untimely dead singer. Hardly a score of poems are in this -pamphlet, yet enough are here to reveal a poet in the making. Jamison -was a better poet, even in these imperfect pieces, than many a writer of -better verses. Here are the ardent impulses and here are the glowing -ideas from which poetry of the higher order springs. The art, however, -is undisciplined, grammar, metre, and rhymes are sometimes at fault. -However, bold strokes of poetry atone, the effects are the effects of a -real poet. Sometimes one finds in the small collection a poem that is -all but perfect, a production that might have come from a maturer -craftsman. I venture to put him to the test in the following poem:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">CASTLES IN THE AIR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I build my castles in the air.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How beautiful they seem to me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Standing in all their glory there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Like stars above the sea!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I watch them with admiring eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For in them dwells life’s fondest hope:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If they be swept from out the skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In darkness I must grope.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They hold life’s joys, life’s sweetest dreams;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They make the weary years seem bright.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As one guided by bright starbeams<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I struggle through the night.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sometimes from out the skies they fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And my soul shrieks in its pain;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But from the heights I hear Hope’s call,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Arise and build again.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What though life be with sorrow filled<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And each day brings its load of care,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m happy still while I can build<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My castles in the air!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Who but will say, despite the metrical defects, this is a real poem? -Another poem will show his art at a better advantage, while the pathos -is of another kind, very touching pathos it is, too:</p> - -<p class="cpom">A SONG</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I loved you, Dear. I did not know how much,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until the silence of the Grave lay cold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Between us, and your hand I could not touch,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And your sweet face, oh! never more behold.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I loved you, Dear. I did not know how true,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until in other eyes I found no light;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know—alas!—my Spirit without you<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Must drift forever in a starless night!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>A different kind of merit, the merit of intense reprobation of cruel -arrogancy in the one race and of treacherous cowardice in the other, is -exemplified in <i>The Edict</i>. Triumphant faith, which is the Negro’s -peculiar heritage, asserts itself in such a way, in the final stanza, as -to lift the poem to the heights of moral feeling.</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE EDICT</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning break:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They who at God an angry finger shake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Declaring that because He made them White,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their race should rule the world by sacred right.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They who deny a common Brotherhood—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who cry aloud, and think no Blackman good—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blood-cursed mob always eager to take<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The rope in hand or light the flaming stake,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jeering the wretch while he in death pain quakes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Blackmen, faithless, whose loud laughter wakes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Harsh echoes in the most unbiased places.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They who choose vice, and scorn the gentle graces—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who by their manners breed contemptuous hate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Suggesting jim-crow laws from state to state<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span>—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They who think on earth they may not find<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An ideal man nor woman of their kind.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But from some other Race that ideal take—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning break!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">We know, O Lord, that there will come a time,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When o’er the World will dawn the Age Sublime,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Truth shall call to all mankind to stand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before Thy throne as Brothers, hand in hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be not displeased with him who this song makes—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All these must die before the Morning breaks!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>If lyric poetry be self-revealment—and such it is, or it is nothing—we -can learn from the following poem how deep a sorrow at some time in his -life this poet must have experienced:</p> - -<p class="cpom">HOPELESSNESS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Had you called from the fire, or from the sea,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From ’mid the roaring flames, or dark’ning wave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With eagerness I then had come to thee,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To perish with thee if I could not save.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But now helpless I sit and watch you die,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There is no power can save, the doctors say;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I lift my eyes unto the silent sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And wonder why it is that mortals pray.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The title-poem of the booklet, <i>Negro Soldiers</i>, is no doubt Jamison’s -masterpiece. It is worthy of the universal admiration it has won from -those who know it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V<br /><br /> -<small>THE NEW FORMS OF POETRY</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> newer methods in poetry—free-verse, rhythmic strophes, polyphonic -prose—have been tried with success by only a few Negroes. Of free-verse -particularly not many noteworthy pieces have come from Negro poets. Well -or ill, each may judge according to his taste. But the objection has -been made that the Negro verse-makers of our time are bound by -tradition, are sophisticated craftsmen. More independence, more -differentness, seems to be demanded. But the conditions of their poetic -activity seem to me in this demand to be lost sight of. They are as much -the heirs of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury as their white contemporaries. -And the Negro is said to be preëminently imitative—that is, responsive -to environing example and influence. One requirement and only one can we -lay upon the Negro singer and that is the same we lay upon the artists -of every race and origin. However, for artistic freedom he has an -authority older than free-verse, and that authority is not outside his -own race. It is found in the old plantation melodies—rich in artistic -potentiality beyond exaggeration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span></p> - -<h3>I. FREE-VERSE</h3> - -<p>In Negro newspapers and magazines, rarely as yet in books, are to be -found some free-verse productions of which I will give some specimens. -From Will Sexton I shall quote here two brief poems in this form and in -a later chapter another (p. 233). His Whitemanesque manner will be -remarked. These brief pieces will suggest a poet of some force:</p> - -<h4><i>Songs of Contemporary Ethiopia</i></h4> - -<p class="cpom">THE BOMB THROWER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Down with everything black!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down with law and order!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up with the red flag!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up with the white South!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am America’s evil genius.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEW NEGRO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Out of the mist I see a new America—a land of ideals.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hear the music of my fathers blended with the “Stars and Stripes Forever.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am the crown of thorns Tyranny must bear a thousand years—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I am the New Negro.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Another vers-librist of individual quality is Andrea Razafkeriefo. He is -a prolific contributor to <i>The Negro World</i>, the newspaper organ of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> -Universal Negro Improvement Society. This paper regularly gives a -considerable portion of a page of each issue to original verse -contributions. One of Mr. Razafkeriefo’s recent free-verse poems is the -following, in which the style seems to me to be remarkably effective:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO CHURCH</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">That the Negro church possesses<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Extraordinary power,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That it is the greatest medium<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For influencing our people,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That it long has slept and faltered,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Failed to meet its obligations,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are, to honest and true thinkers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Facts which have to be admitted.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">For these reasons there are many<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who would have the church awaken<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And adopt the modern methods<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of all other institutions.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Make us more enlightened Christians,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Teach us courtesy and English,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Racial pride and sanitation,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Science, thrift and Negro history.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Yea, the preacher, like the shepherd,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Should be leader and protector,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And prepare us for the present<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Just as well as for the future;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He should know more than Scriptures,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And should ever be acquainted<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With all vital, daily subjects<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Helpful to his congregation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Give us manly, thinking preachers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And not shouting money-makers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men of intellect and vision,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who will really help our people:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men who make the church a guide-post<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the road of racial progress,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who will strive to fit the Negro<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For this world as well as heaven.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In another chapter I give one of Mr. Razafkeriefo’s poems in regular -stanzas of the traditional type. It is but just to state that his -productions exhibit a great variety of forms. His moods and traits, too, -are various. There is the evidence of ardent feeling and strong -conviction in most he writes.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 198px;"><a name="ill_033" id="ill_033"></a> -<a href="images/i_199_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_199_sml.jpg" width="198" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Langston Hughes</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>This poet gets his strange name (pronounced rä-zäf-ker-rāf) from the -island of Madagascar. His father, now dead, “falling in battle for -Malagasy freedom,” before the poet’s birth, was a nephew of the late -queen of Madagascar, Ranavalona III. His mother, a colored American, was -a daughter of a United States con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span>sul to Madagascar. The poet was born -in the city of Washington in 1895 and now resides in Cleveland, Ohio.</p> - -<p>To a young student in Columbia University we are indebted for some of -the most symmetrical and effective free-verse poems that have come to my -attention. His name is Langston Hughes. For information about him I -refer the reader to the first index, at the end of this book. This poem -appeared in <i>The Crisis</i>, January, 1922:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am a Negro:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Black as the night is black,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Black like the depths of my Africa.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve been a slave:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Cæsar told me to keep his door-steps clean,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I brushed the boots of Washington.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve been a worker:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Under my hand the pyramids arose.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I made mortar for the Woolworth building.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve been a singer:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All the way from Africa to Georgia I carried my sorrow songs.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I made ragtime.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’ve been a victim:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They lynch me now in Texas.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I am a Negro:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Black as the night is black,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Black like the depths of my Africa.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Other specimens of free-verse have been given on pages 67, 102, and 119. -In every instance the poet’s choice of this form seems to me justified -by the particular effectiveness of it.</p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">II. Prose Poems</span></h3> - -<h4><i>I. W. E. Burghardt DuBois</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_034" id="ill_034"></a> -<a href="images/i_201_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_201_sml.jpg" width="194" height="304" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">W. E. B. DuBois</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>The name of no Negro author is more widely known than that of W. E. -Burghardt DuBois. Editor, historian, sociologist, essayist, poet—he is -celebrated in the Five Continents and the Seven Seas. It is in his -impassioned prose that DuBois is most a poet. <i>The Souls of Black Folk</i> -throbs constantly on the verge of poetry, while the several chapters of -<i>Darkwater</i> end with a litany, chant, or credo, rhapsodical in character -and in free-verse form.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> In all this work Dr. DuBois is the spokesman of -perhaps as many millions of souls as any man living.</p> - -<p>“A Litany at Atlanta,” placed as an epilogue to “The Shadow of the -Years” in <i>Darkwater</i>,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> should be read as the litany of a race. Modern -literature has not such another cry of agony:</p> - -<p class="cpom">A LITANY AT ATLANTA</p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our -ears an-hungered in these fearful days—</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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?</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Thou knowest, good God!</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence and -the innocent be crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Justice, O Judge of men!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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?</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Awake, Thou that steepest!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, through -blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, -of women strong and free—far from cozenage, black hypocrisy, and chaste -prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Turn again, O Lord; leave us not to perish in our sin!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0">From lust of body and lust of blood,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">From lust of power and lust of gold,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">From the leagued lying of despot and of brute,—<br /></span> -<span class="i4"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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 where -church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the -greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>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: <i>Cease from Crime!</i> The word was mockery, -for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Turn again our captivity, O Lord!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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: <i>Work and Rise!</i> He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but someone -told how someone 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.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, O Heavenly Father!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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!</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Bewildered we are and passion-tossed, 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.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Keep not Thou silent, O God.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Sit not 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!</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Ah! Christ of all the Pities!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and -without, the liar. Whither? To death?</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Amen! Welcome, dark sleep!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Selah!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In yonder East trembles a star.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Thy Will, O Lord, be done!</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Kyrie Eleison!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little -children.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Our voices sink in silence and in night.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Hear us, good Lord.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In night, O God of a godless land!</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Amen!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In silence, O Silent God.</p> - -<div class="poetry1"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza1"> -<span class="i0"><i>Selah!</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>II. Kelly Miller</i></h4> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 211px;"><a name="ill_035" id="ill_035"></a> -<a href="images/i_206_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_206_sml.jpg" width="211" height="261" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Kelly Miller</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Dr. Kelly Miller is professor of sociology in Howard University. He has -been professor of mathematics. He is the author of several prose -works—able expositions of aspects of inter-racial problems. It is -rumored that he is a poet. However that may be, his admirable volume of -essays entitled <i>Out of the House of Bondage</i> concludes with a strophic -chant, highly poetical, and poured forth with the fervor of some old -Celtic bard, triumphant in the vision of a new day dawning:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">I SEE AND AM SATISFIED</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>The vision of a scion of a despised and rejected race, the span of whose -life is measured by the years of its Golden Jubilee, and whose fancy, -like the vine that girdles the tree-trunk, runneth both forward and -back.</p> -</div> - -<p class="hang1">I see the African savage as he drinks his palmy wine, and basks in -the sunshine of his native bliss, and is happy.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the man-catcher, impelled by thirst of gold, as he entraps -his simple-souled victim in the snares of bondage and death, by use -of force or guile.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the ocean basin whitened with his bones, and the ocean -current running red with his blood, amidst the hellish horrors of -the middle passage.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see him laboring for two centuries and a half in unrequited toil, -making the hillsides of our southland to glow with the snow-white -fleece of cotton, and the valleys to glisten with the golden -sheaves of grain.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see him silently enduring cruelty and torture indescribable, with -flesh flinching beneath the sizz of angry whip or quivering under -the gnaw of the sharp-toothed bloodhound.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see a chivalric civilization instinct with dignity, comity and -grace rising upon pillars supported by his strength and brawny arm.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the swarthy matron lavishing her soul in altruistic devotion -upon the offspring of her alabaster mistress.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the haughty sons of a haughty race pouring out their lustful -passion upon black womanhood, filling our land with a bronzed and -tawny brood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span></p> - -<p class="hang1">I see also the patriarchal solicitude of the kindly-hearted owners -of men, in whose breast not even iniquitous system could sour the -milk of human kindness.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I hear the groans, the sorrows, the sighings, the soul striving of -these benighted creatures of God, rising up from the low grounds of -sorrow and reaching the ear of Him Who regardeth man of the -lowliest estate.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I strain my ear to supernal sound, and I hear in the secret -chambers of the Almighty the order to the Captain of Host to break -his bond and set him free.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see Abraham Lincoln, himself a man of sorrows and acquainted with -grief, arise to execute the high decree.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see two hundred thousand black boys in blue baring their breasts -to the bayonets of the enemy, that their race might have some -slight part in its own deliverance.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the great Proclamation delivered in the year of my birth of -which I became the first fruit and beneficiary.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the assassin striking down the great Emancipator; and the -house of mirth is transformed into the Golgotha of the nation.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I watch the Congress as it adds to the Constitution new words, -which make the document a charter of liberty indeed.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the new-made citizen running to and fro in the first fruit of -his new-found freedom.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see him rioting in the flush of privilege which the nation had -vouchsafed, but destined, alas, not long to last.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see him thrust down from the high seat of political<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> power, by -fraud and force, while the nation looks on in sinister silence and -acquiescent guilt.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see the tide of public feeling run cold and chilly, as the vial -of racial wrath is wreaked upon his bowed and defenceless head.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see his body writhing in the agony of death as his groans issue -from the crackling flames, while the funeral pyre lights the -midnight sky with its dismal glare. My heart sinks with heaviness -within me.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see that the path of progress has never taken a straight line, -but has always been a zigzag course amid the conflicting forces of -right and wrong, truth and error, justice and injustice, cruelty -and mercy.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see that the great generous American Heart, despite the temporary -flutter, will finally beat true to the higher human impulse, and my -soul abounds with reassurance and hope.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see his marvelous advance in the rapid acquisition of knowledge -and acquirement of things material, and attainment in the higher -pursuits of life, with his face fixed upon that light which shineth -brighter and brighter unto the perfect day.</p> - -<p class="hang1">I see him who was once deemed stricken, smitten of God, and -afflicted, now entering with universal welcome into the patrimony -of mankind, and I look calmly upon the centuries of blood and tears -and travail of soul, and am satisfied.</p></div> - -<h4><i>III. Charles H. Conner</i></h4> - -<p>As a companion piece to this litany and this vision I will present -another vision that for calm, clear beauty of style takes us immediately -back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> to <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. The author calls it a sermonette, and it -is one of three contained in a very small book entitled <i>The Enchanted -Valley</i>. But the author is no preacher. He is a ship-yard worker in -Philadelphia—I almost said a “common” worker. But such workmen were -never common, anywhere, at any time. Charles Conner wears the garb and -wields the tools of a common workman, but he has most uncommon visions. -He is a seer and a philosopher. He has informed me that there is -American Indian blood in his veins. From the mystical and philosophical -character of his writings, both prose and verse, I should have expected -an East Indian strain. Twice have I visited his humble habitation, and -each time it was a visit to the Enchanted Valley.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 190px;"><a name="ill_036" id="ill_036"></a> -<a href="images/i_210_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_210_sml.jpg" width="190" height="264" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Charles H. Conner</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT IN THE NATURAL WORLD</p> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>At the dawning of a day, in a deep valley, a man awoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span></p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>It was a valley of treasures that everywhere abounded.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>He opened his eyes, and beheld the greensward bedecked with many colored -jewels that sparkled in the light.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>His ears caught the medley of sounds, that awoke innumerable echoes; and -with the balmy air peopled the valley with delights. How he came there, -or why, he knew not; nor scarcely thought or cared.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>As he gazed upon the multitude of things, in his heart upsprung desire; -and he gathered the treasures that lay around, till his arms were full, -and his body decked in all their bright array.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Then the sun went down behind the hill; and the vale grew dark; and the -night air chill; and the place grew solemn, silent, still.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>A new thing then, to mortal ken, seemed hovering on the threshold near. -A strange, fantastic thing, it crept, intangible, nearer, nearer swept, -the pallid, startling face of Fear!</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>But, the night brings sleep at last—and dreams; and day follows night; -and sunshine follows storm throughout the length of days. But a trace of -the dreams remains, like the faintly clinging scent that marks a hidden -trail; and so, because of his dreams, the man’s desire reached out, and -scaled the lofty peaks that walled him in.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>His pleasant valley seemed too narrow and confined.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span></p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>So, with his treasures fondly pressed to his beating heart, he tried to -scale the heights.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>He scrambled and struggled with might and main, slipped and arose; and -fell again and again. The spirit was willing, and valiant, and brave; -but the treasure encumbered it with fatal hold; and held him bound, as -with fold on fold a corpse is held in its lowly grave. So, try as he -might, he could not rise much higher than one’s hands can reach; and one -by one, his gathered treasures lost their brightness and their charm; as -gathered flowers wilt and fade; and his arms weary from the burden that -they bore, let fall and scattered lie, little by little, more and more -of the things he had gathered and vainly prized. And each thing lost was -so much lightness gained, enabling him to mount a little higher up the -rugged steep. And so it was till night was come again at last; and worn -and weary, he sank down to sleep and rest.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>And, as he slept, his arms relaxed their hold; and down the steep his -dwindling treasures rolled, till the last of them found their natural -level and resting place, the lower stretch of ground. ’Twas then a -strange sight met my gaze, long to be remembered in the coming days of -trial and endeavor.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>From out that sleeping form a luminous haze arose, airy and white; and -glowed within it an amber fire, as it mounted higher, higher; and, as it -arose, it had the appearance of a man; and its countenance was the -countenance of him that slept. Thus up and up it winged its flight, -until above the highest peak ’twas lost to sight. I pondered the matter -in wonder and awe, until long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> past the midnight hour, how that a soul -at last gained its longed for power to win the distant height.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>There is a kingdom of earth, and of water and of air.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Each has its own. The heavier cannot rise above its level, to the next -and lighter zone.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The treasures of the soul’s desire, were treasures of earth, whose -lightest joys were too heavy and too gross to be sustained in the finer, -rarer atmosphere; and thus were as a leaden weight that anchored the -soul to earth, without its being at all aware that the things it thought -so pleasant and so fair, were shackles to bind it hard and fast; and -make it impossible for it to gain the region that instinctively it felt -and knew was the rightful place of its abode.</p> -</div> - -<h4><i>IV. William Edgar Bailey</i></h4> - -<p>Yet one more prose-poem I will give, as a sort of coda to the series. It -is taken from a paper-covered booklet entitled <i>The Firstling</i>, by -William Edgar Bailey, from which <i>The Slump</i>, on page 65, was taken:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO A WILD ROSE</p> - -<p>The wild rose silently peeps from its uncouth habitation, thrives and -flourishes in its glory; its fragrant bud bows to sip the nectar of the -morning. Its delicate blossom blushes in the balmy breeze as the wind -tells its tale of adoration. Performing well its part, it withers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> and -decays; the chirping sparrow perches serenely on its boughs, only to -find it wrapped in sadness and solemnity—yet its grief-stained leaf and -weather beaten branches silently chant euphonic choruses in natural -song, in solemn commemoration of its faded splendor.</p> - -<p>Dead, yes dead—but in thy hibernal demise dost thou bequeath a truth -eternal as the stars. I saw thee, Rose, when the elf of spring hung thy -floral firstling upon that thorny bower and robed thy ungainly form in a -garb of green, and, Rose, thou wert sweet!</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I saw the same vernal sprite pay homage to thy highbrowed kinsman in -yonder stench-bestifled dell, and, in his pause of an instant, baptized -its sacred being in the same aromatic blood. I saw thee, Rose, in thy -autumnal desolation, when the Storm-God was wont to do thee harm, laid -waste thy foliage, and cast at thy feet, as a challenge, his mantle of -snow, and the Law of Non-resistance was still unbroken.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Tell me thy story, Rose! Do the stars in their unweary watch breathe -forth upon thee a special benediction from the sky? Or did the wind waft -a drop of blood from the Cross to thy dell to sanctify thy being? Oh, -leave me not, thou Redeemer of the Woods, to plod the way alone! My -Nazarene, grant but to me a double portion of thy humble pride—and in -my tearful grief permit thou me to pluck a fragrant thought from thy -thorny bosom!</p> - -<h4><i>V. R. Nathaniel Dett</i></h4> - -<p>Primarily a composer and pianist, Mr. Dett exemplifies the close kinship -of poetry and music,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> for in the former art as well as in the latter he -exhibits a finely creative spirit. To speak first of his compositions -for the piano, the following works are widely known and greatly admired -by lovers of music: “Magnolia Suite,” “In the Bottoms Suite,” “Listen to -the Lambs,” “Marche Negre,” “Arietta,” “Magic Song,” “Open Yo’ Eyes,” -and “Hampton, My Home by the Sea.” Mr. Dett took a degree in music at -Oberlin Conservatory of Music, and a Harvard prize in music (1920). The -musical endowment for which his race is celebrated is cultured and -refined in him and guided by science. The basis of his brilliant -compositions is to be found in the folk melodies of his people. The -musical genius of his people expresses itself through him with -conscious, perfected art. To sit under the spell of his performance of -his own pieces is to acquire a new idea of the Negro people.</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"><a name="ill_037" id="ill_037"></a> -<a href="images/i_215_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_215_sml.jpg" width="197" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">R. Nathaniel Dett</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>The same refined and exalted spirit reveals itself in Mr. Dett’s verse -as in his music. Having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> this combination of gifts, he cannot but raise -the highest expectations. I present in this place a poem in blank verse -of nobly contemplative mood, suggesting far more, as the best poems do, -than it says:</p> - -<p class="cpom">AT NIAGARA</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">—No, no! Not tonight, my Friend,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I may not, cannot go with you tonight.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And think not that I love you any less<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Because this now I’d rather be alone.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My heart is strangely torn; unwonted thoughts<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Have so infused themselves into my mind<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That altogether there is wrought in me<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A sort of hapless mood, whose phantom power<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Born perhaps of my own fantasies<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Has ta’en me. By its subtle spell<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’m wooed and changed from what’s my natural self.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I am so possessed I can but wish<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For nothing else save this and solitude.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">If in companionship I sought relief<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Yours indeed would be the first I’d seek.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There is none other whom I so esteem,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">None who quite so perfect understands.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your presence always is a soothing balm,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">—Ne’er failing me when troubled. But tonight,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Forgive me, Friend—I’d rather be alone.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Leave me, let me with myself commune.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Presently if no change come, I shall go<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Stand in the shadowed gorge, or where the moon<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Throws her silver on the rippling stream,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">List to the sounding cataract’s thundering fall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or hark to spirit voices in the wind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i2">For methinks sometimes that these strange moods<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are heaven-sent us by the jealous God<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Who’d thus remind us that no human love<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Can fully satisfy the longing heart:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Perhaps an intimation sent to souls<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That he would speak somewhat, or nearer draw.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Therefore I’ll to Him. Talking waters, stars,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The moon and whispering trees shall make me wise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In what it is He’d have my spirit know.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And Nature singing from the earth and sky<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall fill me with such peace, that in the morn<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’ll be the gay glad self you’ve always known.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Urge me no further, now you understand.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A nobler friend than you none ever knew—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But not this time. Tonight I’ll be alone;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And if from moonlit valley God should speak,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or in the tumbling waters sound a call,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or whisper in the sighing of the wind,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He’ll find me with an undivided heart<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Patient waiting to hear; but Friend,—alone.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI<br /><br /> -<small>DIALECT VERSE</small></h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> reader of these pages may ask: “But where is the Negro’s humorous -verse? Here is the pathos, where is the comedy of Negro life?” It may -also be asked where the dialect verse is, and the dramatic narratives -and character pieces that made Dunbar famous.</p> - -<p>The present-day Negro poets do not, as has been asserted, spurn dialect. -Many of them have given a portion of their pages to character pieces in -dialect, humorous in effect. Whether those who have excluded such pieces -from their books have done so on principle or not I cannot say. In -general, however, these writers are too deeply earnest for dialect -verse, and the “broken tongue” is too suggestive of broken bodies and -servile souls. But by those who have employed dialect its uses and -effects have been well understood. Dialect, as is proven by Burns, -Lowell, Riley, Dunbar, often gets nearer the heart than the language of -the schools is able to do, and for home-spun philosophy, for mother-wit, -for folk-lore, and for racial humor, for whatever is quaint and peculiar -and native in any people, it is the only proper medium. Poets of the -finest art from Theocritus to Tenny<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>son have so used it. Genius here as -elsewhere will direct the born poet and instruct him when to use dialect -and when the language that centuries of tradition have refined and -standardized and encrusted with poetic associations. There is a world of -poetic wealth in the strangely naïve heart of the rough-schooled Negro -for which the smooth-worn, disconsonanted language of the cabin and the -field is beautifully appropriate. There is also another world of poetic -wealth in the Negro of culture for which only the language of culture is -adequate. To such we must say: “All things are yours.”</p> - -<p>While, as remarked, many Negro verse-writers have used dialect -occasionally, in the ways indicated, Waverley Turner Carmichael has made -it practically his one instrument of expression in his little book -entitled <i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>. A representative piece is the -following:</p> - -<p class="cpom">MAMMY’S BABY SCARED</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hush now, mammy’s baby scaid,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Don’ it cry, eat yo’ bread;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nothin’ ain’t goin’ bother you,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Does’, it bothers mammy too.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mammy ain’t goin’ left it ’lone<br /></span> -<span class="i0">W’ile de chulen all are gone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hush, now, don’ it cry no mo’e,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ain’t goin’ lay it on de flo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span>’.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Hush now, finish out yo’ nap,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">W’ile I make yo’ luttle cap;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blessid luttle sugar-pie,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hush now, baby, don’ it cry.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mammy’s goin’ to make its dres’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Go to sleep an’ take yo’ res’;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hush now, don’ it cry no mo’e,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ain’t goin’ lay you on de flo’.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Carmichael was born at Snow Hill, Alabama, and in the Industrial -Institute there received the rudiments of an education, which was added -to by a summer term at Harvard. Since the book mentioned I have seen -nothing from his pen.</p> - -<p>The elder Cotter in <i>A White Song and a Black Song</i> gives us in the -second part several dialect pieces in the most successful manner. -Several are satirical, like the following:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE DON’T-CARE NEGRO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s in your cran’um<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So your collar’s high an’ true.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s in your pocket<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So de blackin’s on your shoe.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ who keeps you comp’ny<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So he halfs up what he’s tuk.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ what way you’s gwine<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you’s gwine away from wuk.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ de race’s troubles<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you profits by dem all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ your leaders’ stumblin’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you he’ps to mak’ dem fall.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ what’s true to-morrow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you libes a dream to-day.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ what tax is levied<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So it’s not on craps or play.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ how hard you labors<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you does it to de en’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dat de judge is boun’ to sen’ you<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ your record to de “pen.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ your manhood’s risin’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you habe a way to stay it.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ folks’ good opinion<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you have a way to slay it.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ man’s why an’ wharfo’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So de worl’ is big an’ roun.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Neber min’ whar next you’s gwine to<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So you’s six foot under groun’.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Raymond Garfield Dandridge in <i>The Poet and Other Poems</i> has included a -handful of dialect pieces which prove him a master of this species of -composition. I will select but one to represent this class of his work -here:</p> - -<p class="cpom">DE INNAH PART</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I ’fess Ise ugly, big, an’ ruff,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mah voice is husky, mannah’s gruff;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, mah gal sed, “Neb mine yore hide,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I jedged you by yore inside side”;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ sed, dat she hab alwuz foun’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De gole beneaf de surfuss groun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>’.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She claims dat offen rail ruff hides<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Am boun’ erroun’ hi’ grade insides;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">W’ile sum dat ’pear “sharp ez a tack”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Kinceals a heart dat’s hard an’ black;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’, to prove her way ob thinkin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gibs fo’ zample Abeham Linkin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole “Hones’ Abe,” so lank an’ tall,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Worn’t no parlah posin’ doll:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet he stood out miles erbove<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Uddah men, in truf an’ love.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ in han’lin’ ’fairs of state,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Proved de greates’ ob de great.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In makin’ great men, Nature mus’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fo’ got erbout de beauty dus’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ fashun dem frum nachel clay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">De gritty kine, dat doan decay.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But, mos’ her time she spent, I know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Erpon de parts dat duzen show.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Two poems by Sterling M. Means, one in standard English and one in -dialect may well be placed here side by side for comparison as being -identical in theme and feeling, and differing but in manner. They are -taken from his book entitled <i>The Deserted Cabin and Other Poems</i>:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE OLD PLANTATION GRAVE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis a scene so sad and lonely,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Tis the site of ancient toil;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where our fathers bore their burdens,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where they sleep beneath the soil;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the fields are waste and barren,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the sugar cane did grow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where they tilled the corn and cotton,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In the years of long ago;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And along the piney hillside,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where the hound pursued the slave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In the dreary years of bondage,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">There he fills an humble grave.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE OLD DESERTED CABIN</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dis ole deserted cabin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Remin’s me ob de past;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ when I gits ter t’inkin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">De tears comes t’ick an’ fast.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I wunner whur’s A’nt Doshy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I wunner whur’s Brur Jim;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I hyeahs no corn-songs ringin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I hyeahs no Gospel hymn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dis ole deserted cabin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Am tumblin’ in decay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ all its ole-time dwellers<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hab gone de silent way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dey voices hushed in silence,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">De cabin drear an’ lone;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ dey who used ter lib hyeah<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Long sense is dead an’ gone.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>J. Mord Allen’s poems and tales in dialect are worthy of distinction. -They are executed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> the true spirit of art. I should rank his book, -elsewhere named, as one of the few best the Negro has contributed to -literature. I will give here one specimen of his dialect verse:</p> - -<p class="cpom">A VICTIM OF MICROBES</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="c">NOTE.—Physicians are agreed that laziness is a microbe disease.</p></div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Go en fetch er lawyer, ’Tilda,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Kaze I wants ter make mah will;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Neenter min’ erbout de doctor—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">’Tain’t no use ter take er pill.—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Chunk up de kitchen fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">En fetch mah easy-ch’er,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">En put er piller in it:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Maybe I’ll git better hyeah.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I done hyeahed de doctor say it—de doctor hisse’f said it—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I’m plumb chock full o’ microbes en mah time’s ercomin’ quick.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So, ’stid o’ up en fussin’ wid me fer bein’ lazy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Yer’d better be er nussin’ me, ’kaze I’m jes’ mighty sick.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">I ’spec’ I must er cotch it<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Back in Tennessee;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">’Kaze, fur ez I kin ’member,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">I wuz bad ez I could be—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">P’intly hated hoein’ ’taters—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Couldn’t chop er stick o’ wood—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Couldn’t pick er sack o’ cotton—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Never wuz er lick o’ good.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">En de folks dey called me lazy—my own mammy called me lazy<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When, ’stid o’ gwine plowin’, I wuz fishin’ in de creek;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Took en tole de white folks ’bout it, en made er heap o’ trouble,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">En all fer want o’ medersun—me bein’ mighty sick.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">So, now yer knows de reason<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Why I’m always loafin’ ’roun’,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">When jobs is runnin’ after men<br /></span> -<span class="i4">In ev’y part o’ town.<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Dar’s patches on mah breeches,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">En you’s er sight ter see;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Dat’s de work o’ dem same microbes,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">En it kain’t be laid on me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Kaze de doctor he explained it, en de doctor’s book explained it,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">En some Latin words explained it, en explained it mighty quick—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It’s mah lights er else mah liver, er maybe, its mah stomach—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It’s somep’n in mah insides, en it sho’ has made me sick.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">En so, I hope yer’ll git yerse’f<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Er washin’, now, er two,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Er get er job o’ scrubbin’<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Er somp’n else ter do;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">’Kaze dat doctor p’intly showed me<br /></span> -<span class="i4">So I couldn’t he’p but tell<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Dat dem microbes got me han’ en foot<br /></span> -<span class="i4">En I jes’ kain’t git well.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Darfo’ I hope yer’ll he’p me ter pass mah las’ days easy,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">En keep er fire in de stove en somep’n in de pan.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I know it’s hard ter do it, en I’m sorry I kain’t he’p yer;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But me ’n de doctor bofe knows I’m er mighty sick man.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>James Weldon Johnson entitled a section of his book <i>Jingles and -Croons</i>. Among these pieces, so disparagingly designated, are to be -found some of the best dialect writing in the whole range of Negro -literature. Every quality of excellence is there. The one piece I give -is perhaps not above the average of a score in his book:</p> - -<p class="cpom">MY LADY’S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY</p> - -<p class="c">(Negro Love Song)</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Breeze a-sighin’ and a-blowin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Southern summer night.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stars a-gleamin’ and a-glowin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Moon jus shinin’ right.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Strollin’, like all lovers do,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Honey on her lips to waste;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Speck I’m gwine to steal a taste.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’<br /></span> -<span class="i3">’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bird a-whistlin’ and a-swayin’<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In de live-oak tree;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Kiss dat gal fo’ me.”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Look heah, Mister Mockin’ Bird,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gwine to take you at yo’ word;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If I meets ma Waterloo,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gwine to blame it all on you.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’<br /></span> -<span class="i3">’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Honey in de rose, I ’spose, is<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Put der fo’ de bee;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Honey on her lips, I knows, is<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Put der jes fo’ me.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seen a sparkle in her eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Heard her heave a little sigh;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Felt her kinder squeeze mah han’,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Nuff to make me understan’.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Numerous other writers would furnish quite as good specimens of -dialectical verse as those given. This medium of artistic expression is -not being neglected, it is only made secondary and, as it were, -incidental. By perhaps half of the poets it is not used. With a few, and -they of no little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> talent, it is the main medium. Among this few, -Carmichael has been named; S. Jonathan Clark, of Dublin, Mississippi, -and Theodore Henry Shackelford, of Jamaica Plains, New York, are others.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 195px;"><a name="ill_038" id="ill_038"></a> -<a href="images/i_228_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_228_sml.jpg" width="195" height="254" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Theodore Henry Shackelford</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Shackelford, with little schooling, displays a versatility of talent. -His own pen has illustrated with interesting realistic sketches his book -entitled <i>My Country and Other Poems</i>, and for some of his lyrics he has -written music. A large proportion of his pieces are in dialect, much in -the spirit of Dunbar. His best productions in standard English are -ballads. He tells a tale in verse with Wordsworthian simplicity and -feeling. Mr. Clark is a school principal, with the education that -implies. He has not yet published a book.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII<br /><br /> -<small>THE POETRY OF PROTEST</small></h2> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 359px;"><a name="ill_039" id="ill_039"></a> -<a href="images/i_229_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_229_sml.jpg" width="359" height="212" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Equality and Justice for All</span></p> - -<p>(Photograph of a panel of the Carl Schurz Monument)</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">As</span> elsewhere intimated there is being produced in America a literature -of which America, as the term is commonly understood, is not aware. It -is a literature of protest—protest sometimes pathetic and prayerful, -sometimes vehement and bitter. It comes from Negro writers, in prose and -verse, in the various forms of fiction, drama, essay, editorial, and -lyric. It is only with the lyric form that we are here concerned. Of -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> we shall make a special presentation, in this chapter.</p> - -<p>An artistic and restrained expression of the protest against irrational -color prejudice, in the plaintive, pathetic key, is found in the -following free-verse poem by Winston Allen:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE BLACK VIOLINIST</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I touched the violin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, whose hand was black,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a grand salon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In a Russian palace.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I touched the violin<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the dream-born strains<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Chanted by the Congo<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Soared to Heaven’s chambers.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Could I touch the violin?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I, whose hand was black?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And bring to life dream music?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Men had taunted me,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Age-worn months: their jeers<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Snapped to bits my heartstrings,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Snapped my inner soul;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And the sting of living<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tortured me the livelong day.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Sometimes the protest runs in a lighter vein—as thus, in verses -entitled:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">OLD JIM CROW</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wherever we live, it’s right to forgive,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It’s wrong to hold malice, we know,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But there’s one thing that’s true, from all points of view,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All Negroes hate old man Jim Crow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">His home is in hell; he loves here to dwell;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We meet him wherever we go;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In all public places, where live both the races,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You’ll always see Mr. Jim Crow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Be we well educated, even to genius related,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">We may have a big pile of dough,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That cuts not a figger, you still are a nigger,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And that is the law with Jim Crow.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>The Nashville Eye.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>But the Negro is seldom humorous these days on the subject of racial -discriminations. Occasionally, in dialect verse, he still makes merry -with the foibles or over-accentuated traits of certain types of the -Negro. In general, however, the Negro verse-smith goes to his work with -a grim aspect. He is there to smite. Sometimes the anvil clangs, more -mightily than musically. But there is precedent.</p> - -<p>A stanza each from two poems somewhat intense will serve to show the -character of much verse in Negro newspapers. The first is from verses -entitled “Sympathy,” by Tilford Jones:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mourn for the thousands slain,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The youthful and the strong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mourn for the last; but pray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For those hung by the mobbing throng.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pray to our God above,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To break the fell destroyer’s sway,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And show His saving love.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The second is the last stanza of a poem entitled <i>Shall Race Hatred -Prevail?</i> by Adeline Carter Watson.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">By the tears of Negro mothers,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the woes of Negro wives,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the sighs of Negro children,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By your gallant snuffed-out lives,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">By the throne of God eternal;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Standing hard by Heaven’s gate,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ye shall crush this cursed, infernal,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Western stigma: groundless hate!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The following two poems have a world of pathos for every reflecting -person, in the unanswered question of each. The first is by Mrs. Georgia -Douglas Johnson:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO MY SON</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Shall I say, “My son, you are branded in this country’s pageantry,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Foully tethered, bound forever, and no forum makes you free?”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall I mark the young light fading through your soul-enchanneled eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As the dusky pall of shadows screen the highway of your sky?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or shall I with love prophetic bid you dauntlessly arise,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Spurn the handicap that binds you, taking what the world denies?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bid you storm the sullen fortress built by prejudice and wrong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a faith that shall not falter in your heart and on your tongue!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The second is by Will Sexton:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO MY LOST CHILD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">It is well, child of my heart, the rosebush drops its petals on your grave.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It is well, child of my heart, the sparrow sings to you when Aurora has rouged the sky.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In your trundle bed deep in the bosom of the earth you can dream pleasanter dreams than I.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You have never felt the sting of living in a white man’s civilization and beneath a white man’s laws.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You have never been forced to dance to the music of hate played by an idle orchestra.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You have never toiled long hours and bowed and scraped for the chance to breathe.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In your dreams you wonder in the Heaven beyond the skies with the God civilization rebukes.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tell me, little child, are you not happy in that realm no white man can enter?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In much of this utterance of protest, this arraignment of the white -man’s civilization that rebukes God, there may be more passion than -poesy. But out of such passion, as it were a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> rumbling of thunder, the -lightning will one day leap. A poet born and reared in South Carolina, -Joshua Henry Jones, Jr., appeals from man’s inhumanities to God’s -prevailing power in passionate stanzas of which this is the first, the -rest being like:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O God, behold the crime.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And midst the mad mob’s howling<br /></span> -<span class="i2">How sweet the church bells chime!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">You say this cannot be?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">See where his lead-torn body<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mute hangs from yonder tree.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>This or a similar lynching provoked the following lines from another, -Walter Everette Hawkins, in a poem entitled <i>A Festival in Christendom</i>. -After relating that the white people of a certain community were on -their way to church on the Sabbath day, the poem continues:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so this Christian mob did turn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From prayer to rob, to lynch and burn.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A victim helplessly he fell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To tortures truly kin to hell;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They bound him fast and strung him high,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They cut him down lest he should die<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before their energy was spent<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In torturing to their heart’s content.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">They tore his flesh and broke his bones,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And laughed in triumph at his groans;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They chopped his fingers, clipped his ears<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And passed them round as souvenirs.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They bored hot irons in his side<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And reveled in their zeal and pride;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They cut his quivering flesh away<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And danced and sang as Christians may;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then from his side they tore his heart<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And watched its quivering fibres dart.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And then upon his mangled frame<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They piled the wood, the oil and flame.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest there be left one of his creed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One to perpetuate his breed;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lest there be one to bear his name<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or build the stock from which he came,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They dragged his bride up to the pyre<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And plunged her headlong in the fire,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Full-freighted with an unborn child,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hot embers on her form they piled.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they raised a Sabbath song,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The echo sounded wild and strong,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A benediction to the skies<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That crowned the human sacrifice.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Few are the poets quoted or mentioned in this volume who have not -contributed to this literature of protest. James Weldon Johnson, whose -predominant motive is artistic creation, affords more than one poem in -which the note of protest is sounded in pathos. Pathos is indeed the -characteristic note of the great body of Negro verse. Aided by the two -preceding extracts to an under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span>standing of Johnson’s point of view, the -reader will appreciate the following poem, remarkable for that restraint -which adds to the potency of art:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE BLACK MAMMY</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O whitened head entwined with turban gay,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O foster-mother in whose arms there lay<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The race whose sons are masters of the land!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was thine eyes that followed through the length<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of infant days these sons. In times of old<br /></span> -<span class="i0">It was thy breast that nourished them to strength.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The golden head, the face and brow of snow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So often has it ’gainst thy broad, dark breast<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lain, set off like a quickened cameo.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thou simple soul, as cuddling down that babe<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came ne’er the thought to thee, swift like a stab,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That it some day might crush thine own black child?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>There died in Fort McHenry hospital, February, 2, 1921, a soldier-poet -of the Negro race, who had been called “the poet laureate of the New -Negro,” his name Lucian B. Watkins. He deserved the title, whatever may -be the exact definition of “the New Negro.” For in his lyrics, of many -forms, racial consciousness reached a degree of intensity to which only -a disciplined<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> sense of art set a limit.—He was born in a cabin at -Chesterfield, Virginia, struggled in the usual way for the rudiments of -book-knowledge, became a teacher, then a soldier. His health was wrecked -in the World War. He died before his powers were matured.—Short and -simple are the annals of the poet. Before one of his intenser race poems -I shall give his last lyric cry, uttered but a few days before his -lingering death:</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 192px;"><a name="ill_040" id="ill_040"></a> -<a href="images/i_237_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_237_sml.jpg" width="192" height="265" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Lucian B. Watkins</span></p></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My fallen star has spent its light<br /></span> -<span class="i4">And left but memory to me;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My day of dream has kissed the night<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Farewell, its sun no more I see;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My summer bloomed for winter’s frost:<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Alas, I’ve lived and loved and lost!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What matters it to-day should earth<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Lay on my head a gold-bright crown<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Lit with the gems of royal worth<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Befitting well a king’s renown?—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My lonely soul is trouble-tossed,<br /></span> -<span class="i4">For I have lived and loved and lost.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great God! I dare not question Thee—<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Thy way eternally is just;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">This seeming mystery to me<br /></span> -<span class="i4">Will be revealed, if I but trust;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, Thou alone dost know the cost<br /></span> -<span class="i4">When one has lived and loved and lost.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The following sonnet, entitled “The New Negro,” will serve to represent -much of Watkins’s verse:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">He thinks in black. His God is but the same<br /></span> -<span class="i0">John saw—with hair “like wool” and eyes “as fire”—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who makes the visions for which men aspire.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His kin is Jesus and the Christ who came<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Humbly to earth and wrought His hallowed aim<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Midst human scorn. Pure is his heart’s desire;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His life’s religion lifts; his faith leads higher.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Love is his Church, and Union is its name.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Lo, he has learned his own immortal rôle<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In this momentous drama of the hour;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Has read aright the heavens’ Scriptural scroll<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Bove ancient wrong—long boasting in its tower.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ah, he has sensed the truth. Deep in his soul<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He feels the manly majesty of power.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The protest not infrequently takes the form of entreaty and appeal, -sometimes the form of an invocation of divine wrath upon the doers of -evil. The following poem from Watkins, unique and effective in form and -biblical phrasing, is the kind of appeal that will not out of the mind:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span></p> - -<p class="cpom">A MESSAGE TO THE MODERN PHARAOHS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">(Loose him and let him go—John 11.44)<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Loose him!”—this man on whom you plod<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beneath your heel hate-iron-shod;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His silent sorrow troubles God—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">There will be plagues, wars will not cease,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There cannot be a lasting peace<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Until this being you release—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each doomful kingdom—throne and crown—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Built on the lowly fettered down,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Shall perish—lo, the heavens frown—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Naught but a name is Liberty,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Naught but a name—Democracy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Till love has made each mortal free—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Loose him!” He has his part to play<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In Life’s Great Drama, day by day,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He has his mission, God’s own way,—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Loose him!” ’Twill be your master rôle,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twill be your triumph and your goal:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">’Twill be the saving of your soul—<br /></span> -<span class="i6">“Let him go!”<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>Mr. Hawkins, whom I have quoted, entitled his book <i>Chords and -Discords</i>. What did he mean by “discords”? Perhaps a disparagement of -his muse’s efforts at music. Perhaps, and rather, something in the -content, for the contrasts are sharp, the tones are piercing. These -“discords” abound in contemporary Negro verse. Between the octave and -the sestet of the following sonnet, by Mrs. Carrie W. Clifford, the -discord is of the kind that stabs you:</p> - -<p class="cpom">AN EASTER MESSAGE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Now quivering to life, all nature thrills<br /></span> -<span class="i0">At the approach of that triumphant queen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Pink-fingered Easter, trailing robes of green<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Tunefully o’er the flower-embroidered hills,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her hair perfumed of myriad daffodils:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Upon her swelling bosom now are seen<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dream-frail lilies with their snowy sheen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As lightly she o’erleaps the spring-time rills.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To black folk choked within the deadly grasp<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of racial hate, what message does she bring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of resurrection and the hope of spring?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Assurance their death-stupor is a mask—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A sleep, with elements potential, rife,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Ready to burst full-flowered into life.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The Negro’s deep resentment of his wrongs has found its most artistic -expression in the verse of a poet who came to us from Jamaica—Mr. -Claude McKay. In another chapter I have given the reader an opportunity -to judge of his merits. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> will be represented here by a sonnet, -written, I believe, shortly after the race-riot in the national capital, -July, 1919. It has been widely reprinted in the Negro newspapers.</p> - -<p class="cpom">IF WE MUST DIE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If we must die, let it not be like hogs<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Making their mock at our accursed lot.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">So that our precious blood may not be shed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In vain; then even the monsters we defy<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Shall be constrained to honor us, though dead!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Oh, kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What though before us lies the open grave?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Pressed to the wall, dying, but—fighting back!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Race consciousness has recently attained an extraordinary pitch in the -Negro, and there seems to be no prospect of any abatement. The -verse-smiths one and all have borne witness to a feeling of great -intensity on all subjects pertaining to their race—the discriminations -and injustices practised against it, the limitations that would be -imposed upon it, the contumelies that would offend it. Ardent appeals -are therefore made to race pride and ardent exhortations to race unity. -The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> ancient rôle of the poet whereby he is identified with the prophet -is being resumed by the enkindled souls of black men. With their natural -gift for music and eloquence, with their increasing culture, with their -building up of a poetic tradition now in process, with this -intensification of race consciousness, almost anything may be expected -of the Negro in another generation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br /><br /> -<small>MISCELLANEOUS POEMS</small></h2> - -<h4><i>I. Eulogistic</i></h4> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 194px;"><a name="ill_041" id="ill_041"></a> -<a href="images/i_243_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_243_sml.jpg" width="194" height="262" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p><span class="smcap">Mae Smith Johnson</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Altogether</span> admirable is the disposition of Negro verse-writers to -eulogize the notable personages of their race, the men and women who -have blazed the trail of advance. The mention of Attucks, Black Sampson, -Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, and others like these, all practically -unknown to white readers, is frequent, and reverential odes and sonnets -to Douglass, Toussaint L’Ouverture, Washington, Dunbar, are many and -enthusiastic. Here as elsewhere, however, I refrain from giving mere -titles and from comments on productions merely cited. The reader will -find such poems as I allude to in every poet’s volume.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> I refer to this -body of eulogistic verse only to suggest to the reader who takes up the -writings of the American Negroes that he will learn that they have a -heritage of heroic traditions from which poetry springs in every race.</p> - -<p>Instead of giving here such specimens of poetic eulogy as I have alluded -to, however, I shall give a few poems of a more general significance, -poems of appeal or tribute to the entire black race or poems of -affectionate tribute to individuals. A free-verse poem entitled “The -Negro,” by Mr. Langston Hughes, on page 200, may be recalled. Here is a -sonnet with the same title, by Mr. McKay, which appeared in <i>The -People’s Pilot</i>, published in Richmond, Va.:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Think ye I am not fiend and savage too?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Think ye I could not arm me with a gun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And shoot down ten of you for every one<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be not deceived, for every deed ye do<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I could match—outmatch: am I not Afric’s son,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Black of that black land where black deeds are done?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But the Almighty from the darkness drew<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Awhile to burn on the benighted earth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thy dusky face I set among the white<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For thee to prove thyself of highest worth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Before the world is swallowed up in night,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To show thy little lamp; go forth, go forth!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p>From another Virginia magazine, also now defunct, <i>The Praiseworthy -Muse</i>, of Norfolk, I take the following poem, signed by John J. Fenner, -Jr.:</p> - -<p class="cpom">RISE! YOUNG NEGRO—RISE!</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ho! we from slumber wake!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Begin our daily task anew—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Thank God we’re spared to—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Thy task may be an humble one.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">However great, however small,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Honesty and respect for all—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Each has a race to run.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Enter now while we’re young,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though weak and just begun.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Our banner flown will some day read:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Victory’s ours! We’ve won the race.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Then let us live in God by grace.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Rise! young Negro—rise!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>In spirit and in form both these productions seem to be quite -noteworthy. The first has in it something darkly and terribly ominous, -while the second has all the fervor of religion in its youth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> The class -of poems to follow will afford a contrast. They will bear witness to -that pride of race, perhaps, which we of the white race have commended -to the colored people:</p> - -<p class="cpom">DAYBREAK</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Awake! Arise! Men of my race—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I see our morning star,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And feel the dawn breeze on my face<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Creep inward from afar.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I feel the dawn, with soft-like tread,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Steal through our lingering night,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Aglow with flame our sky to spread<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In floods of morning light.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Arise, my men! Be wide-awake<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To hear the bugle call<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For Negroes everywhere to break<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The bands that bind us all.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Great Lincoln, now with glory graced,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All Godlike with the pen,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Our chattel fetters broke and placed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Us in the ranks of men.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But even he could not awake<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The dead, nor make alive,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor change stern Nature’s laws, which make<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The fittest to survive.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let every man his soul inure<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In noblest sacrifice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And with a heart of oak endure<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ignoble, arrant prejudice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Endurance, love, will yet prevail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Against all laws of hate;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Such armaments can never fail<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Our race its best estate.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Let none make common cause with sin,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Be that in honor bound,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For they who fight with God must win<br /></span> -<span class="i2">On every battleground.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Though wrongs there are, and wrongs have been,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And wrongs we still must face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We have more friends than foes within<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The Anglo-Saxon race.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In spite of all the Babel cries<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of those who rage and shout,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God’s silent forces daily rise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To bring his will about.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>George Marion McClellan.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO WOMAN</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Were it mine to select a woman<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As queen of the hall of fame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One who has fought the gamest fight<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And climbed from the depths of shame;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I would have to give the sceptre<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To the lowliest of them all;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She, who has struggled through the years,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With her back against the wall.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Wronged by the men of an alien race,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Deserted by those of her own;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With a prayer in her heart, a song on her lips<br /></span> -<span class="i2">She has carried the fight alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">In spite of the snares all around her;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Her marvelous pluck has prevailed<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And kept her home together—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When even her men have failed.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What of her sweet, simple nature?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">What of her natural grace?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her richness and fullness of color,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That adds to the charm of her face?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Is there a woman more shapely?<br /></span> -<span class="i2">More vigorous, loving and true?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yea, wonderful Negro woman<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The honor I’d give to you.<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>Andrea Razafkeriefo.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE NEGRO CHILD</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My little one of ebon hue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My little one with fluffy hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The wide, wide world is calling you<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To think and do and dare.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The lessons of stern yesterdays<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That stir your blood and poise your brain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are etching out the simple ways<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By which you must attain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">An echo here, a memory there,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An act that links itself with truth;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A vision that makes troubles air<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And toils the joy of youth.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">These be your food, your drink, your rest,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">These be your moods of drudgeful ease,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For these be nature’s spur and test<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And heaven’s fair decrees.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My little one of ebon hue,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My little one with fluffy hair,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Go train your head and hands to do,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your head and heart to dare.<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THE MOTHER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mother soothes her mantled child<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With plaintive melody, and wild;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A deep compassion brims her eye<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And stills upon her lips the sigh.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her thoughts are leaping down the years,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er branding bars, through seething tears:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her heart is sandaling his feet<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Adown the world’s corroding street.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then, with a start, she dons a smile,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">His tender yearnings to beguile;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And only God will ever know<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The wordless measure of her woe.<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>Georgia Douglas Johnson.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The foregoing poems are generic in character, the following, specific. -And yet there is much in these also that is typical and universal:</p> - -<p class="cpom">TO A NEGRO MOTHER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I hear you croon a little lullaby,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I see you press his little lips to yours,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Again old scenes come to my memory,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As if Love’s stream had gained the long lost shores;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">As if the tidal wave of human good<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had thrown o’er me the mantle of control;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As if the beauty of true motherhood<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Had gained the premise of my common soul.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The power to make, the power to break apart;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The power to lift, the power again to lower<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And am I speaking as in hapless rhymes<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of things at least that may not come to pass?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Or is it not the spirit of the times<br /></span> -<span class="i2">All things that savour power to amass?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Canst thou not see within thine own pure soul<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That which thy Race and all the world awaits,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The master-leader who will reach the goal<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And hew with sword of flame the city gates?<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">O Negro mother, from the dust arise,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Take up your task with grace and fortitude,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Create anew the captains of the past;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That when the mighty quest is gained at last,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.<br /></span> -<span class="i13"><i>Ben E. Burrell.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">TO MY GRANDMOTHER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">You ’mind me of the winter’s eve<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When low the sinking sun<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Casts soft bright rays upon the snow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And day, now almost done,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">In silence deep prepares to leave,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And calmly waits the signal “Go.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Your eyes are faded vestal lights<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That once the hearth illumed,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where vestal virgins vigil kept,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And budding virtue bloomed:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like stars that beam on summer nights,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Asleep, one night, an angel kissed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your hair and on the morn<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The raven threads were silv’ry gray;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The angel fair had borne<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your youth away ere it you missed<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And left old age to bless your way.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Smile on, for when you smile, it seems<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I cannot do a wrong;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your smiles go with me all the while<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And make life one sweet song;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And oft at night my troubled dream<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Grows gay at thoughts of your bright smile.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dark Africa with Caucasian blood<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To tinge your veins combined,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your proud head bowed to slavery’s thrall,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Your hands to toil consigned.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Lord of hosts becalmed the flood,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The God Omnipotent o’er all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Your ears have heard the din of war,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The martial tramp of feet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Your voice has risen to your God<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In supplications sweet.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">May angels kiss each furrowed scar<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon your brow where care has trod.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">God bless the hands all withered now<br /></span> -<span class="i2">By age and weary care.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God rest the feet that sought the way<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To freedom bright and fair.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">God bless thy life and e’er endow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Thee with new strength each new-born day.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Mae Smith Johnson.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">EBON MAID AND GIRL OF MINE</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The sweetest charm of all the earth<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Came into being with her birth.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">All that without her we would lack<br /></span> -<span class="i0">She is in purity and black.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The pansy and the violet,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The dark of all the flowers met<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And gave their wealth of color in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sable beauty of her skin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Glad winds of evening are her face,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Gentle with love and rich in grace;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The blazing splendors of her eyes<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are jewels from the midnight skies.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her hair—the darkness caught and curled,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ancient wonder of the world—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Seems, in its strange, uncertain length,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A constant crown of queenly strength.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her smile, it is the rising moon,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The waking of a night in June;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her teeth are tips of white, they gleam<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like starlight in a happy dream.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her laughter is a Christmas bell<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of “peace on earth and all is well!”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Her voice—it is the dearest part<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Of all the glory in her heart.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The height of joy, the deep of tears,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The surging passion of the years,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The mystery and dark of things,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">We feel their meanings when she sings.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Her thoughts are pure and every one<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But makes her good to look upon.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Daughter of God! you are divine,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">O, Ebon Maid and Girl of Mine!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Lucian B. Watkins.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I will conclude this section with a very well rhymed tribute to two -Negro bards between whom there was a friendship and a correspondence -similar to that which existed between Burns and Lapraik. The writer, -James Edgar French, was a native of Kentucky, studied for the ministry, -and died early:</p> - -<p class="cpom">DUNBAR AND COTTER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dunbar and Cotter! foster-brothers, ye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nurst at the breast of heav’nly minstrelsy!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The first two Negroes who have dared to climb<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Parnassus’ mount, and carve your names in rhyme;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who, over icy walls of prejudice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Where twice ten thousand gorgon monsters hiss,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did scale the peak and make the steep ascent;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For which great feat ye had small precedent.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">There were who said: “The Negro is not fit<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To write good prose, much less to rhyme with wit”;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That nothing ever Negroes could inspire<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With Spenser’s fancy or with Shakespere’s fire:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With Dryden’s vigor, with the ease of Pope,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To weave the iambic pentametric rope,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But ye, immortal sons of Afric, ye<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Have proved these charges gross absurdity;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That old Dame Nature’s no respecter in<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Regard to person or the hue of skin.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Omnific God, at whose fiatic hand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Did primogenial light deluge the land;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Whose word supreme did out of chaos draw<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A world, and order made its guiding law,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bequeath’d like talents to the black and white;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To read form’d some and others made to write;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To govern these, and those to governed be,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And you, great twain, endued with poesy!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>James Edgar French.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<h4><i>II. Commemorative and Occasional</i></h4> - -<p>From this body of Negro verse which I have been describing and giving -specimens of may be selected pieces commemorative of days and seasons -that are quite up to the standard of similar pieces provided for white -children in their school-readers. These selections will further -illustrate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> the variety of themes and emotional responses in this body -of contemporary verse.</p> - -<p>The first selection hardly needs any allowance to be made for it, I -think, on the score that it was written by a girl only sixteen years of -age:</p> - -<p class="cpom">CHRISTMAS CHEER</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">’Tis Christmas time! ’Tis Christmas time!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear hallowed name of every clime!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How each one’s heart now happy feels,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How each one’s face fresh joy reveals<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As Christmas Day is drawing near<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The merriest day of all the year!<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Old spite and hate, the scowl, the sneer<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are vanquished, all, by kindly cheer,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And friendships nigh forgot and cold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Glow warm again as once of old.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Man’s worries cease, his hope returns,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">His breast with love now brighter burns;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">So, Christmas cheer! Oh, Christmas cheer!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A hearty welcome to you here.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">A welcome through the world where trod<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The source of joy, the Son of God,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The Lowly One who from above<br /></span> -<span class="i0">First warmed cold earth with gladsome love:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Who still proclaims with golden voice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“Peace on earth! Rejoice! Rejoice!”<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>Corinne E. Lewis.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>If the reader is disposed to make comparisons he might recall, without -very great detriment to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> the following poem, Tennyson’s famous stanzas -on the same theme. It is in the effective manner of the poems already -given from its author:</p> - -<p class="cpom">GOODBYE OLD YEAR</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Here comes New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">You’ve done wonders; now you’re through;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Adding wisdom to the ages,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Making history’s best pages;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rest and slumber with the sages.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Good-bye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Off with false hopes; on with true.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nations raise a mighty chorus,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rich intoning, grand, sonorous,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Blithe and gladsome, sad, dolorous;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Welcome, New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Off with false hopes. On with true.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Hail the New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, hatreds. Wrongs, adieu.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Down Life’s lane, with high or lowly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Weak, or strong, sin-cursed, or holy,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Time is reaping—trudging slowly.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Hail the New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, hatreds. Wrongs, adieu.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Come in, New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stout hearts look for light to you.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rising hopes new scenes are staging;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Brotherhood our thoughts engaging.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dreams of Peace hide battle raging.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Goodbye, Old Year. Come in, New.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Stout hearts fondly look to you.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The remainder of the series will be given without comment:</p> - -<p class="cpom">THE MONTHS</p> - -<p class="cpom">January</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">To herald in another year,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With rhythmic note the snowflakes fall<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Silently from their crystal courts,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To answer Winter’s call.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Wake, mortal! Time is winged anew!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Call Love and Hope and Faith to fill<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The chambers of thy soul to-day;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Life hath its blessings still!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">February</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The icicles upon the pane<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Are busy architects; they leave<br /></span> -<span class="i0">What temples and what chiseled forms<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of leaf and flower! Then believe<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That though the woods be brown and bare,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And sunbeams peep through cloudy veils,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Though tempests howl through leaden skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The springtime never fails!<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">March</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Robin! Robin! call the Springtime!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">March is halting on his way;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Hear the gusts. What! snowflakes falling!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Look not for the grass to-day.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ay, the wind will frisk and play,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And we cannot say it nay.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">April</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">She trips across the meadows,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The weird, capricious elf!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The buds unfold their perfumed cups<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For love of her sweet self;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And silver-throated birds begin to tune their lyres,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While wind-harps lend their strains to Nature’s magic choirs.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">May</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sweet, winsome May, coy, pensive, fay,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Comes garlanded with lily-bells,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And apple blooms shed incense through the bow’r,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To be her dow’r;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While through the leafy dells<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A wondrous concert swells<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To welcome May, the dainty fay.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">June</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Roses, roses, roses,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Creamy, fragrant, dewy!<br /></span> -<span class="i2">See the rainbow shower!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Was there e’er so sweet a flower?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">I’m the rose-nymph, June they call me.<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Sunset’s blush is not more fair<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Than the gift of bloom so rare,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mortal, that I bring to thee!<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">July</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Sunshine and shadow play amid the trees<br /></span> -<span class="i2">In bosky groves, while from the vivid sky<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The sun’s gold arrows fleck the fields at noon,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Where weary cattle to their slumber hie.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How sweet the music of the purling rill,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Trickling adown the grassy hill!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While dreamy fancies come to give repose<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When the first star of evening glows.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">August</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Haste to the mighty ocean,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">List to the lapsing waves;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With what a strange commotion<br /></span> -<span class="i2">They seek their coral caves.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">From heat and turmoil let us oft return,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The ocean’s solemn majesty to learn.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">September</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">With what a gentle sound<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The autumn leaves drop to the ground;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The many-colored dyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">They greet our watching eyes.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Rosy and russet, how they fall!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Throwing o’er earth a leafy pall.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">October</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The mellow moon hangs golden in the sky,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">The vintage song is over, far and nigh<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A richer beauty Nature weareth now,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And silently, in reverence we bow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Before the forest altars, off’ring praise<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To Him who sweetness gives to all our days.<br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">November</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">The leaves are sere,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The woods are drear,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The breeze, that erst so merrily did play,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Naught giveth save a melancholy lay;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Yet life’s great lessons do not fail<br /></span> -<span class="i0">E’en in November’s gale.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">December</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">List! List! the sleigh bells peal across the snow;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The frost’s sharp arrows touch the earth and lo!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">How diamond-bright the stars do scintillate<br /></span> -<span class="i0">When Night hath lit her lamps to Heaven’s gate.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To the dim forest’s cloistered arches go,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And seek the holly and the mistletoe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For soon the bells of Christmas-tide will ring<br /></span> -<span class="i0">To hail the Heavenly King!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>H. Cordelia Ray.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">WHILE APRIL BREEZES BLOW</p> - -<p class="c">(A Song for Arbor Day.)</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a tree today—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Forsake your book, forsake your play,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Bring out the spade and hie away<br /></span> -<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Your life is young, and it should be<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As full of vigor as this tree,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">As fair, as upright and as free,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a tree to stand<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Both fair and useful in the land,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Supremely tall and nobly grand<br /></span> -<span class="i3">A strong and trusty oak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Dig deep and let the long roots hold<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A firm embrace within the mold:<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And may your life in truth unfold<br /></span> -<span class="i3">A strong and trusty oak.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Come, let us plant a supple ash,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A tree to bend when others crash,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And stand when vivid lightnings flash,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And clouds pour down the rain:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">So while we plant we’ll learn to bend<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And hold our ground, tho’ storms descend<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Throughout our life, and lightnings rend,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And clouds pour down the rain.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Then let us plant these trees between<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A graceful spruce in living green,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That e’en in winter days is seen<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Like changeless springtime still:<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">And so may you as years go by,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And winter comes and snowflakes fly,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Be yet in heart, and mind and eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Like changeless springtime still.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Bring out the spade and hie away,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And let us plant a tree today<br /></span> -<span class="i0">While skies are bright and hearts are gay,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And April breezes blow.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">In other days ’neath April skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Around this tree may joyful cries<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And happy children’s songs arise,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">While April breezes blow.<br /></span> -<span class="i10"><i>D. T. Williamson.</i><br /></span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span></div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">A NATION’S GREATNESS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">What makes a nation truly great?<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Not strength of arms, nor men of state,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor vast domains, by conquest won,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That knew not rise nor set of sun;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor sophist’s schools, nor learned clan,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nor laws that bind the will of man,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For these have proved, in ages past,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But futile dreams that could not last;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And they that boast of such today,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Are fallen, vanquished in the fray,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their glory mingled with the dust,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Their archives stained with crime and lust;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And all that breathed of pomp and pride,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Like the untimely fig, has died.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One thing, alone, restrains, exalts<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A nation and corrects its faults;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">One thing, alone, its life can crown<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And give its destiny renown.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That nation, then, is truly great,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That lives by love, and not by hate;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That bends beneath the chastening rod,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That owns the truth, and looks to God!<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>Edwin Garnett Riley.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="cpom">THANKSGIVING</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart gives thanks for many things—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For strength to labor day by day,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For sleep that comes when darkness wings<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With evening up the eastern way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">I give deep thanks that I’m at peace<br /></span> -<span class="i2">With kith and kin and neighbors, too;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Dear Lord, for all last year’s increase,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That helped me strive and hope and do.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">My heart gives thanks for many things;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">I know not how to name them all.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">My soul is free from frets and stings,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">My mind from creed and doctrine’s thrall.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For sun and stars, for flowers and streams,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For work and hope and rest and play,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">For empty moments given to dreams—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">For these my heart gives thanks today.<br /></span> -<span class="i8"><i>William Stanley Braithwaite.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>I will conclude this anthology with a selection from our Madagascar -poet, Andrea Razafkeriefo, which, in a happy strain, conveys a very good -philosophy of life—which is especially the Afro-American’s:</p> - -<p class="cpom">RAINY DAYS</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">On rainy days I don’t despair,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But slip into my rocking chair;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">With my old pipe and volume rare<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And wade in fiction deep.<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The pitter-patter of the rain<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Upon the roof and window pane<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Comes like a lullaby’s refrain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Till soon I’m fast asleep.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">I’m grateful for the rainy days:<br /></span> -<span class="i2">’Tis only then my fancy plays,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And mem’ry wanders back and strays<br /></span> -<span class="i2">O’er paths I loved so dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span><br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lightning’s flash, the thunder’s peal<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Convinces me that God is real;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And it’s a wondrous thing to feel<br /></span> -<span class="i2">That he is really near.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Of the manifold and immense significance of poetry as a form of -spiritual expression the Negro American has lately become profoundly -aware, as this presentation must amply reveal. Not only the industrial -arts are the objects of his ambition, according to the far-looking -doctrine of Tuskegee, but as well those arts which are born of and -express the spiritual traits of mankind, the fine arts—music, painting, -sculpture, dramatics, and poetry. In them all the Negro is winning -distinction. In consequence it would seem that there must dawn upon us, -shaped by the poems of this collection, a new vision of the Negro and a -new appreciation of his spiritual qualities, his human character. A -profounder human sympathy with a greatly hampered, handicapped, and -humiliated people must also ensue from such considerations as these -poems will induce. One of the poets here represented cries out, as if -from a calvary, “We come slow-struggling up the hills of Hell.” Another, -in milder but not less appealing tone, cries: “We climb the slopes of -life with throbbing hearts.”</p> - -<p>This appeal, expressed or implicit throughout the entire range of -present-day Negro verse, an appeal sometimes angrily, sometimes -plaintively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> uttered, an appeal to mankind for fundamental justice and -for human fellowship on the broad basis of kinship of spirit, may -fittingly be the final note of this anthology:</p> - -<h4><i>We climb the slopes of life with throbbing hearts.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></h4> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> </p> - -<h2> -<a name="INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND" -id="INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_INDEX_OF_AUTHORS_WITH_BIOGRAPHICAL_AND"></a> -INDEX OF AUTHORS<br /><br />INDEX OF AUTHORS INDEX OF AUTHORS, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL AND -BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES</h2> - -<div class="blockquothang"><p><span class="smcap">Allen, J. Mord.</span>—Born, Montgomery, Ala., March 26, 1875. Schooling -ceased in the middle of high-school. Since seventeen years of age a -boiler-maker. Home, St. Louis, Mo. Authorship: <i>Rhymes, Tales and -Rhymed Tales</i>, Crane and Company, Topeka, Kas., 1906. <a href="#page_48">48</a>-<a href="#page_50">50</a>, -<a href="#page_223">223</a>-<a href="#page_226">226</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Allen, Winston.</span>—<a href="#page_230">230.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bailey, William Edgar.</span>—Born, Salisbury, Mo. Educated in the -Salisbury public schools. Authorship: <i>The Firstling</i>, 1914. <a href="#page_65">65</a>-<a href="#page_67">67</a>, -<a href="#page_213">213</a>-<a href="#page_214">214</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bell, James Madison.</span>—Born, Gallipolis, Ohio, 1826. Educated in -night schools after reaching manhood. Prominent anti-slavery -orator, friend of John Browne. <i>Poetical Works</i>, with biography by -Bishop B. W. Arnett, 1901. <a href="#page_32">32</a>-<a href="#page_37">37</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Braithwaite, William Stanley.</span>—Born, Boston, Mass., 1878. Mainly -self-educated. His three books of original verse are: <i>Lyrics of -Life and Love</i>, 1904; <i>The House of Falling Leaves</i>, 1908; <i>Sandy -Star and Willie Gee</i>, 1922. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_105">105</a>-<a href="#page_109">109</a>, <a href="#page_263">263.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Burrell, Benjamin Ebenezer.</span>—Born, Manchester Mountains, Jamaica, -1892. Descended from Mandingo kings on his father’s side, and on -his mother’s from Cromantees and Scotch. Contributor to <i>The -Crusader</i> and other magazines. <a href="#page_249">249</a>-<a href="#page_250">250</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Carmichael, Waverley Turner.</span>—Born, Snow Hill, Ala.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> Educated in -the Snow Hill Institute and Harvard Summer School. Authorship: -<i>From the Heart of a Folk</i>, The Cornhill Company, Boston, 1918. <a href="#page_53">53</a> -<a href="#page_219">219</a>-<a href="#page_220">220</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Clifford, Carrie W.</span>—Born, Chillicothe, Ohio. Educated at Columbus, -O. Has done much editorial and club work. Authorship: <i>The Widening -Light</i>, Walter Reid Co., Boston, 1922. <a href="#page_240">240.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Conner, Charles H.</span>—Born, Grafton, N. Y., 1864. Father, a slave who -found freedom by way of the underground railway. Mainly -self-educated. Worker in the ship-yards, Philadelphia. Authorship: -<i>The Enchanted Valley</i>, published by himself, 1016 S. Cleveland -Ave., Philadelphia, 1917; contributor to magazines. <a href="#page_209">209</a>-<a href="#page_213">213</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Corbett, Maurice Nathaniel.</span>—Born, Yanceyville, N. C., 1859. -Educated in the common schools and Shaw University. Served in North -Carolina Legislature. Delegate to numerous political conventions. -Clerk in Census Bureau, then in the Government Printing Office, -Washington, D. C., until stricken with paralysis in 1919. -Authorship: <i>The Harp of Ethiopia</i>, Nashville, 1914. This is an -epic poem of about 7,500 rhymed lines, narrating the entire history -of the Negro in America. It is a noteworthy undertaking.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Corrothers, James David.</span>—Born, Michigan, 1869. Educated at -Northwestern University, Evanston, Ill., and at Bennett College, -Greensboro, N. C., Minister of the Zion Methodist Episcopal Church. -Died, 1919. Books: <i>Selected Poems</i>, 1907; <i>The Dream and the -Song</i>, 1914. <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_85">85</a>-<a href="#page_89">89</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph Seamon, Jr.</span>—Born, Louisville, Ky., 1895. Died, -1919. Books: <i>The Band of Gideon</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> Cornhill Company, 1918; another -volume of poems now in press. <a href="#page_67">67</a>-<a href="#page_68">68</a>, <a href="#page_70">70</a>, <a href="#page_80">80</a>-<a href="#page_84">84</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph Seamon, Sr.</span>—Born, Bardstown, Ky., 1861. Educated in -Louisville night school (10 months). Now school principal in -Louisville, member of many societies, author of several books: <i>A -Rhyming</i>, 1895; <i>Links of Friendship</i>, 1898; <i>Caleb, the -Degenerate</i>, 1903; <i>A White Song and a Black One</i>, 1909; <i>Negro -Tales</i>, 1912. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_70">70</a>-<a href="#page_80">80</a>, <a href="#page_220">220</a>-<a href="#page_221">221</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>-<a href="#page_249">249</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dandridge, Raymond Garfield.</span>—Born, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1882. -Educated in Cincinnati grammar and high schools. First devoted to -drawing and painting until paralytic stroke, 1911. Authorship: <i>The -Poet and Other Poems</i>, Cincinnati, 1920. <a href="#page_54">54</a>, <a href="#page_169">169</a>-<a href="#page_173">173</a>, <a href="#page_221">221</a>-<a href="#page_223">223</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dett, R. Nathaniel.</span>—Born of Virginia parents at Drummondsville, -Ontario, Canada, October 11, 1882; studied in various colleges and -conservatories in Canada and the United States. Director of music -at Lane College, Mississippi, Lincoln Institute, Missouri, and at -Hampton Institute, Virginia, his present position. <a href="#page_214">214</a>-<a href="#page_217">217</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">DuBois, W. E. Burghardt.</span>—Born, Great Barrington, Mass., 1868. -Education: Fisk University, A. B.; Harvard, A. B., A. M., and Ph. -D.; Berlin. Professor of economics and history in Atlanta -University, 1896-1910. Now editor of <i>The Crisis</i>, New York, Books: -<i>The Souls of Black Folk</i>, 1903; <i>Darkwater</i>, 1919, and numerous -others. In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_201">201</a>-<a href="#page_205">205</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dunbar, Paul Laurence.</span>—1872-1906. <a href="#page_37">37</a>, <a href="#page_38">38</a>-<a href="#page_48">48</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dunbar-Nelson, Alice Ruth Moore</span> (née).—Born, New Orleans, 1875. -Education: in New Orleans public<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> schools and Straight University, -and later in several northern universities. Taught in New Orleans, -Washington, and Brooklyn, and other cities. Married Paul Laurence -Dunbar, 1898. At present Managing Editor of Philadelphia and -Wilmington <i>Advocate</i>. Books: <i>Violets and Other Tales</i>, New -Orleans, 1894; <i>The Goodness of St. Rocque</i>, Dodd, Mead & Co., -1899; <i>Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence</i>, 1913; <i>The Dunbar Speaker -and Entertainer</i>, 1920. Contributor to numerous magazines. <a href="#page_144">144</a>-<a href="#page_148">148</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dungee, Roscoe Riley.</span>—<a href="#page_58">58</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Este, Charles H.</span>—<a href="#page_57">57</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Fauset, Miss Jessie.</span>—Born, Philadelphia. Education: A. B., -Cornell, Phi Beta Kappa; A. M., University of Pennsylvania; student -of the Guilde Internationale, Paris. Interpreter of the Second -Pan-African Congress. Literary Editor of <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_160">160</a>-<a href="#page_162">162</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Fenner, John J., Jr.</span>—<a href="#page_245">245.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Fisher, Leland Milton.</span>—Born, Humboldt, Tenn., 1875. Died, under -thirty years of age, at Evansville, Ind., where he edited a -newspaper. Left behind an unpublished volume of poems. <a href="#page_189">189</a>-<a href="#page_190">190</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Fleming, Mrs. Sarah Lee Brown.</span>—<i>Clouds and Sunshine</i>, The Cornhill -Company, Boston, 1920.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">French, James Edgar.</span>—Born in Kentucky, studied for the ministry, -died young. <a href="#page_253">253</a>-<a href="#page_254">254</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Grimké, Miss Angelina Weld.</span>—Born, Boston, Mass., 1880. Educated in -various schools of several states, including the Girls’ Latin -School of Boston and the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. Now -teacher of English in the Dunbar High School, Washington, D. C. -Authorship: <i>Rachel</i>, a prose drama, Cornhill Co., Boston, 1921; -poems and short stories uncollected. <a href="#page_152">152</a>-<a href="#page_156">156</a>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Grimké, Mrs. Charlotte Forten.</span>—Born, Philadelphia, 1837 (née -Forten). Educated in the Normal School at Salem, Mass. She was a -contributor to various magazines, including <i>The Atlantic Monthly</i> -and <i>The New England Magazine</i>. Poems uncollected. <a href="#page_155">155</a>-<a href="#page_156">156</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hammon, Jupiter.</span>—Born, c. 1720. “The first member of the Negro -race to write and publish poetry in this country.” Extant poems: -<i>An Evening Thought</i>, 1760; <i>An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley</i>, -1778; <i>A Poem for Children with Thoughts on Death</i>, 1782; <i>The Kind -Master and the Dutiful Servant</i> (date unknown.) These are included -in Oscar Wegelin’s <i>Jupiter Hammon, American Negro Poet</i>, New York, -1915. <a href="#page_20">20</a>-<a href="#page_21">21</a>, <a href="#page_23">23.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hammond, Mrs. J. W.</span>—Home, Omaha, Neb. Occupation: Trained nurse. -<a href="#page_142">142</a>-<a href="#page_144">144</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Harper, Mrs. Frances Ellen Watkins</span> (née).—Born, Baltimore, Md., of -free parents, 1825. Died, Philadelphia, 1911. Educated in a school -in Baltimore for free colored children, and by her uncle, William -Watkins. Married Fenton Harper, 1860. From about 1851 devoted -herself to the cause of freedom for the slaves. Authorship: <i>Poems -on Miscellaneous Subjects</i>, Philadelphia, 1857; <i>Poems</i>, -Philadelphia, 1900. <a href="#page_26">26</a>-<a href="#page_32">32</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Harris, Leon R.</span>—Born, Cambridge, Ohio, 1886. First years spent in -an orphanage, where he got the rudiments of education. Then was -farmed out in Kentucky. Running off, he made his way to Berea -College and later to Tuskegee, getting two or three terms at each. -Now editor of the Richmond (Indiana) Blade. Authorship: numerous -short stories in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> magazines; <i>The Steel Makers and Other War Poems</i> -(pamphlet), 1918. <a href="#page_63">63</a>-<a href="#page_64">64</a>, <a href="#page_180">180</a>-<a href="#page_184">184</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hawkins, Walter Everette.</span>—Born, Warrenton, N. C., 1886. Educated -in public schools. Since 1913 in the city post-office of Washington -D. C. Authorship: <i>Chords and Discords</i>, Richard G. Badger, Boston, -1920. <a href="#page_62">62</a>, <a href="#page_119">119</a>, <a href="#page_126">126</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>-<a href="#page_235">235</a>, <a href="#page_240">240.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hill, Leslie Pinckney.</span>—Born, Lynchburg, Va., 1880. B. A. and M. A. -of Harvard. Teacher at Tuskegee; formerly principal of Manassas -(Va.) Industrial School; now principal of Cheyney (Pa.) State -Normal School. Authorship: <i>The Wings of Oppression</i>, The Stratford -Company, Boston, 1921. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_131">131</a>-<a href="#page_138">138</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Horton, George M.</span>—Born, North Carolina. Authorship: <i>Poems by a -Slave</i>, 1829. <i>Poetical Works</i>, 1845. Several volumes from 1829 to -1865. <a href="#page_25">25.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hughes, James C.</span>—<a href="#page_187">187</a>-<a href="#page_189">189</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Hughes, Langston.</span>—Born, Joplin, Mo., February 1, 1902. Ancestry, -Negro and Indian; grand-nephew of Congressman John M. Langston. -Education: High School, Cleveland, O., one year at Columbia -University; traveled in Mexico and Central America. Contributor to -magazines. Home, Jones’s Point, N. Y. Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. -<a href="#page_199">199</a>-<a href="#page_201">201</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jamison, Roscoe C.</span>—Born, Winchester, Tenn., 1886; died at Phœnix, -Ariz., 1918. Educated at Fisk University. Authorship: <i>Negro -Soldiers and Other Poems</i>, William F. McNeil, South St. Joseph, -Mo., 1918. <a href="#page_191">191</a>-<a href="#page_195">195</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jessye, Miss Eva Alberta.</span>—Born, Coffeyville, Kan., 1897. Educated -in the public schools of several western states; graduated from -Western University, 1914. Director of music in Morgan College, -Balti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>more, 1919. Now teacher of piano, Muskogee, Okla. <a href="#page_68">68</a>-<a href="#page_69">69</a>, -<a href="#page_139">139</a>-<a href="#page_142">142</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Adolphus.</span>—<i>The Silver Chord</i>, Philadelphia, 1915. -<a href="#page_104">104</a>-<a href="#page_105">105</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Charles Bertram.</span>—Born, Callao, Mo., 1880. Educated at -Western College, Macon, Mo.; two summers at Lincoln Institute; -correspondence courses, and a term in the University of Chicago. -Educator and preacher. Authorship: <i>Wind Whisperings</i> (a pamphlet), -1900; <i>The Mantle of Dunbar and Other Poems</i> (a pamphlet), 1918; -<i>Songs of My People</i>, 1918. Home, Moberly, Mo. <a href="#page_52">52</a>, <a href="#page_63">63</a>, <a href="#page_95">95</a>-<a href="#page_99">99</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Fenton.</span>—Born, Chicago, 1888. Educated in the public -schools and University of Chicago. Authorship: <i>A Little Dreaming</i>, -Chicago, 1914; <i>Visions of the Dusk</i>, New York, 1915. <i>Songs of the -Soil</i>, New York, 1916. Editor of <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>, Chicago. -<a href="#page_64">64</a>-<a href="#page_65">65</a>, <a href="#page_99">99</a>-<a href="#page_103">103</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Mrs. Georgia Douglas.</span>—Born, Atlanta, Ga. Educated at -Atlanta University, and in music at Oberlin. Home, Washington, D. -C. Books: <i>The Heart of a Woman</i>, the Cornhill Co., Boston, 1918; -<i>Bronze</i>, B. J. Brimmer Co., Boston, 1922. <a href="#page_61">61</a>, <a href="#page_148">148</a>-<a href="#page_152">152</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>-<a href="#page_233">233</a>, -<a href="#page_249">249.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, James Weldon.</span>—Born, Jacksonville, Fla., 1871. Educated at -Atlanta and Columbia Universities. United States consul in -Venezuela and Nicaragua. Author of numerous works. Original verse: -<i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i>, the Cornhill Company, Boston, 1917. -In <i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_54">54</a>, <a href="#page_90">90</a>-<a href="#page_95">95</a>, <a href="#page_226">226</a>-<a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_235">235</a>-<a href="#page_236">236</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Johnson, Mrs. Mae Smith</span> (née).—Born, Alexandria, Va., 1890. Now -Secretary at the Good Samaritan Orphanage, Newark, N. J. -Contributor of verse to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> papers and magazines. The grandmother of -the poet escaped from slavery in Virginia. She lived to be -ninety-two years old. <a href="#page_57">57</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>-<a href="#page_252">252</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Edward Smythe.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Sylvan Cabin and Other -Verse</i>, Sherman, French & Co., Boston, 1911. <a href="#page_163">163</a>-<a href="#page_169">169</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Joshua Henry, Jr.</span>—Born, Orangeburg, S. C., 1876. Educated -Central High School, Columbus, O., Ohio State University, Yale, and -Brown. Has served on the editorial staffs of the Providence <i>News</i>, -The Worcester <i>Evening Post</i>, Boston <i>Daily Advertiser</i> and Boston -<i>Post</i>. At present he is on the staff of the Boston <i>Telegram</i>. -Authorship: <i>The Heart of the World</i>, the Stratford Company, -Boston, 1919; <i>Poems of the Four Seas</i>, the Cornhill Company, -Boston, 1921. <a href="#page_113">113</a>-<a href="#page_119">119</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>, <a href="#page_256">256</a>-<a href="#page_257">257</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jones, Tilford.</span>—<a href="#page_231">231</a>-<a href="#page_232">232</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jordan, W. Clarence.</span>—<a href="#page_190">190</a>-<a href="#page_191">191</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Jordan, Winifred Virginia.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_56">56</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lee, Mary Effie.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. <a href="#page_56">56</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lewis, Corinne E.</span>—Student in the Dunbar High School, Washington, -D. C. <a href="#page_255">255.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lewis, Ethyl.</span>—<a href="#page_60">60</a>-<a href="#page_61">61</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">McClellan, George Marion.</span>—Born, Belfast, Tenn., 1860. Educated at -Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn., of which he became financial -agent. Later, principal of the Paul Dunbar School, Louisville, Ky. -Authorship: <i>The Path of Dreams</i>, John P. Morton, Louisville, Ky., -1916. <a href="#page_55">55</a>, <a href="#page_173">173</a>-<a href="#page_179">179</a>, <a href="#page_246">246</a>-<a href="#page_247">247</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">McKay, Claude.</span>—Born, Jamaica, 1889. Has resided in the United -States ten or eleven years. Till lately on the editorial staff of -the <i>Liberator</i>. Books: <i>Constab<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> Ballads</i>, London, 1912; <i>Spring -in New Hampshire</i>, London, 1920. <a href="#page_126">126</a>-<a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_241">241</a>-<a href="#page_242">242</a>, <a href="#page_244">244.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Margetson, George Reginald.</span>—Born, 1877, at St. Kitts, B. W. I. -<a href="#page_109">109</a>-<a href="#page_111">111</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Means, Sterling M.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Deserted Cabin and Other -Poems</i>, A. B. Caldwell, publisher, Atlanta, 1915. <a href="#page_222">222</a>-<a href="#page_223">223</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Miller, Kelly.</span>—Born, Winsboro, S. C., 1863. Educated at Howard and -Johns Hopkins Universities. Degrees: A. M. and LL. D. Professor and -dean in Howard University. Books: <i>Race Adjustment</i>, 1904; <i>Out of -the House of Bondage</i>, Neale Publishing Co., New York, 1914. In -<i>Who’s Who</i>. <a href="#page_206">206</a>-<a href="#page_209">209</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Moore, William.</span>—Contributor to <i>The Favorite Magazine</i>. <a href="#page_111">111</a>-<a href="#page_112">112</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ray, H. Cordelia.</span>—Authorship: <i>Poems</i>, The Grafton Press, New -York, 1910. <a href="#page_257">257</a>-<a href="#page_260">260</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Razafkeriefo, Andrea.</span>—Born, Washington, D. C., 1895, of -Afro-American mother and Madagascaran father. Educated only in -public elementary school. Regular verse contributor to <i>The -Crusader</i> and <i>The Negro World</i>. <a href="#page_197">197</a>-<a href="#page_198">198</a>, <a href="#page_247">247</a>-<a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_263">263</a>-<a href="#page_264">264</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Reason, Charles L.</span>—Born in New York in 1818. Professor at New York -Central College in New York and head of the Institute for Colored -Youth in Philadelphia. Authorship: <i>Freedom</i>, New York, 1847. -<a href="#page_23">23</a>-<a href="#page_24">24</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Riley, Edwin Garnett.</span>—Contributor to many newspapers and -magazines. <a href="#page_262">262.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Sexton, Will.</span>—Contributor to magazines. <a href="#page_197">197</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>-<a href="#page_234">234</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Shackelford, Otis.</span>—Educated at Lincoln Institute, Jefferson City, -Mo. Authorship: <i>Seeking the Best</i> (prose and verse). The verse -part of this volume<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> contains a poem of some 500 lines entitled -“Bits of History in Verse, or A Dream of Freedom Realized,” modeled -on <i>Hiawatha</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Shackelford, Theodore Henry.</span>—Born, Windsor Canada, 1888. -Grandparents were slaves in southern states. At twelve years of age -had had only three terms of school. At twenty-one entered the -Industrial Training School, Downington, Pa., and graduated four -years later. Studied a while at the Philadelphia Art Museum. -Authorship: <i>My Country and Other Poems</i>, Philadelphia, 1918. Died, -Jamaica, N. Y., February 5, 1923. <a href="#page_228">228.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Spencer, Mrs. Anne.</span>—Born, Bramwell, W. Va., 1882. Educated at the -Virginia Seminary, Lynchburg, Va. Contributor to <i>The Crisis</i>. -<a href="#page_156">156</a>-<a href="#page_159">159</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Underhill, Irvin W.</span>—Born, Port Clinton, Pa., May 1, 1868. In -boyhood, with irregular schooling, assisted his father, who was -captain of a canal boat. At the age of 37 suddenly lost his sight. -Author of <i>Daddy’s Love and Other Poems</i>, Philadelphia. Home, -Philadelphia. <a href="#page_184">184</a>-<a href="#page_187">187</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Watkins, Lucian B.</span>—Born, Chesterfield, Virginia, 1879. Educated in -public schools of Chesterfield, and at the Virginia Normal and -Industrial Institute, Petersburg. First teacher, then soldier. -Books: <i>Voices of Solitude</i>, 1907, Donohue & Co., Chicago; -<i>Whispering Winds</i>, in manuscript. Died, 1921. <a href="#page_59">59</a>, <a href="#page_236">236</a>-<a href="#page_239">239</a>, -<a href="#page_252">252</a>-<a href="#page_253">253</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Watson, Adeline Carter.</span>—<a href="#page_232">232.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Wheatley, Phillis.</span>—Born in Africa, 1753. Brought as a slave to -Boston, where she died in 1784. Many editions of her poems in her -lifetime. <i>Poems and Letters</i>, New York, 1916. <a href="#page_23">23</a>-<a href="#page_24">24</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Wiggins, Lida Keck.</span>—Authorship: <i>The Life and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> Works of Paul -Laurence Dunbar</i>, J. L. Nichols & Company, Naperville, Ill. <a href="#page_41">41.</a></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Whitman, Albery A.</span>—Born in Kentucky in 1857. Began life as a -Methodist minister. Authorship: <i>The Rape of Florida</i>, <i>Not a Man -and Yet a Man</i>, and <i>Twasnita’s Seminoles</i>. <a href="#page_32">32</a>, <a href="#page_35">35</a>-<a href="#page_36">36</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Williamson, D. T.</span>—<a href="#page_260">260</a>-<a href="#page_261">261</a>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Wilson, Charles P.</span>—Born in Iowa of Kentucky parents, 1885. Printer -and theatrical performer. <a href="#page_179">179</a>-<a href="#page_180">180</a>.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_TITLES" id="INDEX_OF_TITLES"></a>INDEX OF TITLES</h2> - -<p class="c"><a href="#A">A</a>, -<a href="#B">B</a>, -<a href="#C">C</a>, -<a href="#D">D</a>, -<a href="#E">E</a>, -<a href="#F">F</a>, -<a href="#G">G</a>, -<a href="#H">H</a>, -<a href="#I">I</a>, -<a href="#J">J</a>, -<a href="#L">L</a>, -<a href="#M">M</a>, -<a href="#N">N</a>, -<a href="#O">O</a>, -<a href="#P">P</a>, -<a href="#R">R</a>, -<a href="#S">S</a>, -<a href="#T">T</a>, -<a href="#V">V</a>, -<a href="#W">W</a>, -<a href="#Y">Y</a>.</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="A" id="A"></a>Apology for Wayward Jim.—James C. Hughes,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_188">188</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Ask Me Why I Love You.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">A Song.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_193">193</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">As the Old Year Passed.—William Moore,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">At the Closed Gate of Justice.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_88">88</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">At the Carnival.—Mrs. Anne Spencer,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_158">158</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">At Niagara.—R. Nathaniel Dett,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_216">216</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">At the Spring Dawn.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Autumn Sadness.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="B" id="B"></a>Band of Gideon, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_83">83</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Black Mammy, The.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_236">236</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Black Violinist, The.—Winston Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_230">230</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Bomb Thrower, The.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Boy and the Ideal, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_74">74</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Brothers.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="C" id="C"></a>Castles in the Air.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_193">193</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Christmas Cheer.—Miss Corinne E. Lewis,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_255">255</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Chicken in the Bread Tray.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_15">15</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Compensation.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_82">82</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Counting Out.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_48">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Credo.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_119">119</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="D" id="D"></a>Dawn.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Daybreak.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_246">246</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Death of Justice, The.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">De Innah Part.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_221">221</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Don’t-Care Negro, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_220">220</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Dream and the Song, The.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_85">85</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Dreams of the Dreamer, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Dunbar.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_37">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Dunbar and Cotter.—J. E. French,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_253">253</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="E" id="E"></a>Easter Message, An.—Mrs. Carrie W. Clifford,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_240">240</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Ebon Maid.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_252">252</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Edict, The.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_194">194</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">El Beso.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_41">41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Eternity.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Expectancy.—William Moore,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_112">112</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="F" id="F"></a>Facts.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Fattening Frogs for Snakes.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Feet of Judas, The.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_177">177</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Flag of the Free.—E. W. Jones,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">For You Sweetheart.—L. M. Fisher,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_189">189</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Foscati.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="G" id="G"></a>Goodbye, Old Year.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_256">256</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="H" id="H"></a>Harlem Dancer, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Heart of the World, The.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Hero of the Road.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_122">122</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Hills of Sewanee, The.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Hopelessness.—Roscoe C. Jamison,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_195">195</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="I" id="I"></a>If We Must Die.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_241">241</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">In Bondage.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">In Memory of Katie Reynolds.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">In Spite of Death.—W. E. Hawkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_62">62</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">In the Heart of a Rose.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_54">54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">I Played on David’s Harp.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_65">65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">I See and Am Satisfied.—Kelly Miller,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_207">207</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">I Sit and Sew.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">It’s All Through Life.—W. T. Carmichael,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">It’s a Long Way.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">I’ve Loved and Lost.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="J" id="J"></a>Juba.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_16">16</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="L" id="L"></a>Life.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_43">43</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Life of the Spirit, The.—Charles H. Conner,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_210">210</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Light of Victory.—George Reginald Margetson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Lights at Carney’s Point, The.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_146">146</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Litany of Atlanta, A.—W. E. B. DuBois,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Loneliness.—Miss Winifred Virginia Jordan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_56">56</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Lynching, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="M" id="M"></a>Mammy’s Baby Scared.—W. T. Carmichael,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Mater Dolorosa.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Message to the Modern Pharaohs.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_239">239</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Months, The.—Miss H. Cordelia Ray,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Mother, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">My Lady’s Lips.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">My People.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_95">95</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Mulatto’s Song, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Mulatto to His Critics, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_67">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="N" id="N"></a>Nation’s Greatness, A.—Edwin G. Riley,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro, The.—Langston Hughes,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_200">200</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro, The.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro Child, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_248">248</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro Church, The.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_198">198</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro Woman, The.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_247">247</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Negro Singer, The.—J. D. Corrothers,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_89">89</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">New Day, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_102">102</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">New Negro, The.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_197">197</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">New Negro, The.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_236">236</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="O" id="O"></a>Octoroon, The.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Ode to Ethiopia.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_44">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Oh, My Way and Thy Way.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Old Plantation Grave, The.—S. M. Means,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Ole Deserted Cabin, De.—S. M. Means,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Old Friends.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_97">97</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Old Jim Crow.—Anonymous,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_231">231</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Optimist, The.—Mrs. J. W. Hammond,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_143">143</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Oriflamme.—Miss Jessie Fauset,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_162">162</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">O Southland.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_92">92</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="P" id="P"></a>Peace.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_61">61</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Plaint of the Factory Child, The.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Poet, The.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_170">170</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Prayer of the Race That God Made Black, A.—L. B. Watkins,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_59">59</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Psalm of the Uplift, The.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_50">50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Puppet-Player, The.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="R" id="R"></a>Rain Song, A.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Rainy Days.—Andrea Razafkeriefo,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_263">263</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Rain Music.—Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_81">81</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Rise! Young Negro—Rise!—John J. Fenner, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_245">245</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="S" id="S"></a>Sandy Star.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_106">106</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Self-Determination.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">She Hugged Me.—<i>Folk Song</i>,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_17">17</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Singer, The.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_69">69</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Slump, The.—W. E. Bailey,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_65">65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Smothered Fires.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_150">150</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Somebody’s Child.—Charles P. Wilson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">So Much.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_98">98</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Soul and Star.—C. B. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_96">96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Southern Love Song, A.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_115">115</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Spring in New Hampshire.—Claude McKay,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Spring with the Teacher.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Steel Makers, The.—Leon R. Harris,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_182">182</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Sunset.—Miss Mary Effie Lee,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_56">56</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="T" id="T"></a>Thanking God.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Thanksgiving.—W. S. Braithwaite,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">The Flowers Take the Tears.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_76">76</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_226">226</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">These Are My People.—Fenton Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_100">100</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Threshing Floor, The.—Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_75">75</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Time to Die.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To——.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To a Negro Mother.—Ben E. Burrell,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To America.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_53">53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To a Caged Canary....—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_136">136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To a Nobly-Gifted Singer.—L. P. Hill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To a Rosebud.—Miss Eva A. Jessye,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_141">141</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To a Wild Rose.—W. E. Bailey,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_213">213</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To Hollyhocks.—G. M. McClellan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To My Grandmother.—Mrs. Mae Smith Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_251">251</a> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To My Lost Child.—Will Sexton,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_233">233</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To My Neighbor Boy.—Mrs. J. W. Hammond,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_143">143</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To My Son.—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_232">232</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To Keep the Memory of Charlotte Forten Grimké.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_155">155</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">To Our Boys.—Irvin W. Underhill,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_185">185</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Truth.—Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_28">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Turn Out the Light.—J. H. Jones, Jr.,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_114">114</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="V" id="V"></a>Vashti.—Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_30">30</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Victim of Microbes, A.—J. Mord Allen,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_224">224</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Violets.—Mrs. Alice Dunbar-Nelson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_55">55</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="W" id="W"></a>Want of You, The.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_154">154</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">We Wear the Mask.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_47">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">What Is the Negro Doing?—W. Clarence Jordan,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">What Need Have I for Memory?—Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_149">149</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">While April Breezes Blow.—D. T. Williamson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_260">260</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">Winter Twilight, A.—Miss Angelina W. Grimké,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top">With the Lark.—Paul Laurence Dunbar,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_46">46</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="Y" id="Y"></a>Young Warrior, The.—J. W. Johnson,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_94">94</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="tpsmc"><a name="Z" id="Z"></a>Zalka Peetruza.—R. G. Dandridge,</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_180">180</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Happily a great number of these, about three hundred and -fifty, accompanied by an essay setting forth their nature, origin, and -elements, are now made accessible in <i>Negro Folk Rhymes</i>, by Thomas W. -Talley, of Fisk University; the Macmillan Company, publishers, 1922.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> We are enabled to give the following poems by the kind -permission of Dodd, Mead and Company, the publishers of Dunbar’s works.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <i>The Dunbar Speaker and Entertainer</i>, containing the best -prose and poetic selections by and about the Negro Race, with programs -arranged for special entertainments. Edited by Alice Moore -Dunbar-Nelson. J. L. Nichols & Co., Naperville, Ill.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <i>Bronze</i> has now been published. See Index of Authors.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> <i>A Short History of the American Negro.</i> By Benjamin -Brawley. The Macmillan Company.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Published by Harcourt, Brace & Company, by whose kind -permission I use this selection.</p></div> - -</div> -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Negro Poets and Their Poems, by Robert T. 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