Who would have the sky any color but blue,Or the grass any color but green?Or the flowers that bloom the summer throughOf other color or sheen?How the sunshine gladdens the human heart—How the sound of the falling rainWill cause the tender tears to start,And free the soul from pain.Oh, this old world is a great old place!And I love each season’s change,The river, the brook of purling grace,The valley, the mountain range.And when I am called to quit this life,My feet will not spurn the sod,Though I leave this world with its beauty rife,—There’s a glorious one with God!
Who would have the sky any color but blue,Or the grass any color but green?Or the flowers that bloom the summer throughOf other color or sheen?How the sunshine gladdens the human heart—How the sound of the falling rainWill cause the tender tears to start,And free the soul from pain.Oh, this old world is a great old place!And I love each season’s change,The river, the brook of purling grace,The valley, the mountain range.And when I am called to quit this life,My feet will not spurn the sod,Though I leave this world with its beauty rife,—There’s a glorious one with God!
Who would have the sky any color but blue,Or the grass any color but green?Or the flowers that bloom the summer throughOf other color or sheen?
How the sunshine gladdens the human heart—How the sound of the falling rainWill cause the tender tears to start,And free the soul from pain.
Oh, this old world is a great old place!And I love each season’s change,The river, the brook of purling grace,The valley, the mountain range.
And when I am called to quit this life,My feet will not spurn the sod,Though I leave this world with its beauty rife,—There’s a glorious one with God!
One other poem of Mrs. Hammond’s I will give that is beautiful alike in feeling and treatment.
TO MY NEIGHBOR BOY
When sweet Aurora lifts her veil,And floods the world with rosy light,When morning stars, grown dim and pale,Proclaim the passing of the night—With waking bird and opening flower,I greet with joy the new-born day—For oft at this exquisite hour,I hear a strange new roundelay.No syncopating “jazz” or “blues,”Insults my eager listening ear,But softly as the falling dews,The strains come stealing sweet and clear.With lilting grace they rise aboveThe early traffic’s sordid din—My neighbor boy is making loveTo his beloved violin.Sometimes I catch a quivering note—An over-burdened wordless cry.I say: “Those are the lines he wroteThe day he told some one goodbye.”But when I hear a joyous strainOf melody serene and clear,I smile and say: “All’s well again—The little maiden must be near!”But best of all I love the moodThat prompts a soft sweet minor key.My longing soul forgets to brood,While drinking in the melody.My restless spirit will not rove,Nor lose its faith in God and men,The while my neighbor boy makes loveTo his beloved violin.
When sweet Aurora lifts her veil,And floods the world with rosy light,When morning stars, grown dim and pale,Proclaim the passing of the night—With waking bird and opening flower,I greet with joy the new-born day—For oft at this exquisite hour,I hear a strange new roundelay.No syncopating “jazz” or “blues,”Insults my eager listening ear,But softly as the falling dews,The strains come stealing sweet and clear.With lilting grace they rise aboveThe early traffic’s sordid din—My neighbor boy is making loveTo his beloved violin.Sometimes I catch a quivering note—An over-burdened wordless cry.I say: “Those are the lines he wroteThe day he told some one goodbye.”But when I hear a joyous strainOf melody serene and clear,I smile and say: “All’s well again—The little maiden must be near!”But best of all I love the moodThat prompts a soft sweet minor key.My longing soul forgets to brood,While drinking in the melody.My restless spirit will not rove,Nor lose its faith in God and men,The while my neighbor boy makes loveTo his beloved violin.
When sweet Aurora lifts her veil,And floods the world with rosy light,When morning stars, grown dim and pale,Proclaim the passing of the night—With waking bird and opening flower,I greet with joy the new-born day—For oft at this exquisite hour,I hear a strange new roundelay.No syncopating “jazz” or “blues,”Insults my eager listening ear,But softly as the falling dews,The strains come stealing sweet and clear.With lilting grace they rise aboveThe early traffic’s sordid din—My neighbor boy is making loveTo his beloved violin.
Sometimes I catch a quivering note—An over-burdened wordless cry.I say: “Those are the lines he wroteThe day he told some one goodbye.”But when I hear a joyous strainOf melody serene and clear,I smile and say: “All’s well again—The little maiden must be near!”But best of all I love the moodThat prompts a soft sweet minor key.My longing soul forgets to brood,While drinking in the melody.My restless spirit will not rove,Nor lose its faith in God and men,The while my neighbor boy makes loveTo his beloved violin.
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 entitledA Dream Sequence, therest 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,The Dunbar Speaker,[3]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.
Alice Dunbar-Nelson
Alice Dunbar-Nelson
Alice Dunbar-Nelson
I SIT AND SEW
I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the kenOf lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death,Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—But—I must sit and sew.I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fireOn wasted fields, and writhing grotesque thingsOnce men. My soul in pity flingsAppealing cries, yearning only to goThere in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—But—I must sit and sew.The little useless seam, the idle patch;Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dreamThat beckons me—this pretty futile seam,It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?
I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the kenOf lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death,Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—But—I must sit and sew.I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fireOn wasted fields, and writhing grotesque thingsOnce men. My soul in pity flingsAppealing cries, yearning only to goThere in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—But—I must sit and sew.The little useless seam, the idle patch;Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dreamThat beckons me—this pretty futile seam,It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?
I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the kenOf lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death,Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—But—I must sit and sew.
I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fireOn wasted fields, and writhing grotesque thingsOnce men. My soul in pity flingsAppealing cries, yearning only to goThere in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—But—I must sit and sew.
The little useless seam, the idle patch;Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dreamThat beckons me—this pretty futile seam,It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?
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.
THE LIGHTS AT CARNEY’S POINT
O white little lights at Carney’s Point,You shine so clear o’er the Delaware;When the moon rides high in the silver sky,Then you gleam, white gems on the Delaware.Diamond circlet on a full white throat,You laugh your rays on a questing boat;Is it peace you dream in your flashing gleam,O’er the quiet flow of the Delaware?And the lights grew dim at the water’s brim,For the smoke of the mills shredded slow between;And the smoke was red, as is new bloodshed,And the lights went lurid ’neath the livid screen.O red little lights at Carney’s Point,You glower so grim o’er the Delaware;When the moon hides low sombrous clouds below,Then you glow like coals o’er the Delaware.Blood red rubies on a throat of fire,You flash through the dusk of a funeral pyre;Are there hearth fires red whom you fear and dreadO’er the turgid flow of the Delaware?And the lights gleamed gold o’er the river cold,For the murk of the furnace shed a copper veil;And the veil was grim at the great cloud’s brim,And the lights went molten, now hot, now pale.O gold little lights at Carney’s Point,You gleam so proud o’er the Delaware;When the moon grows wan in the eastering dawn,Then you sparkle gold points o’er the Delaware.Aureate filigree on a Crœsus’ brow,You hasten the dawn on a gray ship’s prow.Light you streams of gold in the grim ship’s holdO’er the sullen flow of the Delaware?And the lights went gray in the ash of day,For a quiet Aurora brought a halcyon balm;And the sun laughed high in the infinite sky,And the lights were forgot in the sweet, sane calm.
O white little lights at Carney’s Point,You shine so clear o’er the Delaware;When the moon rides high in the silver sky,Then you gleam, white gems on the Delaware.Diamond circlet on a full white throat,You laugh your rays on a questing boat;Is it peace you dream in your flashing gleam,O’er the quiet flow of the Delaware?And the lights grew dim at the water’s brim,For the smoke of the mills shredded slow between;And the smoke was red, as is new bloodshed,And the lights went lurid ’neath the livid screen.O red little lights at Carney’s Point,You glower so grim o’er the Delaware;When the moon hides low sombrous clouds below,Then you glow like coals o’er the Delaware.Blood red rubies on a throat of fire,You flash through the dusk of a funeral pyre;Are there hearth fires red whom you fear and dreadO’er the turgid flow of the Delaware?And the lights gleamed gold o’er the river cold,For the murk of the furnace shed a copper veil;And the veil was grim at the great cloud’s brim,And the lights went molten, now hot, now pale.O gold little lights at Carney’s Point,You gleam so proud o’er the Delaware;When the moon grows wan in the eastering dawn,Then you sparkle gold points o’er the Delaware.Aureate filigree on a Crœsus’ brow,You hasten the dawn on a gray ship’s prow.Light you streams of gold in the grim ship’s holdO’er the sullen flow of the Delaware?And the lights went gray in the ash of day,For a quiet Aurora brought a halcyon balm;And the sun laughed high in the infinite sky,And the lights were forgot in the sweet, sane calm.
O white little lights at Carney’s Point,You shine so clear o’er the Delaware;When the moon rides high in the silver sky,Then you gleam, white gems on the Delaware.Diamond circlet on a full white throat,You laugh your rays on a questing boat;Is it peace you dream in your flashing gleam,O’er the quiet flow of the Delaware?
And the lights grew dim at the water’s brim,For the smoke of the mills shredded slow between;And the smoke was red, as is new bloodshed,And the lights went lurid ’neath the livid screen.
O red little lights at Carney’s Point,You glower so grim o’er the Delaware;When the moon hides low sombrous clouds below,Then you glow like coals o’er the Delaware.Blood red rubies on a throat of fire,You flash through the dusk of a funeral pyre;Are there hearth fires red whom you fear and dreadO’er the turgid flow of the Delaware?
And the lights gleamed gold o’er the river cold,For the murk of the furnace shed a copper veil;And the veil was grim at the great cloud’s brim,And the lights went molten, now hot, now pale.
O gold little lights at Carney’s Point,You gleam so proud o’er the Delaware;When the moon grows wan in the eastering dawn,Then you sparkle gold points o’er the Delaware.Aureate filigree on a Crœsus’ brow,You hasten the dawn on a gray ship’s prow.Light you streams of gold in the grim ship’s holdO’er the sullen flow of the Delaware?
And the lights went gray in the ash of day,For a quiet Aurora brought a halcyon balm;And the sun laughed high in the infinite sky,And the lights were forgot in the sweet, sane calm.
Mrs. Dunbar-Nelson has not applied herself to poetry as she has to prose fiction. As a short-story writer she has special distinction.
Mrs. G. D. Johnson
Mrs. G. D. Johnson
Mrs. G. D. Johnson
Exquisite artistry in verse, with infallible poetic content, is exhibited in Mrs. Georgia Douglas Johnson’sThe Heart of a Woman. 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:
The dreams of the dreamerAre life-drops that passThe break in the heartTo the Soul’s hour-glass.The songs of the singerAre tones that repeatThe cry of the heartTill it ceases to beat.
The dreams of the dreamerAre life-drops that passThe break in the heartTo the Soul’s hour-glass.The songs of the singerAre tones that repeatThe cry of the heartTill it ceases to beat.
The dreams of the dreamerAre life-drops that passThe break in the heartTo the Soul’s hour-glass.
The songs of the singerAre tones that repeatThe cry of the heartTill it ceases to beat.
Neither in memory nor in dreams is there a refuge for the life-wounded heart of this woman:
What need have I for memory,When not a single flowerHas bloomed within life’s desertFor me, one little hour?What need have I for memory,Whose burning eyes have metThe corse of unborn happinessWinding the trail regret?
What need have I for memory,When not a single flowerHas bloomed within life’s desertFor me, one little hour?What need have I for memory,Whose burning eyes have metThe corse of unborn happinessWinding the trail regret?
What need have I for memory,When not a single flowerHas bloomed within life’s desertFor me, one little hour?
What need have I for memory,Whose burning eyes have metThe corse of unborn happinessWinding the trail regret?
And thus of her dreams, on the last page of her book:
I am folding up my little dreamsWithin my heart to-night,And praying I may soon forgetThe torture of their sight.
I am folding up my little dreamsWithin my heart to-night,And praying I may soon forgetThe torture of their sight.
I am folding up my little dreamsWithin my heart to-night,And praying I may soon forgetThe torture of their sight.
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:
SMOTHERED FIRES
A woman with a burning flameDeep covered through the yearsWith ashes—ah! she hid it deep,And smothered it with tears.Sometimes a baleful light would riseFrom out the dusky bed,And then the woman hushed it quickTo slumber on, as dead.At last the weary war was done,The tapers were alight,And with a sigh of victoryShe breathed a soft—goodnight!
A woman with a burning flameDeep covered through the yearsWith ashes—ah! she hid it deep,And smothered it with tears.Sometimes a baleful light would riseFrom out the dusky bed,And then the woman hushed it quickTo slumber on, as dead.At last the weary war was done,The tapers were alight,And with a sigh of victoryShe breathed a soft—goodnight!
A woman with a burning flameDeep covered through the yearsWith ashes—ah! she hid it deep,And smothered it with tears.
Sometimes a baleful light would riseFrom out the dusky bed,And then the woman hushed it quickTo slumber on, as dead.
At last the weary war was done,The tapers were alight,And with a sigh of victoryShe breathed a soft—goodnight!
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,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.
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 ofAn Autumn Love Cycle, andBronze,[4]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 beyondThe Heart of a Woman. They will also provide the key to the tragic mystery concealed in that book. A poem that is to appear inBronzewill be given in a later chapter. I will here give another. Both have already been published in magazines.
THE OCTOROON
One drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsating streamMarks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam.Forevermore her step she bends, insular, strange, apart—And none can read the riddle of her strangely warring heart.The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty seaAgainst the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity.For refuge, succor, peace, and rest, she seeks that humble foldWhose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold.
One drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsating streamMarks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam.Forevermore her step she bends, insular, strange, apart—And none can read the riddle of her strangely warring heart.The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty seaAgainst the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity.For refuge, succor, peace, and rest, she seeks that humble foldWhose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold.
One drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsating streamMarks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam.Forevermore her step she bends, insular, strange, apart—And none can read the riddle of her strangely warring heart.
The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty seaAgainst the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity.For refuge, succor, peace, and rest, she seeks that humble foldWhose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold.
Miss Angelina Grimké
Miss Angelina Grimké
Miss Angelina Grimké
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 notone 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.
I will present several without interrupting comment:
DAWN
Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;Grey mist, grey hush;And then, frail, exquisite, afar,A hermit-thrush.
Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;Grey mist, grey hush;And then, frail, exquisite, afar,A hermit-thrush.
Grey trees, grey skies, and not a star;Grey mist, grey hush;And then, frail, exquisite, afar,A hermit-thrush.
A WINTER TWILIGHT
A silence slipping around like death,Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;One path that knows where the corn flowers were;Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;And over it softly leaning down,One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.
A silence slipping around like death,Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;One path that knows where the corn flowers were;Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;And over it softly leaning down,One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.
A silence slipping around like death,Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;One path that knows where the corn flowers were;Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;And over it softly leaning down,One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.
THE PUPPET-PLAYER
Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player.A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.
Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player.A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.
Sometimes it seems as though some puppet-player.A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin.Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,Twitching the strings with slow, sardonic grin.
THE WANT OF YOU
A hint of gold where the moon will be;Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,And oh! the crying want of you.
A hint of gold where the moon will be;Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,And oh! the crying want of you.
A hint of gold where the moon will be;Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,And oh! the crying want of you.
EL BESO
Twilight—and you,Quiet—the stars;Snare of the shine of your teeth,Your provocative laughter,The gloom of your hair;Lure of you, eye and lip;Yearning, yearning,Languor, surrender;Your mouth,And madness, madness,Tremulous, breathless, flaming,The space of a sigh;Then awakening—remembrance,Pain, regret—your sobbing;And again quiet—the stars,Twilight—and you.
Twilight—and you,Quiet—the stars;Snare of the shine of your teeth,Your provocative laughter,The gloom of your hair;Lure of you, eye and lip;Yearning, yearning,Languor, surrender;Your mouth,And madness, madness,Tremulous, breathless, flaming,The space of a sigh;Then awakening—remembrance,Pain, regret—your sobbing;And again quiet—the stars,Twilight—and you.
Twilight—and you,Quiet—the stars;Snare of the shine of your teeth,Your provocative laughter,The gloom of your hair;Lure of you, eye and lip;Yearning, yearning,Languor, surrender;Your mouth,And madness, madness,Tremulous, breathless, flaming,The space of a sigh;Then awakening—remembrance,Pain, regret—your sobbing;And again quiet—the stars,Twilight—and you.
AT THE SPRING DAWN
I watched the dawn come,Watched the spring dawn come.And the red sun shouldered his way upThrough the grey, through the blue,Through the lilac mists.The quiet of it! The goodness of it!And one bird awoke, sang, whirredA blur of moving black against the sun,Sang again—afar off.And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,Stretched to my finger tips,And I laughed.Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,At the dawn,At the spring dawn.
I watched the dawn come,Watched the spring dawn come.And the red sun shouldered his way upThrough the grey, through the blue,Through the lilac mists.The quiet of it! The goodness of it!And one bird awoke, sang, whirredA blur of moving black against the sun,Sang again—afar off.And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,Stretched to my finger tips,And I laughed.Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,At the dawn,At the spring dawn.
I watched the dawn come,Watched the spring dawn come.And the red sun shouldered his way upThrough the grey, through the blue,Through the lilac mists.The quiet of it! The goodness of it!And one bird awoke, sang, whirredA blur of moving black against the sun,Sang again—afar off.And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,Stretched to my finger tips,And I laughed.Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,At the dawn,At the spring dawn.
TO KEEP THE MEMORY OF CHARLOTTE FORTEN GRIMKÉ
Still are there wonders of the dark and day;The muted shrilling of shy things at night,So small beneath the stars and moon;The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the lightLies softly on the leaves at noon.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray,The birds about her window wake and sing;And far away each day some larkI know is singing where the grasses swing;Some robin calls and calls at dark.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,But not for eyes that loved them best;Only her little pansies are all gone,Some lying softly on her breast.And flowers will bud and beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.Where has she gone? And who is there to say?But this we know: her gentle spirit movesAnd is where beauty never wanes,Perchance by other streams, ’mid other groves;And to us here, ah! she remainsA lovely memoryUntil Eternity.She came, she loved, and then she went away.
Still are there wonders of the dark and day;The muted shrilling of shy things at night,So small beneath the stars and moon;The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the lightLies softly on the leaves at noon.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray,The birds about her window wake and sing;And far away each day some larkI know is singing where the grasses swing;Some robin calls and calls at dark.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,But not for eyes that loved them best;Only her little pansies are all gone,Some lying softly on her breast.And flowers will bud and beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.Where has she gone? And who is there to say?But this we know: her gentle spirit movesAnd is where beauty never wanes,Perchance by other streams, ’mid other groves;And to us here, ah! she remainsA lovely memoryUntil Eternity.She came, she loved, and then she went away.
Still are there wonders of the dark and day;The muted shrilling of shy things at night,So small beneath the stars and moon;The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the lightLies softly on the leaves at noon.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.
Each dawn, while yet the east is veiled gray,The birds about her window wake and sing;And far away each day some larkI know is singing where the grasses swing;Some robin calls and calls at dark.These are, and these will beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.
The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray;Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn,But not for eyes that loved them best;Only her little pansies are all gone,Some lying softly on her breast.And flowers will bud and beUntil Eternity;But she who loved them well has gone away.
Where has she gone? And who is there to say?But this we know: her gentle spirit movesAnd is where beauty never wanes,Perchance by other streams, ’mid other groves;And to us here, ah! she remainsA lovely memoryUntil Eternity.She came, she loved, and then she went away.
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:
How shall we crown her bright young head?Crown it with roses, rare and red;Crown it with roses, creamy white,As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.Crown it with roses as pink as shellIn which the voices of ocean dwell.And a fairer queenShall ne’er be seenThan our lovely, laughing June.
How shall we crown her bright young head?Crown it with roses, rare and red;Crown it with roses, creamy white,As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.Crown it with roses as pink as shellIn which the voices of ocean dwell.And a fairer queenShall ne’er be seenThan our lovely, laughing June.
How shall we crown her bright young head?Crown it with roses, rare and red;Crown it with roses, creamy white,As the lotus bloom that sweetens the night.Crown it with roses as pink as shellIn which the voices of ocean dwell.And a fairer queenShall ne’er be seenThan our lovely, laughing June.
Who can fathom to its depths the heart of womanhood? Under the conditions of American
Mrs. Anne Spencer
Mrs. Anne Spencer
Mrs. Anne Spencer
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 inThe Harlem Dancer, quoted on page 128, that the index of the heart is not always in the occupation or the face:
But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,I knew her self was not in that strange place.
But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,I knew her self was not in that strange place.
But, looking at her falsely-smiling face,I knew her self was not in that strange place.
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’sBirthright, 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 reproach. It is not other standards, as the novelist intimates, that we must apply, but only right standards, in view of circumstances.
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:
AT THE CARNIVAL
Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,I desire a name for you,Nice, as a right glove fits;For you—who amid the malodorousMechanics of this unlovely thing,Are darling of spirit and form.I know you—a glance, and what you areSits-by-the-fire in my heart.My Limousine-Lady knows you, orWhy does the slant-envy of her eye markYour straight air and radiant inclusive smile?Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.The bull-necked man knows you—this first timeHis itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,And thinks not of his avocation.I came incuriously—Set on no diversion save that my mindMight safely nurse its brood of misdeedsIn the presence of a blind crowd.The color of life was gray.Everywhere the setting seemed rightFor my mood!Here the sausage and garlic boothSent unholy incense skyward;There a quivering female-thingGestured assignations, and liedTo call it dancing;There, too, were games of chanceWith chances for none;But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and freeThe gaze you send the crowd,As though you know the dearth of beautyIn its sordid life.We need you—my Limousine-Lady,The bull-necked man, and I.Seeing you here brave and water-clean,Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,I am swift to feel that what makesThe plodder glad is good; andWhatever is good is God.The wonder is that you are here;I have seen the queer in queer places,But never before a heaven-fedNaiad of the Carnival-Tank!Little Diver, Destiny for you,Like as for me, is shod in silence;Years may seep into your soulThe bacilli of the usual and the expedient;I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!
Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,I desire a name for you,Nice, as a right glove fits;For you—who amid the malodorousMechanics of this unlovely thing,Are darling of spirit and form.I know you—a glance, and what you areSits-by-the-fire in my heart.My Limousine-Lady knows you, orWhy does the slant-envy of her eye markYour straight air and radiant inclusive smile?Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.The bull-necked man knows you—this first timeHis itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,And thinks not of his avocation.I came incuriously—Set on no diversion save that my mindMight safely nurse its brood of misdeedsIn the presence of a blind crowd.The color of life was gray.Everywhere the setting seemed rightFor my mood!Here the sausage and garlic boothSent unholy incense skyward;There a quivering female-thingGestured assignations, and liedTo call it dancing;There, too, were games of chanceWith chances for none;But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and freeThe gaze you send the crowd,As though you know the dearth of beautyIn its sordid life.We need you—my Limousine-Lady,The bull-necked man, and I.Seeing you here brave and water-clean,Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,I am swift to feel that what makesThe plodder glad is good; andWhatever is good is God.The wonder is that you are here;I have seen the queer in queer places,But never before a heaven-fedNaiad of the Carnival-Tank!Little Diver, Destiny for you,Like as for me, is shod in silence;Years may seep into your soulThe bacilli of the usual and the expedient;I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!
Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,I desire a name for you,Nice, as a right glove fits;For you—who amid the malodorousMechanics of this unlovely thing,Are darling of spirit and form.I know you—a glance, and what you areSits-by-the-fire in my heart.My Limousine-Lady knows you, orWhy does the slant-envy of her eye markYour straight air and radiant inclusive smile?Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.The bull-necked man knows you—this first timeHis itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,And thinks not of his avocation.I came incuriously—Set on no diversion save that my mindMight safely nurse its brood of misdeedsIn the presence of a blind crowd.The color of life was gray.Everywhere the setting seemed rightFor my mood!Here the sausage and garlic boothSent unholy incense skyward;There a quivering female-thingGestured assignations, and liedTo call it dancing;There, too, were games of chanceWith chances for none;But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and freeThe gaze you send the crowd,As though you know the dearth of beautyIn its sordid life.We need you—my Limousine-Lady,The bull-necked man, and I.Seeing you here brave and water-clean,Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,I am swift to feel that what makesThe plodder glad is good; andWhatever is good is God.The wonder is that you are here;I have seen the queer in queer places,But never before a heaven-fedNaiad of the Carnival-Tank!Little Diver, Destiny for you,Like as for me, is shod in silence;Years may seep into your soulThe bacilli of the usual and the expedient;I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!
Miss Jessie Redmon Fauset
Miss Jessie Redmon Fauset
Miss Jessie Redmon Fauset
By way of indicating the idealistic aspirations of the colored people I gave at the end of Chapter I. J. Mord Allen’s poemThe Psalm of the Uplift. 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:[5]
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’ 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.”
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’ 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.”
The poem follows, with the author’s note on the saying of Sojourner Truth which occasioned it:
ORIFLAMME
I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’—Sojourner Truth.
I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’—Sojourner Truth.
I think I see her sitting bowed and black,Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yetStill looking at the stars.Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,Still visioning the stars!
I think I see her sitting bowed and black,Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yetStill looking at the stars.Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,Still visioning the stars!
I think I see her sitting bowed and black,Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars,Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yetStill looking at the stars.
Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons,Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars,Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set,Still visioning the stars!
“Still visioning the stars”—that is the idealism of the Negro. The soul of Sojourner Truth goes marching on, star-led.
Edward Smythe Jones
Edward Smythe Jones
Edward Smythe Jones
Ithas 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,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.Ad astra per aspera.
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:
As soon as locked within the jail,Deep in a ghastly cell,Methought I heard the bitter wailOf all the fiends of hell!“O God, to Thee I humbly prayNo treacherous prison snareShall close my soul within for ayeFrom dear old Harvard Square.”Just then I saw an holy SpriteShed all her radiant beams,And round her shone the source of lightOf all the poets’ dreams!I plied my pen in sober use,And spent each moment spareIn sweet communion with the MuseI met in Harvard Square!I cried: “Fair Goddess, hear my taleOf sorrow, grief and pain.”That made her face an ashen pale,But soon it glowed again!“They placed me here; and this my crime,Writ on their pages fair;—‘He left his sunny native clime,And came to Harvard Square!’”“Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,Thy weary journey long—But thus I choose my favorite bardTo sing my sweetest song.I’ll strike the key-note of my artAnd guide with tend’rest care,And breathe a song into thy heartTo honor Harvard Square.“I called old Homer long ago,And made him beg his breadThrough seven cities, ye all know,His body fought for, dead.Spurn not oppression’s blighting sting,Nor scorn thy lowly fare;By them I’ll teach thy soul to singThe songs of Harvard Square.“I placed great Dante in exile,And Byron had his turns;Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,And my immortal Burns!But thee I’ll build a sacred shrine,A store of all my ware;By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing‘A place in Harvard Square.’“To some a store of mystic lore,To some to shine a star:The first I gave to Allan Poe,The last to Paul Dunbar.Since thou hast waited patient, long,Now by my throne I swearTo give to thee my sweetest songTo sing in Harvard Square.”And when she gave her parting kissAnd bade a long farewell,I sat serene in perfect blissAs she forsook my cell.Upon the altar-fire she pouredSome incense very rare;Its fragrance sweet my soul assuredI’d enter Harvard Square.Reclining on my couch, I sleptA sleep sweet and profound;O’er me the blessed angels keptTheir vigil close around.With dawning’s smile, my fondest hopeShone radiant and fair:The Justice cut each chain and rope’Tween me and Harvard Square!
As soon as locked within the jail,Deep in a ghastly cell,Methought I heard the bitter wailOf all the fiends of hell!“O God, to Thee I humbly prayNo treacherous prison snareShall close my soul within for ayeFrom dear old Harvard Square.”Just then I saw an holy SpriteShed all her radiant beams,And round her shone the source of lightOf all the poets’ dreams!I plied my pen in sober use,And spent each moment spareIn sweet communion with the MuseI met in Harvard Square!I cried: “Fair Goddess, hear my taleOf sorrow, grief and pain.”That made her face an ashen pale,But soon it glowed again!“They placed me here; and this my crime,Writ on their pages fair;—‘He left his sunny native clime,And came to Harvard Square!’”“Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,Thy weary journey long—But thus I choose my favorite bardTo sing my sweetest song.I’ll strike the key-note of my artAnd guide with tend’rest care,And breathe a song into thy heartTo honor Harvard Square.“I called old Homer long ago,And made him beg his breadThrough seven cities, ye all know,His body fought for, dead.Spurn not oppression’s blighting sting,Nor scorn thy lowly fare;By them I’ll teach thy soul to singThe songs of Harvard Square.“I placed great Dante in exile,And Byron had his turns;Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,And my immortal Burns!But thee I’ll build a sacred shrine,A store of all my ware;By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing‘A place in Harvard Square.’“To some a store of mystic lore,To some to shine a star:The first I gave to Allan Poe,The last to Paul Dunbar.Since thou hast waited patient, long,Now by my throne I swearTo give to thee my sweetest songTo sing in Harvard Square.”And when she gave her parting kissAnd bade a long farewell,I sat serene in perfect blissAs she forsook my cell.Upon the altar-fire she pouredSome incense very rare;Its fragrance sweet my soul assuredI’d enter Harvard Square.Reclining on my couch, I sleptA sleep sweet and profound;O’er me the blessed angels keptTheir vigil close around.With dawning’s smile, my fondest hopeShone radiant and fair:The Justice cut each chain and rope’Tween me and Harvard Square!
As soon as locked within the jail,Deep in a ghastly cell,Methought I heard the bitter wailOf all the fiends of hell!“O God, to Thee I humbly prayNo treacherous prison snareShall close my soul within for ayeFrom dear old Harvard Square.”
Just then I saw an holy SpriteShed all her radiant beams,And round her shone the source of lightOf all the poets’ dreams!I plied my pen in sober use,And spent each moment spareIn sweet communion with the MuseI met in Harvard Square!
I cried: “Fair Goddess, hear my taleOf sorrow, grief and pain.”That made her face an ashen pale,But soon it glowed again!“They placed me here; and this my crime,Writ on their pages fair;—‘He left his sunny native clime,And came to Harvard Square!’”
“Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,Thy weary journey long—But thus I choose my favorite bardTo sing my sweetest song.I’ll strike the key-note of my artAnd guide with tend’rest care,And breathe a song into thy heartTo honor Harvard Square.
“I called old Homer long ago,And made him beg his breadThrough seven cities, ye all know,His body fought for, dead.Spurn not oppression’s blighting sting,Nor scorn thy lowly fare;By them I’ll teach thy soul to singThe songs of Harvard Square.
“I placed great Dante in exile,And Byron had his turns;Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,And my immortal Burns!But thee I’ll build a sacred shrine,A store of all my ware;By them I’ll teach thy soul to sing‘A place in Harvard Square.’
“To some a store of mystic lore,To some to shine a star:The first I gave to Allan Poe,The last to Paul Dunbar.Since thou hast waited patient, long,Now by my throne I swearTo give to thee my sweetest songTo sing in Harvard Square.”
And when she gave her parting kissAnd bade a long farewell,I sat serene in perfect blissAs she forsook my cell.Upon the altar-fire she pouredSome incense very rare;Its fragrance sweet my soul assuredI’d enter Harvard Square.
Reclining on my couch, I sleptA sleep sweet and profound;O’er me the blessed angels keptTheir vigil close around.With dawning’s smile, my fondest hopeShone radiant and fair:The Justice cut each chain and rope’Tween me and Harvard Square!
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,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.
Mr. Jones’s two best poems,The Sylvan Cabin: A Centenary Ode on the Birth of Abraham LincolnandAn Ode to Ethiopia: to the Aspiring Negro Youth, 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:
FLAG OF THE FREE
Flag of the free, our sable siresFirst bore thee long agoInto hot battles’ hell-lit fires,Against the fiercest foe.And when he shook his shaggy mien,And made the death-knell ring,Brave Attucks fell upon the Green,Thy stripes first crimsoning.Thy might and majesty we hurl,Against the bolts of Mars;And from thy ample folds unfurlThy field of flaming stars!Fond hope to nations in distress,Thy starry gleam shall give;The stricken in the wildernessShall look to thee and live.What matter if where Boreas roars,Or where sweet Zephyr smiles?What matter if where eagle soars,Or in the sunlit isles?Thy flowing crimson stripes shall waveAbove the bluish brine,Emblazoned ensign of the brave,And Liberty enshrine!Flag of the Free, still float on highThrough every age to come;Bright beacon of the azure sky,True light of Freedom’s dome.Till nations all shall cease to gropeIn vain for liberty,Oh, shine, last lingering star of hopeOf all humanity!
Flag of the free, our sable siresFirst bore thee long agoInto hot battles’ hell-lit fires,Against the fiercest foe.And when he shook his shaggy mien,And made the death-knell ring,Brave Attucks fell upon the Green,Thy stripes first crimsoning.Thy might and majesty we hurl,Against the bolts of Mars;And from thy ample folds unfurlThy field of flaming stars!Fond hope to nations in distress,Thy starry gleam shall give;The stricken in the wildernessShall look to thee and live.What matter if where Boreas roars,Or where sweet Zephyr smiles?What matter if where eagle soars,Or in the sunlit isles?Thy flowing crimson stripes shall waveAbove the bluish brine,Emblazoned ensign of the brave,And Liberty enshrine!Flag of the Free, still float on highThrough every age to come;Bright beacon of the azure sky,True light of Freedom’s dome.Till nations all shall cease to gropeIn vain for liberty,Oh, shine, last lingering star of hopeOf all humanity!
Flag of the free, our sable siresFirst bore thee long agoInto hot battles’ hell-lit fires,Against the fiercest foe.And when he shook his shaggy mien,And made the death-knell ring,Brave Attucks fell upon the Green,Thy stripes first crimsoning.
Thy might and majesty we hurl,Against the bolts of Mars;And from thy ample folds unfurlThy field of flaming stars!Fond hope to nations in distress,Thy starry gleam shall give;The stricken in the wildernessShall look to thee and live.
What matter if where Boreas roars,Or where sweet Zephyr smiles?What matter if where eagle soars,Or in the sunlit isles?Thy flowing crimson stripes shall waveAbove the bluish brine,Emblazoned ensign of the brave,And Liberty enshrine!
Flag of the Free, still float on highThrough every age to come;Bright beacon of the azure sky,True light of Freedom’s dome.Till nations all shall cease to gropeIn vain for liberty,Oh, shine, last lingering star of hopeOf all humanity!
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:
Thus Attucks brave, without a moment’s pause,Full bared his breast in Freedom’s holy cause,First fell and tore the code of Tyranny’s cruel laws—
Thus Attucks brave, without a moment’s pause,Full bared his breast in Freedom’s holy cause,First fell and tore the code of Tyranny’s cruel laws—
Thus Attucks brave, without a moment’s pause,Full bared his breast in Freedom’s holy cause,First fell and tore the code of Tyranny’s cruel laws—
so writes of him this same poet in hisOde to Ethiopia.
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,ad astra per aspera.