CHAPTER VIITHE POETRY OF PROTEST

NOTE.—Physicians are agreed that laziness is a microbe disease.

Go en fetch er lawyer, ’Tilda,’Kaze I wants ter make mah will;Neenter min’ erbout de doctor—’Tain’t no use ter take er pill.—Chunk up de kitchen fire,En fetch mah easy-ch’er,En put er piller in it:Maybe I’ll git better hyeah.I done hyeahed de doctor say it—de doctor hisse’f said it—I’m plumb chock full o’ microbes en mah time’s ercomin’ quick.So, ’stid o’ up en fussin’ wid me fer bein’ lazy,Yer’d better be er nussin’ me, ’kaze I’m jes’ mighty sick.I ’spec’ I must er cotch itBack in Tennessee;’Kaze, fur ez I kin ’member,I wuz bad ez I could be—P’intly hated hoein’ ’taters—Couldn’t chop er stick o’ wood—Couldn’t pick er sack o’ cotton—Never wuz er lick o’ good.En de folks dey called me lazy—my own mammy called me lazyWhen, ’stid o’ gwine plowin’, I wuz fishin’ in de creek;Took en tole de white folks ’bout it, en made er heap o’ trouble,En all fer want o’ medersun—me bein’ mighty sick.So, now yer knows de reasonWhy I’m always loafin’ ’roun’,When jobs is runnin’ after menIn ev’y part o’ town.Dar’s patches on mah breeches,En you’s er sight ter see;Dat’s de work o’ dem same microbes,En it kain’t be laid on me.’Kaze de doctor he explained it, en de doctor’s book explained it,En some Latin words explained it, en explained it mighty quick—It’s mah lights er else mah liver, er maybe, its mah stomach—It’s somep’n in mah insides, en it sho’ has made me sick.En so, I hope yer’ll git yerse’fEr washin’, now, er two,Er get er job o’ scrubbin’Er somp’n else ter do;’Kaze dat doctor p’intly showed meSo I couldn’t he’p but tellDat dem microbes got me han’ en footEn I jes’ kain’t git well.Darfo’ I hope yer’ll he’p me ter pass mah las’ days easy,En keep er fire in de stove en somep’n in de pan.I know it’s hard ter do it, en I’m sorry I kain’t he’p yer;But me ’n de doctor bofe knows I’m er mighty sick man.

I ’spec’ I must er cotch itBack in Tennessee;’Kaze, fur ez I kin ’member,I wuz bad ez I could be—P’intly hated hoein’ ’taters—Couldn’t chop er stick o’ wood—Couldn’t pick er sack o’ cotton—Never wuz er lick o’ good.En de folks dey called me lazy—my own mammy called me lazyWhen, ’stid o’ gwine plowin’, I wuz fishin’ in de creek;Took en tole de white folks ’bout it, en made er heap o’ trouble,En all fer want o’ medersun—me bein’ mighty sick.

So, now yer knows de reasonWhy I’m always loafin’ ’roun’,When jobs is runnin’ after menIn ev’y part o’ town.Dar’s patches on mah breeches,En you’s er sight ter see;Dat’s de work o’ dem same microbes,En it kain’t be laid on me.’Kaze de doctor he explained it, en de doctor’s book explained it,En some Latin words explained it, en explained it mighty quick—It’s mah lights er else mah liver, er maybe, its mah stomach—It’s somep’n in mah insides, en it sho’ has made me sick.

En so, I hope yer’ll git yerse’fEr washin’, now, er two,Er get er job o’ scrubbin’Er somp’n else ter do;’Kaze dat doctor p’intly showed meSo I couldn’t he’p but tellDat dem microbes got me han’ en footEn I jes’ kain’t git well.Darfo’ I hope yer’ll he’p me ter pass mah las’ days easy,En keep er fire in de stove en somep’n in de pan.I know it’s hard ter do it, en I’m sorry I kain’t he’p yer;But me ’n de doctor bofe knows I’m er mighty sick man.

James Weldon Johnson entitled a section of his bookJingles and Croons. 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:

MY LADY’S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY

(Negro Love Song)

Breeze a-sighin’ and a-blowin’,Southern summer night.Stars a-gleamin’ and a-glowin’,Moon jus shinin’ right.Strollin’, like all lovers do,Down de lane wid Lindy Lou;Honey on her lips to waste;’Speck I’m gwine to steal a taste.Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.Bird a-whistlin’ and a-swayin’In de live-oak tree;Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,“Kiss dat gal fo’ me.”Look heah, Mister Mockin’ Bird,Gwine to take you at yo’ word;If I meets ma Waterloo,Gwine to blame it all on you.Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.Honey in de rose, I ’spose, isPut der fo’ de bee;Honey on her lips, I knows, isPut der jes fo’ me.Seen a sparkle in her eye,Heard her heave a little sigh;Felt her kinder squeeze mah han’,’Nuff to make me understan’.

Oh, ma lady’s lips am like de honey,Ma lady’s lips am like de rose;An’ I’m jes like de little bee a-buzzin’’Round de flowers wha’ de nectah grows.Ma lady’s lips dey smile so temptin’,Ma lady’s teeth so white dey shine,Oh, ma lady’s lips so tantalizin’,Ma lady’s lips so close to mine.

Bird a-whistlin’ and a-swayin’In de live-oak tree;Seems to me he keeps a-sayin’,“Kiss dat gal fo’ me.”Look heah, Mister Mockin’ Bird,Gwine to take you at yo’ word;If I meets ma Waterloo,Gwine to blame it all on you.

Honey in de rose, I ’spose, isPut der fo’ de bee;Honey on her lips, I knows, isPut der jes fo’ me.Seen a sparkle in her eye,Heard her heave a little sigh;Felt her kinder squeeze mah han’,’Nuff to make me understan’.

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 littletalent, 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.

Theodore Henry Shackelford

Shackelford, with little schooling, displays a versatility of talent. His own pen has illustrated with interesting realistic sketches his book entitledMy Country and Other Poems, 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.

Equality and Justice for All(Photograph of a panel of the Carl Schurz Monument)

Equality and Justice for All

(Photograph of a panel of the Carl Schurz Monument)

Aselsewhere 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 thatwe shall make a special presentation, in this chapter.

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:

THE BLACK VIOLINIST

I touched the violin,I, whose hand was black,I touched the violinIn a grand salon.I touched the violinIn a Russian palace.I touched the violinAnd the dream-born strainsChanted by the CongoSoared to Heaven’s chambers.Could I touch the violin?I, whose hand was black?And bring to life dream music?Men had taunted me,Age-worn months: their jeersSnapped to bits my heartstrings,Snapped my inner soul;And the sting of livingTortured me the livelong day.

Could I touch the violin?I, whose hand was black?And bring to life dream music?Men had taunted me,Age-worn months: their jeersSnapped to bits my heartstrings,Snapped my inner soul;And the sting of livingTortured me the livelong day.

Sometimes the protest runs in a lighter vein—as thus, in verses entitled:

OLD JIM CROW

Wherever we live, it’s right to forgive,It’s wrong to hold malice, we know,But there’s one thing that’s true, from all points of view,All Negroes hate old man Jim Crow.His home is in hell; he loves here to dwell;We meet him wherever we go;In all public places, where live both the races,You’ll always see Mr. Jim Crow.Be we well educated, even to genius related,We may have a big pile of dough,That cuts not a figger, you still are a nigger,And that is the law with Jim Crow.The Nashville Eye.

Wherever we live, it’s right to forgive,It’s wrong to hold malice, we know,But there’s one thing that’s true, from all points of view,All Negroes hate old man Jim Crow.

His home is in hell; he loves here to dwell;We meet him wherever we go;In all public places, where live both the races,You’ll always see Mr. Jim Crow.

Be we well educated, even to genius related,We may have a big pile of dough,That cuts not a figger, you still are a nigger,And that is the law with Jim Crow.The Nashville Eye.

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.

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:

Mourn for the thousands slain,The youthful and the strong;Mourn for the last; but pray,For those hung by the mobbing throng.Pray to our God above,To break the fell destroyer’s sway,And show His saving love.

The second is the last stanza of a poem entitledShall Race Hatred Prevail?by Adeline Carter Watson.

By the tears of Negro mothers,By the woes of Negro wives,By the sighs of Negro children,By your gallant snuffed-out lives,By the throne of God eternal;Standing hard by Heaven’s gate,Ye shall crush this cursed, infernal,Western stigma: groundless hate!

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:

TO MY SON

Shall I say, “My son, you are branded in this country’s pageantry,Foully tethered, bound forever, and no forum makes you free?”Shall I mark the young light fading through your soul-enchanneled eye,As the dusky pall of shadows screen the highway of your sky?Or shall I with love prophetic bid you dauntlessly arise,Spurn the handicap that binds you, taking what the world denies?Bid you storm the sullen fortress built by prejudice and wrong,With a faith that shall not falter in your heart and on your tongue!

The second is by Will Sexton:

TO MY LOST CHILD

It is well, child of my heart, the rosebush drops its petals on your grave.It is well, child of my heart, the sparrow sings to you when Aurora has rouged the sky.In your trundle bed deep in the bosom of the earth you can dream pleasanter dreams than I.You have never felt the sting of living in a white man’s civilization and beneath a white man’s laws.You have never been forced to dance to the music of hate played by an idle orchestra.You have never toiled long hours and bowed and scraped for the chance to breathe.In your dreams you wonder in the Heaven beyond the skies with the God civilization rebukes.Tell me, little child, are you not happy in that realm no white man can enter?

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 arumbling 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:

They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.O God, behold the crime.And midst the mad mob’s howlingHow sweet the church bells chime!They’ve lynched a man in Dixie.You say this cannot be?See where his lead-torn bodyMute hangs from yonder tree.

This or a similar lynching provoked the following lines from another, Walter Everette Hawkins, in a poem entitledA Festival in Christendom. After relating that the white people of a certain community were on their way to church on the Sabbath day, the poem continues:

And so this Christian mob did turnFrom prayer to rob, to lynch and burn.A victim helplessly he fellTo tortures truly kin to hell;They bound him fast and strung him high,They cut him down lest he should dieBefore their energy was spentIn torturing to their heart’s content.They tore his flesh and broke his bones,And laughed in triumph at his groans;They chopped his fingers, clipped his earsAnd passed them round as souvenirs.They bored hot irons in his sideAnd reveled in their zeal and pride;They cut his quivering flesh awayAnd danced and sang as Christians may;Then from his side they tore his heartAnd watched its quivering fibres dart.And then upon his mangled frameThey piled the wood, the oil and flame.Lest there be left one of his creed,One to perpetuate his breed;Lest there be one to bear his nameOr build the stock from which he came,They dragged his bride up to the pyreAnd plunged her headlong in the fire,Full-freighted with an unborn child,Hot embers on her form they piled.And they raised a Sabbath song,The echo sounded wild and strong,A benediction to the skiesThat crowned the human sacrifice.

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 understanding of Johnson’s point of view, the reader will appreciate the following poem, remarkable for that restraint which adds to the potency of art:

THE BLACK MAMMY

O whitened head entwined with turban gay,O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand,O foster-mother in whose arms there layThe race whose sons are masters of the land!It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold,It was thine eyes that followed through the lengthOf infant days these sons. In times of oldIt was thy breast that nourished them to strength.So often hast thou to thy bosom pressedThe golden head, the face and brow of snow;So often has it ’gainst thy broad, dark breastLain, set off like a quickened cameo.Thou simple soul, as cuddling down that babeWith thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild,Came ne’er the thought to thee, swift like a stab,That it some day might crush thine own black child?

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 disciplinedsense 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:

Lucian B. Watkins

My fallen star has spent its lightAnd left but memory to me;My day of dream has kissed the nightFarewell, its sun no more I see;My summer bloomed for winter’s frost:Alas, I’ve lived and loved and lost!What matters it to-day should earthLay on my head a gold-bright crownLit with the gems of royal worthBefitting well a king’s renown?—My lonely soul is trouble-tossed,For I have lived and loved and lost.Great God! I dare not question Thee—Thy way eternally is just;This seeming mystery to meWill be revealed, if I but trust;Ah, Thou alone dost know the costWhen one has lived and loved and lost.

What matters it to-day should earthLay on my head a gold-bright crownLit with the gems of royal worthBefitting well a king’s renown?—My lonely soul is trouble-tossed,For I have lived and loved and lost.

Great God! I dare not question Thee—Thy way eternally is just;This seeming mystery to meWill be revealed, if I but trust;Ah, Thou alone dost know the costWhen one has lived and loved and lost.

The following sonnet, entitled “The New Negro,” will serve to represent much of Watkins’s verse:

He thinks in black. His God is but the sameJohn saw—with hair “like wool” and eyes “as fire”—Who makes the visions for which men aspire.His kin is Jesus and the Christ who cameHumbly to earth and wrought His hallowed aim’Midst human scorn. Pure is his heart’s desire;His life’s religion lifts; his faith leads higher.Love is his Church, and Union is its name.Lo, he has learned his own immortal rôleIn this momentous drama of the hour;Has read aright the heavens’ Scriptural scroll’Bove ancient wrong—long boasting in its tower.Ah, he has sensed the truth. Deep in his soulHe feels the manly majesty of power.

Lo, he has learned his own immortal rôleIn this momentous drama of the hour;Has read aright the heavens’ Scriptural scroll’Bove ancient wrong—long boasting in its tower.Ah, he has sensed the truth. Deep in his soulHe feels the manly majesty of power.

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:

A MESSAGE TO THE MODERN PHARAOHS

(Loose him and let him go—John 11.44)“Loose him!”—this man on whom you plodBeneath your heel hate-iron-shod;His silent sorrow troubles God—“Let him go!”There will be plagues, wars will not cease,—There cannot be a lasting peaceUntil this being you release—“Let him go!”Each doomful kingdom—throne and crown—Built on the lowly fettered down,Shall perish—lo, the heavens frown—“Let him go!”Naught but a name is Liberty,Naught but a name—Democracy,Till love has made each mortal free—“Let him go!”“Loose him!” He has his part to playIn Life’s Great Drama, day by day,—He has his mission, God’s own way,—“Let him go!”“Loose him!” ’Twill be your master rôle,’Twill be your triumph and your goal:’Twill be the saving of your soul—“Let him go!”

(Loose him and let him go—John 11.44)

“Loose him!”—this man on whom you plodBeneath your heel hate-iron-shod;His silent sorrow troubles God—“Let him go!”

There will be plagues, wars will not cease,—There cannot be a lasting peaceUntil this being you release—“Let him go!”

Each doomful kingdom—throne and crown—Built on the lowly fettered down,Shall perish—lo, the heavens frown—“Let him go!”

Naught but a name is Liberty,Naught but a name—Democracy,Till love has made each mortal free—“Let him go!”

“Loose him!” He has his part to playIn Life’s Great Drama, day by day,—He has his mission, God’s own way,—“Let him go!”

“Loose him!” ’Twill be your master rôle,’Twill be your triumph and your goal:’Twill be the saving of your soul—“Let him go!”

Mr. Hawkins, whom I have quoted, entitled his bookChords and Discords. 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:

AN EASTER MESSAGE

Now quivering to life, all nature thrillsAt the approach of that triumphant queen,Pink-fingered Easter, trailing robes of greenTunefully o’er the flower-embroidered hills,Her hair perfumed of myriad daffodils:Upon her swelling bosom now are seenThe dream-frail lilies with their snowy sheen,As lightly she o’erleaps the spring-time rills.To black folk choked within the deadly graspOf racial hate, what message does she bringOf resurrection and the hope of spring?Assurance their death-stupor is a mask—A sleep, with elements potential, rife,Ready to burst full-flowered into life.

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. Hewill 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.

IF WE MUST DIE

If we must die, let it not be like hogsHunted and penned in an inglorious spot,While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,Making their mock at our accursed lot.If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,So that our precious blood may not be shedIn vain; then even the monsters we defyShall be constrained to honor us, though dead!Oh, kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave,And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow.What though before us lies the open grave?Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,Pressed to the wall, dying, but—fighting back!

Oh, kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;Though far outnumbered, let us still be brave,And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow.What though before us lies the open grave?Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,Pressed to the wall, dying, but—fighting back!

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. Theancient 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.

Mae Smith Johnson

Altogetheradmirable 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.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.

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 inThe People’s Pilot, published in Richmond, Va.:

THE NEGRO

Think ye I am not fiend and savage too?Think ye I could not arm me with a gunAnd shoot down ten of you for every oneOf my black brothers murdered, burnt by you?Be not deceived, for every deed ye doI could match—outmatch: am I not Afric’s son,Black of that black land where black deeds are done?But the Almighty from the darkness drewMy soul and said: Even thou shalt be a lightAwhile to burn on the benighted earth;Thy dusky face I set among the whiteFor thee to prove thyself of highest worth;Before the world is swallowed up in night,To show thy little lamp; go forth, go forth!

From another Virginia magazine, also now defunct,The Praiseworthy Muse, of Norfolk, I take the following poem, signed by John J. Fenner, Jr.:

RISE! YOUNG NEGRO—RISE!

Ho! we from slumber wake!Rise! young Negro—rise!Begin our daily task anew—Thank God we’re spared to—Rise! young Negro—rise!Thy task may be an humble one.Rise! young Negro—rise!However great, however small,Honesty and respect for all—Rise! young Negro—rise!Each has a race to run.Rise! young Negro—rise!Enter now while we’re young,Though weak and just begun.Rise! young Negro—rise!Our banner flown will some day read:Rise! young Negro—rise!Victory’s ours! We’ve won the race.Then let us live in God by grace.Rise! young Negro—rise!

Ho! we from slumber wake!Rise! young Negro—rise!Begin our daily task anew—Thank God we’re spared to—Rise! young Negro—rise!

Thy task may be an humble one.Rise! young Negro—rise!However great, however small,Honesty and respect for all—Rise! young Negro—rise!

Each has a race to run.Rise! young Negro—rise!Enter now while we’re young,Though weak and just begun.Rise! young Negro—rise!

Our banner flown will some day read:Rise! young Negro—rise!Victory’s ours! We’ve won the race.Then let us live in God by grace.Rise! young Negro—rise!

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.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:

DAYBREAK

Awake! Arise! Men of my race—I see our morning star,And feel the dawn breeze on my faceCreep inward from afar.I feel the dawn, with soft-like tread,Steal through our lingering night,Aglow with flame our sky to spreadIn floods of morning light.Arise, my men! Be wide-awakeTo hear the bugle callFor Negroes everywhere to breakThe bands that bind us all.Great Lincoln, now with glory graced,All Godlike with the pen,Our chattel fetters broke and placedUs in the ranks of men.But even he could not awakeThe dead, nor make alive,Nor change stern Nature’s laws, which makeThe fittest to survive.Let every man his soul inureIn noblest sacrifice,And with a heart of oak endureIgnoble, arrant prejudice.Endurance, love, will yet prevailAgainst all laws of hate;Such armaments can never failOur race its best estate.Let none make common cause with sin,Be that in honor bound,For they who fight with God must winOn every battleground.Though wrongs there are, and wrongs have been,And wrongs we still must face,We have more friends than foes withinThe Anglo-Saxon race.In spite of all the Babel criesOf those who rage and shout,God’s silent forces daily riseTo bring his will about.George Marion McClellan.

Awake! Arise! Men of my race—I see our morning star,And feel the dawn breeze on my faceCreep inward from afar.

I feel the dawn, with soft-like tread,Steal through our lingering night,Aglow with flame our sky to spreadIn floods of morning light.

Arise, my men! Be wide-awakeTo hear the bugle callFor Negroes everywhere to breakThe bands that bind us all.

Great Lincoln, now with glory graced,All Godlike with the pen,Our chattel fetters broke and placedUs in the ranks of men.

But even he could not awakeThe dead, nor make alive,Nor change stern Nature’s laws, which makeThe fittest to survive.

Let every man his soul inureIn noblest sacrifice,And with a heart of oak endureIgnoble, arrant prejudice.

Endurance, love, will yet prevailAgainst all laws of hate;Such armaments can never failOur race its best estate.

Let none make common cause with sin,Be that in honor bound,For they who fight with God must winOn every battleground.

Though wrongs there are, and wrongs have been,And wrongs we still must face,We have more friends than foes withinThe Anglo-Saxon race.

In spite of all the Babel criesOf those who rage and shout,God’s silent forces daily riseTo bring his will about.George Marion McClellan.

THE NEGRO WOMAN

Were it mine to select a womanAs queen of the hall of fame;One who has fought the gamest fightAnd climbed from the depths of shame;I would have to give the sceptreTo the lowliest of them all;She, who has struggled through the years,With her back against the wall.Wronged by the men of an alien race,Deserted by those of her own;With a prayer in her heart, a song on her lipsShe has carried the fight alone.In spite of the snares all around her;Her marvelous pluck has prevailedAnd kept her home together—When even her men have failed.What of her sweet, simple nature?What of her natural grace?Her richness and fullness of color,That adds to the charm of her face?Is there a woman more shapely?More vigorous, loving and true?Yea, wonderful Negro womanThe honor I’d give to you.Andrea Razafkeriefo.

Wronged by the men of an alien race,Deserted by those of her own;With a prayer in her heart, a song on her lipsShe has carried the fight alone.In spite of the snares all around her;Her marvelous pluck has prevailedAnd kept her home together—When even her men have failed.

What of her sweet, simple nature?What of her natural grace?Her richness and fullness of color,That adds to the charm of her face?Is there a woman more shapely?More vigorous, loving and true?Yea, wonderful Negro womanThe honor I’d give to you.Andrea Razafkeriefo.

THE NEGRO CHILD

My little one of ebon hue,My little one with fluffy hair,The wide, wide world is calling youTo think and do and dare.The lessons of stern yesterdaysThat stir your blood and poise your brainAre etching out the simple waysBy which you must attain.An echo here, a memory there,An act that links itself with truth;A vision that makes troubles airAnd toils the joy of youth.These be your food, your drink, your rest,These be your moods of drudgeful ease,For these be nature’s spur and testAnd heaven’s fair decrees.My little one of ebon hue,My little one with fluffy hair,Go train your head and hands to do,Your head and heart to dare.Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.

My little one of ebon hue,My little one with fluffy hair,The wide, wide world is calling youTo think and do and dare.

The lessons of stern yesterdaysThat stir your blood and poise your brainAre etching out the simple waysBy which you must attain.

An echo here, a memory there,An act that links itself with truth;A vision that makes troubles airAnd toils the joy of youth.

These be your food, your drink, your rest,These be your moods of drudgeful ease,For these be nature’s spur and testAnd heaven’s fair decrees.

My little one of ebon hue,My little one with fluffy hair,Go train your head and hands to do,Your head and heart to dare.Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.

THE MOTHER

The mother soothes her mantled childWith plaintive melody, and wild;A deep compassion brims her eyeAnd stills upon her lips the sigh.Her thoughts are leaping down the years,O’er branding bars, through seething tears:Her heart is sandaling his feetAdown the world’s corroding street.Then, with a start, she dons a smile,His tender yearnings to beguile;And only God will ever knowThe wordless measure of her woe.Georgia Douglas Johnson.

The mother soothes her mantled childWith plaintive melody, and wild;A deep compassion brims her eyeAnd stills upon her lips the sigh.

Her thoughts are leaping down the years,O’er branding bars, through seething tears:Her heart is sandaling his feetAdown the world’s corroding street.

Then, with a start, she dons a smile,His tender yearnings to beguile;And only God will ever knowThe wordless measure of her woe.Georgia Douglas Johnson.

The foregoing poems are generic in character, the following, specific. And yet there is much in these also that is typical and universal:

TO A NEGRO MOTHER

I hear you croon a little lullaby,I see you press his little lips to yours,Again old scenes come to my memory,As if Love’s stream had gained the long lost shores;As if the tidal wave of human goodHad thrown o’er me the mantle of control;As if the beauty of true motherhoodHad gained the premise of my common soul.The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—The power to make, the power to break apart;The power to lift, the power again to lowerThat burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart.And am I speaking as in hapless rhymesOf things at least that may not come to pass?Or is it not the spirit of the timesAll things that savour power to amass?Canst thou not see within thine own pure soulThat which thy Race and all the world awaits,The master-leader who will reach the goalAnd hew with sword of flame the city gates?O Negro mother, from the dust arise,Take up your task with grace and fortitude,Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.Create anew the captains of the past;Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,That when the mighty quest is gained at last,O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.Ben E. Burrell.

The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—The power to make, the power to break apart;The power to lift, the power again to lowerThat burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart.

And am I speaking as in hapless rhymesOf things at least that may not come to pass?Or is it not the spirit of the timesAll things that savour power to amass?Canst thou not see within thine own pure soulThat which thy Race and all the world awaits,The master-leader who will reach the goalAnd hew with sword of flame the city gates?

O Negro mother, from the dust arise,Take up your task with grace and fortitude,Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.Create anew the captains of the past;Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,That when the mighty quest is gained at last,O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.Ben E. Burrell.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER

You ’mind me of the winter’s eveWhen low the sinking sunCasts soft bright rays upon the snowAnd day, now almost done,In silence deep prepares to leave,And calmly waits the signal “Go.”Your eyes are faded vestal lightsThat once the hearth illumed,Where vestal virgins vigil kept,And budding virtue bloomed:Like stars that beam on summer nights,Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.Asleep, one night, an angel kissedYour hair and on the mornThe raven threads were silv’ry gray;The angel fair had borneYour youth away ere it you missedAnd left old age to bless your way.Smile on, for when you smile, it seemsI cannot do a wrong;Your smiles go with me all the whileAnd make life one sweet song;And oft at night my troubled dreamGrows gay at thoughts of your bright smile.Dark Africa with Caucasian bloodTo tinge your veins combined,Your proud head bowed to slavery’s thrall,Your hands to toil consigned.The Lord of hosts becalmed the flood,The God Omnipotent o’er all.Your ears have heard the din of war,The martial tramp of feet,Your voice has risen to your GodIn supplications sweet.May angels kiss each furrowed scarUpon your brow where care has trod.God bless the hands all withered nowBy age and weary care.God rest the feet that sought the wayTo freedom bright and fair.God bless thy life and e’er endowThee with new strength each new-born day.Mae Smith Johnson.

You ’mind me of the winter’s eveWhen low the sinking sunCasts soft bright rays upon the snowAnd day, now almost done,In silence deep prepares to leave,And calmly waits the signal “Go.”

Your eyes are faded vestal lightsThat once the hearth illumed,Where vestal virgins vigil kept,And budding virtue bloomed:Like stars that beam on summer nights,Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.

Asleep, one night, an angel kissedYour hair and on the mornThe raven threads were silv’ry gray;The angel fair had borneYour youth away ere it you missedAnd left old age to bless your way.

Smile on, for when you smile, it seemsI cannot do a wrong;Your smiles go with me all the whileAnd make life one sweet song;And oft at night my troubled dreamGrows gay at thoughts of your bright smile.

Dark Africa with Caucasian bloodTo tinge your veins combined,Your proud head bowed to slavery’s thrall,Your hands to toil consigned.The Lord of hosts becalmed the flood,The God Omnipotent o’er all.

Your ears have heard the din of war,The martial tramp of feet,Your voice has risen to your GodIn supplications sweet.May angels kiss each furrowed scarUpon your brow where care has trod.

God bless the hands all withered nowBy age and weary care.God rest the feet that sought the wayTo freedom bright and fair.God bless thy life and e’er endowThee with new strength each new-born day.Mae Smith Johnson.

EBON MAID AND GIRL OF MINE

Back to Index Next