For I have seen the great white witch,And she has led me to her lair,And I have kissed her red, red lipsAnd cruel face so white and fair;Around me she has twined her arms,And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and searMy body like a living coal;Obeyed the power of those eyesAs the needle trembles to the pole;And did not care although I feltThe strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,And heard your laughter loud and gay,And in your voices she has caughtThe echo of a far-off day,When man was closer to the earth;And she has marked you for her prey.
She feels the old Antaean strengthIn you, the great dynamic beatOf primal passions, and she seesIn you the last besieged retreatOf love relentless, lusty, fierce,Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!The great white witch rides out to-night.O, younger brothers mine, beware!Look not upon her beauty bright;For in her glance there is a snare,And in her smile there is a blight.
Eternities before the first-born day,Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame,Calm Night, the everlasting and the same,A brooding mother over chaos lay.And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay,Shall run their fiery courses and then claimThe haven of the darkness whence they came;Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way.
So when my feeble sun of life burns out,And sounded is the hour for my long sleep,I shall, full weary of the feverish light,Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt,And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creepInto the quiet bosom of the Night.
O Southland! O Southland!Have you not heard the call,The trumpet blown, the word made knownTo the nations, one and all?The watchword, the hope-word,Salvation's present plan?A gospel new, for all—for you:Man shall be saved by man.
O Southland! O Southland!Do you not hear to-dayThe mighty beat of onward feet,And know you not their way?'Tis forward, 'tis upward,On to the fair white archOf Freedom's dome, and there is roomFor each man who would march.
O Southland, fair Southland!Then why do you still clingTo an idle age and a musty page,To a dead and useless thing?'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time!The world is young again!And God's above, and God is love,And men are only men.
O Southland! my Southland!O birthland! do not shirkThe toilsome task, nor respite ask,But gird you for the work.Remember, rememberThat weakness stalks in pride;That he is strong who helps alongThe faint one at his side.
See! There he stands; not brave, but with an airOf sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is heNot more like brute than man? Look in his eye!No light is there; none, save the glint that shinesIn the now glaring, and now shifting orbsOf some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap.
How came this beast in human shape and form?Speak, man!—We call you man because you wearHis shape—How are you thus? Are you not fromThat docile, child-like, tender-hearted raceWhich we have known three centuries? Not fromThat more than faithful race which through three warsFed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babesWithout a single breach of trust? Speak out!
I am, and am not.
Then who, why are you?
I am a thing not new, I am as oldAs human nature. I am that which lurks,Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;The ancient trait which fights incessantlyAgainst restraint, balks at the upward climb;The weight forever seeking to obeyThe law of downward pull;—and I am more:The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;The resultant, the inevitable endOf evil forces and the powers of wrong.
Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,The memories of cruel sights and deeds,The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hateFiltered through fifteen generations haveSprung up and found in me sporadic life.In me the muttered curse of dying men,On me the stain of conquered women, andConsuming me the fearful fires of lust,Lit long ago, by other hands than mine.In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayersOf wretches now long dead,—their dire bequests,—In me the echo of the stifled cryOf children for their bartered mothers' breasts.
I claim no race, no race claims me; I amNo more than human dregs; degenerate;The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fedYour wives and nursed your babes would do the sameTo-day, but I—Enough, the brute must die!Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resistThe fire much longer than this slender pine.Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him! Wait!Pile not so fast or high! or we shall loseThe agony and terror in his face.
And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flamesAlready leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!And there's another! Wilder than the first.Fetch water! Water! Pour a little onThe fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,Searching around in vain appeal for help!Another shriek, the last! Watch how the fleshGrows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it siftsDown through the coils of chain that hold erectThe ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.
Stop! to each man no more than one man's share.You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain—Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,In fair division, to the leader comes.
And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;Let us back to our wives and children.—Say,What did he mean by those last muttered words,"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?
FIFTY YEARS (1863-1913)
On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.
O brothers mine, to-day we standWhere half a century sweeps our ken,Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,Struck off our bonds and made us men.
Just fifty years—a winter's day—As runs the history of a race;Yet, as we look back o'er the way,How distant seems our starting place!
Look farther back! Three centuries!To where a naked, shivering score,Snatched from their haunts across the seas,Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.
This land is ours by right of birth,This land is ours by right of toil;We helped to turn its virgin earth,Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.
Where once the tangled forest stood,—Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,—Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood,The cotton white, the yellow corn.
To gain these fruits that have been earned,To hold these fields that have been won,Our arms have strained, our backs have burned,Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.
That Banner which is now the typeOf victory on field and flood—Remember, its first crimson stripeWas dyed by Attucks' willing blood.
And never yet has come the cry—When that fair flag has been assailed—For men to do, for men to die,That we have faltered or have failed.
We've helped to bear it, rent and torn,Through many a hot-breath'd battle breezeHeld in our hands, it has been borneAnd planted far across the seas.
And never yet,—O haughty Land,Let us, at least, for this be praised—Has one black, treason-guided handEver against that flag been raised.
Then should we speak but servile words,Or shall we hang our heads in shame?Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,And fear our heritage to claim?
No! stand erect and without fear,And for our foes let this suffice—We've bought a rightful sonship here,And we have more than paid the price.
And yet, my brothers, well I knowThe tethered feet, the pinioned wings,The spirit bowed beneath the blow,The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;
The staggering force of brutish might,That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed;The long, vain waiting through the nightTo hear some voice for justice raised.
Full well I know the hour when hopeSinks dead, and 'round us everywhereHangs stifling darkness, and we gropeWith hands uplifted in despair.
Courage! Look out, beyond, and seeThe far horizon's beckoning span!Faith in your God-known destiny!We are a part of some great plan.
Because the tongues of GarrisonAnd Phillips now are cold in death,Think you their work can be undone?Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?
Think you that John Brown's spirit stops?That Lovejoy was but idly slain?Or do you think those precious dropsFrom Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?
That for which millions prayed and sighed,That for which tens of thousands fought,For which so many freely died,God cannot let it come to naught.
John Wesley Holloway
Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!Oh, you're pretty sight to see!Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face,An' willowy form chuck full o' grace—De sweetes' gal Ah evah see,An' Ah wush dat you would marry me!Hello, Miss Melerlee!
Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!You're de berry gal fo' me!Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair,An' silky arm so plump an' bare!Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes,An' de way Ah love you,—goodness knows!Hello, Miss Melerlee!
Hello dar, Miss Melerlee!Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be!Ah nevah seed yo' face befo'An' lakly won't again no mo';But yo' sweet smile will follow meCla'r into eternity!Farewell, Miss Melerlee!
Ah'm sick, doctor-man, Ah'm sick!Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick,Don't,—Ah'll die!
Tried mighty hard fo' to cure mahse'f;Tried all dem t'ings on de pantry she'f;Couldn' fin' not'in' a-tall would do,An' so Ah sent fo' you.
"Wha'd Ah take?" Well, le' me see:Firs',—horhound drops an' catnip tea;Den rock candy soaked in rum,An' a good sized chunk o' camphor gum;Next Ah tried was castor oil,An' snakeroot tea brought to a boil;Sassafras tea fo' to clean mah blood;But none o' dem t'ings didn' do no good.Den when home remedies seem to shirk,Dem pantry bottles was put to work:
Blue-mass, laud'num, liver pills,"Sixty-six, fo' fever an' chills,"Ready Relief, an' A.B.C.,An' half a bottle of X.Y.Z.An' sev'al mo' Ah don't recall,Dey nevah done no good at all.
Mah appetite begun to fail;'Ah fo'ced some clabber, about a pail,Fo' mah ol' gran'ma always saidWhen yo' can't eat you're almost dead.
So Ah got scared an' sent for you.—Now, doctor, see what you c'n do.Ah'm sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah'm sick!Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick,Don't,—Ah'll die!
Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,—Lis'n to 'im now!—Hyah de jolly black boy,Singin', at his plow!In de early mornin',Thoo de hazy air,Loud an' clear, sweet an' strongComes de music rare:
"O mah dovee, Who-ah!Do you love me? Who-ah!Who-ah!"An' as 'e tu'ns de cotton row,Hyah 'im tell 'is ol' mule so;"Whoa! Har! Come'ere!"
Don't yo' love a co'n song?How it stirs yo' blood!Ever'body list'nin',In de neighborhood!Standin' in yo' front do'In de misty mo'n,Hyah de jolly black boy,Singin' in de co'n:
"O Miss Julie, Who-ah!Love me truly, Who-ah!Who-ah!"Hyah 'im scol' 'is mule so,W'en 'e try to mek 'im go:"Gee! Whoa! Come 'ere!"
O you jolly black boy,Yod'lin' in de co'n,Callin' to yo' dawlin',In de dewy mo'n,Love 'er, boy, forevah,Yodel ever' day;Only le' me lis'n,As yo' sing away:
"O mah dawlin'! Who-ah!Hyah me callin'! Who-ah!Who-ah!"Tu'n aroun' anothah row,Holler to yo' mule so:"Whoa! Har! Come 'ere!"
If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo,Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,—Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,—Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy.
You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again;An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men;But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one,An' dey'll all be black an' homely,—'less de Virgin Mary's one.
Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men,An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again:If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart',Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'.
If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem,Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him;If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear,Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere.
She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull;But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full;Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown,She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down.
She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong,An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song;She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod;She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God!
She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word,"Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd,"If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt,It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out;
But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine,An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine";An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',—Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'!
Leslie Pinckney Hill
Wherefore this busy labor without rest?Is it an idle dream to which we cling,Here where a thousand dusky toilers singUnto the world their hope? "Build we our best.By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed."So the great engines throb, and anvils ring,And so the thought is wedded to the thing;But what shall be the end, and what the test?Dear God, we dare not answer, we can seeNot many steps ahead, but this we know—If all our toilsome building is in vain,Availing not to set our manhood free,If envious hate roots out the seed we sow,The South will wear eternally a stain.
Come home with me a little spaceAnd browse about our ancient place,Lay by your wonted troubles hereAnd have a turn of Christmas cheer.These sober walls of weathered stoneCan tell a romance of their own,And these wide rooms of devious lineAre kindly meant in their design.Sometimes the north wind searches through,But he shall not be rude to you.We'll light a log of generous girthFor winter comfort, and the mirthOf healthy children you shall seeAbout a sparkling Christmas tree.Eleanor, leader of the fold,Hermione with heart of gold,Elaine with comprehending eyes,And two more yet of coddling size,Natalie pondering all that's said,And Mary with the cherub head—All these shall give you sweet contentAnd care-destroying merriment,While one with true madonna graceMoves round the glowing fire-placeWhere father loves to muse asideAnd grandma sits in silent pride.And you may chafe the wasting oak,Or freely pass the kindly jokeTo mix with nuts and home-made cakeAnd apples set on coals to bake.Or some fine carol we will singIn honor of the Manger-King,Or hear great Milton's organ verseOr Plato's dialogue rehearseWhat Socrates with his last breathSublimely said of life and death.These dear delights we fain would shareWith friend and kinsman everywhere,And from our door see them departEach with a little lighter heart.
So many cares to vex the day,So many fears to haunt the night,My heart was all but weaned awayFrom every lure of old delight.Then summer came, announced by June,With beauty, miracle and mirth.She hung aloft the rounding moon,She poured her sunshine on the earth,She drove the sap and broke the bud,She set the crimson rose afire.She stirred again my sullen blood,And waked in me a new desire.Before my cottage door she spreadThe softest carpet nature weaves,And deftly arched above my headA canopy of shady leaves.Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies,Her days were bowers rife with song,And many a scheme did she deviseTo heal the hurt and soothe the wrong.For on the hill or in the dell,Or where the brook went leaping byOr where the fields would surge and swellWith golden wheat or bearded rye,I felt her heart against my own,I breathed the sweetness of her breath,Till all the cark of time had flown,And I was lord of life and death.
Lord, who am I to teach the wayTo little children day by day,So prone myself to go astray?
I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I knowHow faint they flicker and how lowThe candles of my knowledge glow.
I teach them POWER to will and do,But only now to learn anewMy own great weakness through and through.
I teach them LOVE for all mankindAnd all God's creatures, but I findMy love comes lagging far behind.
Lord, if their guide I still must be,Oh let the little children seeThe teacher leaning hard on Thee.
Edward Smyth Jones
For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,For her coffers filled with their countless worth,For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,For the rippling streams which turn the mills,For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,For the songs of gladness on the gale,—From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,For the bounty which the rich soil yields,For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,For the sun which ripens the golden grains,For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine,For the stallèd ox and the fruitful vine,For the tubers large and cotton white,For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,For the swan which floats near the river-banks,—Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,For the plum and the peach and the apple red,For the dear old press where the wine is tread,For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn,For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,For the game which hide in the shady nooks,—From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks—Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,For the silver ores of a thousand fold,For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,For the river boat and the flying train,For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,—From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,For the peace and plenty together share,For the Hand which guides us from above,For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,For the blessed home with its children gay,For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,—From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!
Ray G. Dandridge
Black brother, think you life so sweetThat you would live at any price?Does mere existence balance withThe weight of your great sacrifice?Or can it be you fear the graveEnough to live and die a slave?O Brother! be it better said,When you are gone and tears are shed,That your death was the stepping stoneYour children's children cross'd upon.Men have died that men might live:Look every foeman in the eye!If necessary, your life giveFor something, ere in vain you die.
(To R. V.P.)
Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel singsErbout how low sweet chariot swings,Truint Angel, wifout wings,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.
Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me,Bekaze I foul de time an' key,Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head?
O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes,Dat offen laffs an' selem cries,Is sho a God gib natchel prize,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.
An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet,Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet,Jes to roun' you out, complete,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.
Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be,Knows yore evah A, B, C,Plum on down to X, Y, Z,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.
De man doan know how much he miss,Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis;Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head!
I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow,(By charm or craf'—doan mattah how)You stay jes lak you is right now,Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.
(Who Was Christened Lucy Jane)
She danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat,With swaying arms and flying feet,'Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace,Her all was dancing—save her face.
A conscience, dumb to brooding fears,Companioned hearing deaf to cheers;A body, marshalled by the will,Kept dancing while a heart stood still:
And eyes obsessed with vacant stare,Looked over heads to empty air,As though they sought to find thereinRedemption for a maiden sin.
'Twas thus, amid force driven grace,We found the lost look on her face;And then, to us, did it occurThat, though we saw—we saw not her.
Dar's a lazy, sortah hazyFeelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo;An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin';Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy,Dough de task et han' is easy,An' de day am fair an' breezy,Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'.
Kaint defy it, kaint deny it,Kaze it jes won't be denied;Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin';Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it;Doctahs fail to analyze it;So I yiel's (dough I despise it)To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'.
He's struttin' sho ernuff,Wearin' a lady's muffEn' ways erpon his head,Red coat ob reddest red,Purtty white satin ves',Gole braid ercross de ches';Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt,Prancin' out dar in frunt,Leadin' his ban'.
Wen dat ah whistle blows,Each man behine him knows'Zacklee whut he mus' do;You bet! he dues it, too.W'en dat brass stick he twirls,Ole maids an' lub-sick gurlsLooks on wid longin' eyes,Dey simpley idolizeDat han'sum man.
Sweet fife an' piccalo,Bofe warblin' sof an' lo'Slide ho'n an' saxophones,Jazz syncopated tones,Snare drum an' lead cornet,Alto an' clarinet,Las', but not least, dar cumCymbals an' big bass drum—O! whut a ban'!
Cose, we all undahstan'Each piece he'ps maik de ban',But dey all mus' be led,Sum one mus' be de head:No doubt, de centipedeHas all de laigs he need,But take erway de head,Po' centipede am dead;So am de ban'.
Fenton Johnson
We are children of the sun,Rising sun!Weaving Southern destiny,Waiting for the mighty hourWhen our Shiloh shall appearWith the flaming sword of right,With the steel of brotherhood,And emboss in crimson dieLiberty! Fraternity!
We are the star-dust folk,Striving folk!Sorrow songs have lulled to rest;Seething passions wrought through wrongs,Led us where the moon rays dipIn the night of dull despair,Showed us where the star gleams shine,And the mystic symbols glow—Liberty! Fraternity!
We have come through cloud and mist,Mighty men!Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes,Reared for us a mystic throneIn the splendor of the skies,That shall always be for us,Children of the Nazarene,Children who shall ever singLiberty! Fraternity!
From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Princeof Peace hovering over No Man's Land.Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon wasdrowned by the happy shouting of the people.From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chantfrom the throats of white-robed angels:
Blow your trumpets, little children!From the East and from the West,From the cities in the valley,From God's dwelling on the mountain,Blow your blast that Peace might knowShe is Queen of God's great army.With the crying blood of millionsWe have written deep her nameIn the Book of all the Ages;With the lilies in the valley,With the roses by the Mersey,With the golden flower of JerseyWe have crowned her smooth young temples.Where her footsteps cease to falterGolden grain will greet the morning,Where her chariot descendsShall be broken down the altarsOf the gods of dark disturbance.Nevermore shall men know suffering,Nevermore shall women wailingShake to grief the God of Heaven.From the East and from the West,From the cities in the valley,From God's dwelling on the mountain,Little children, blow your trumpets!
From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, Iheard the music of the old slave songs.I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimlyfought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars.I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and thecrimson in my veins leapt furiously.
Forget not, O my brothers, how we foughtIn No Man's Land that peace might come again!Forget not, O my brothers, how we gaveRed blood to save the freedom of the world!We were not free, our tawny hands were tied;But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we sharedEach rise of sun or setting of the moon.So when the bugle blast had called us forthWe went not like the surly brute of yoreBut, as the Spartan, proud to give the worldThe freedom that we never knew nor shared.These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us downAs Samson in the temple of the gods;Unloosen them and let us breathe the airThat makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ.For we have been with thee in No Man's Land,Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself;And now we ask of thee our liberty,Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.
I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land.
I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's civilization.
Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane.
I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike's barrels.
You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit.
You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon.
Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored.
Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars marked my destiny.
I am tired of civilization.
There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singingmy songs of the cabin and the field. At theLast Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violetsin March; there is always food and drink for methere, and the dimes of those who love honest music.Behind the railroad tracks the little children claptheir hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.
But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour?
Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.
My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.
I had nothing, so I had to go to work.
All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.
Starvation danced with me.
So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.
Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.
Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.
R. Nathaniel Dett
Staccato! Staccato!Leggier agitato!In and out does the melody twist—Unique propositionIs this composition.(Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!)Now in the dominantTheme ringing prominent,Bass still repeating its one monotone,Double notes crying,Up keyboard go flying,The change to the minor comes in like a groan.Without a cessationA chaste modulationHastens adown to subdominant key,Where melody mellow-likeSinging so 'cello-likeRises and falls in a wild ecstasy.Scarce is this finishedWhen chords all diminishedBreak loose in a patter that comes down like rain,A pedal-point wonderRivaling thunder.Now all is mad agitation again.Like laughter jollyBegins the finale;Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lendDiminuendo ad molto crescendo.Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end!
Georgia Douglas Johnson
The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roamIn the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.
The heart of a woman falls back with the night,And enters some alien cage in its plight,And tries to forget it has dreamed of the starsWhile it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.
The dew is on the grasses, dear,The blush is on the rose,And swift across our dial-youth,A shifting shadow goes.
The primrose moments, lush with bliss,Exhale and fade away,Life may renew the Autumn time,But nevermore the May!
Oh, for the veils of my far away youth,Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth,Why did I stray from their shelter and growInto the sadness that follows—to know!
Impotent atom with desolate gazeThreading the tumult of hazardous ways—Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youthVeils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth!
I want to die while you love me,While yet you hold me fair,While laughter lies upon my lipsAnd lights are in my hair.
I want to die while you love me,And bear to that still bed,Your kisses turbulent, unspentTo warm me when I'm dead.
I want to die while you love meOh, who would care to liveTill love has nothing more to askAnd nothing more to give!
I want to die while you love meAnd never, never seeThe glory of this perfect dayGrow dim or cease to be.
Would I might mend the fabric of my youthThat daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,Would I might compromise awhile with truthUntil our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.
For I would go a further while with you,And drain this cup so tantalant and fairWhich meets my parched lips like cooling dew,Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair!
I'm folding up my little dreamsWithin my heart to-night,And praying I may soon forgetThe torture of their sight.
For Time's deft fingers scroll my browWith fell relentless art—I'm folding up my little dreamsTo-night, within my heart!
Claude McKay
His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven.His father, by the crudest way of pain,Had bidden him to his bosom once again;The awful sin remained still unforgiven.All night a bright and solitary star(Perchance the one that ever guided him,Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim)Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char.Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to viewThe ghastly body swaying in the sun:The women thronged to look, but never a oneShowed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue;And little lads, lynchers that were to be,Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.
If we must die—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!
Think you I am not fiend and savage too?Think you 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 you doI could match—out-match: am I not Africa's son,Black of that black land where black deeds are done?
But the Almighty from the darkness 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!
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutesAnd watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;Her voice was like the sound of blended flutesBlown by black players upon a picnic day.She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,The light gauze hanging loose about her form;To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palmGrown lovelier for passing through a storm.Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curlsProfusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise,The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze;But, looking at her falsely-smiling faceI knew her self was not in that strange place.
I hear the halting footsteps of a lassIn Negro Harlem when the night lets fallIts veil. I see the shapes of girls who passEager to heed desire's insistent call:Ah, little dark girls, who in slippered feetGo prowling through the night from street to street.
Through the long night until the silver breakOf day the little gray feet know no rest,Through the lone night until the last snow-flakeHas dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feetAre trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched wayOf poverty, dishonor and disgrace,Has pushed the timid little feet of clay.The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feetIn Harlem wandering from street to street.
Some day, when trees have shed their leaves,And against the morning's whiteThe shivering birds beneath the eavesHave sheltered for the night,We'll turn our faces southward, love,Toward the summer isleWhere bamboos spire the shafted groveAnd wide-mouthed orchids smile.
And we will seek the quiet hillWhere towers the cotton tree,And leaps the laughing crystal rill,And works the droning bee.And we will build a lonely nestBeside an open glade,And there forever will we rest,O love—O nut-brown maid!
Too green the springing April grass,Too blue the silver speckled sky,For me to linger here, alas,While happy winds go laughing by,Wasting the golden hours indoors,Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night,Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,The stars too gloriously bright,For me to spend the evening hours,When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
O whisper, O my soul!—the afternoonIs waning into evening—whisper soft!Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moonFrom out its misty veil will swing aloft!Be patient, weary body, soon the nightWill wrap thee gently in her sable sheet,And with a leaden sigh thou wilt inviteTo rest thy tired hands and aching feet.The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine;Come, tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast.But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine?O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest!Weary my veins, my brain, my life,—have pity!No! Once again the hard, the ugly city.
I must not gaze at them althoughYour eyes are dawning day;I must not watch you as you goYour sun-illumined way;
I hear but I must never heedThe fascinating note,Which, fluting like a river-reed,Comes from your trembling throat;
I must not see upon your faceLove's softly glowing spark;For there's the barrier of race,You're fair and I am dark.
Your voice is the color of a robin's breast,And there's a sweet sob in it like rain—still rain in the night.Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest,The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delightLike the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat.I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold,Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold.But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on the lips of theeucharisBefore the sun comes warm with his lover's kiss,You are sea-foam, pure with the star's loveliness,Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth,All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their wealth to yourbirth:O I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong,But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit burdened withflesh,Forever, life-long.
So much have I forgotten in ten years,So much in ten brief years; I have forgotWhat time the purple apples come to juiceAnd what month brings the shy forget-me-not;Forgotten is the special, startling seasonOf some beloved tree's flowering and fruiting,What time of year the ground doves brown the fieldsAnd fill the noonday with their curious fluting:I have forgotten much, but still rememberThe poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,But I cannot bring back to mind just whenWe rooted them out of the ping-wing pathTo stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.I often try to think in what sweet monthThe languid painted ladies used to dappleThe yellow bye road mazing from the main,Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple:I have forgotten, strange, but quite rememberThe poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time o' the mild yearWe cheated school to have our fling at tops?What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joyFeasting upon blackberries in the copse?Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days,Even the sacred moments, when we played,All innocent of passion uncorrupt,At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade:We were so happy, happy,—I rememberBeneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
Merry voices chatterin',Nimble feet dem patterin',Big an' little, faces gay,Happy day dis market day.
Sateday, de marnin' break,Soon, soon market-people wake;An' de light shine from de moonWhile dem boy, wid pantaloonRoll up ober dem knee-pan,'Tep across de buccra lan'To de pastur whe' de harseFeed along wid de jackass,An' de mule cant' in de trackWid him tail up in him back,All de ketchin' to defy,No ca' how dem boy might try.
In de early marnin'-tide,When de cocks crow on de hillAn' de stars are shinin' still,Mirrie by de firesideHots de coffee for de ladsComin' ridin' on de padsT'rown across dem animul—Donkey, harse too, an' de mule,Which at last had come do'n cool.On de bit dem hol' dem full:Racin' ober pastur' lan',See dem comin' ebery man,Comin' fe de steamin' teaOber hilly track an' lea.
Hard-wuk'd donkey on de roadTrottin' wid him ushal load,Hamper pack' wi' yam an' grain,Sour-sop, and Gub'nor cane.
Cous' Sun sits in hired dray,Drivin' 'long de market way;Whole week grindin' sugar caneT'rough de boilin' sun an' rain,Now, a'ter de toilin' hard,He goes seekin' his reward,While he's thinkin' in him min'Of de dear ones lef behin',Of de loved though ailin' wife,Darlin' treasure of his life,An' de picknies, six in all,Whose 'nuff burdens 'pon him fall:Seben lovin' ones in need,Seben hungry mouths fe feed;On deir wants he thinks alone,Neber dreamin' of his own,But gwin' on wid joyful faceTill him re'ch de market-place.
Sugar bears no price to-day,Though it is de mont' o' May,When de time is hellish hot,An' de water cocoanutAn' de cane bebridge is nice,Mix' up wid a lilly ice.Big an' little, great an' small,Afou yam is all de call;Sugar tup an' gill a quart,Yet de people hab de heartWantin' brater top o' i',Want de sweatin' higgler feRam de pan an' pile i' up,Yet sell i' fe so-so tup.
Cousin Sun is lookin' sad,As de market is so bad;'Pon him han' him res' him chin,Quietly sit do'n thinkin'Of de loved wife sick in bed,An' de children to be fed—What de laborers would sayWhen dem know him couldn' pay;Also what about de millWhe' him hire from ole Bill;So him think, an' think on so,Till him t'oughts no more could go.
Then he got up an' beganPickin' up him sugar-pan:In his ears rang t'rough de din"Only two-an'-six a tin'."What a tale he'd got to tell,How bad, bad de sugar sell!Tekin' out de lee amount,Him set do'n an' begin countAll de time him min' deh doubtHow expenses would pay out;Ah, it gnawed him like de ticks,Sugar sell fe two-an'-six!
So he journeys on de way,Feelinl sad dis market day;No e'en buy a little cakeTo gi'e baby when she wake,—Passin' 'long de candy-shop'Douten eben mek a stopTo buy drops fe las'y son,For de lilly cash nea' done.So him re'ch him own a groun',An' de children scamper roun',Each one stretchin' out him han',Lookin' to de poor sad man.
Oh, how much he felt de blow,As he watched dem face fall low,When dem wait an' nuttin' cameAn' drew back deir han's wid shame!But de sick wife kissed his brow:"Sun, don't get down-hearted now;Ef we only pay expenseWe mus' wuk we common-sense,Cut an' carve, an' carve an' cut,Mek gill sarbe fe quattiewut;We mus' try mek two ends meetNeber mind how hard be it.We won't mind de haul an' pull,While dem pickny belly full."
An' de shadow lef' him face,An' him felt an inward peace,As he blessed his better partFor her sweet an' gentle heart:"Dear one o' my heart, my breat',Won't I lub you to de deat'?When my heart is weak an' sad,Who but you can mek it glad?"
So dey kissed an' kissed again,An' deir t'oughts were not on pain,But was 'way down in de sout'Where dey'd wedded in deir yout',In de marnin' of deir lifeFree from all de grief an' strife,Happy in de marnin' light,Never thinkin' of de night.
So dey k'lated eberyt'ing;An' de profit it could bring,A'ter all de business fix',Was a princely two-an'-six.
Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.
As I lie in bed,Flat on my back;There passes across my ceilingAn endless panorama of things—Quick steps of gay-voiced children,Adolescence in its wondering silences,Maid and man on moonlit summer's eve,Women in the holy glow of Motherhood,Old men gazing silently thru the twilightInto the beyond.O God, give me words to make my dream-children live.
Brother, come!And let us go unto our God.And when we stand before HimI shall say—"Lord, I do not hate,I am hated.I scourge no one,I am scourged.I covet no lands,My lands are coveted.I mock no peoples,My people are mocked."And, brother, what shall you say?
Why do men smile when I speak,And call my speechThe whimperings of a babeThat cries but knows not what it wants?Is it because I am black?
Why do men sneer when I ariseAnd stand in their councils,And look them eye to eye,And speak their tongue?Is it because I am black?
The band of Gideon roam the sky,The howling wind is their war-cry,The thunder's roll is their trump's peal,And the lightning's flash their vengeful steel.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,"The sword of the Lord and Gideon."
And men below rear temples highAnd mock their God with reasons why,And live in arrogance, sin and shame,And rape their souls for the world's good name.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,"The sword of the Lord and Gideon."
The band of Gideon roam the skyAnd view the earth with baleful eye;In holy wrath they scourge the landWith earth-quake, storm and burning brand.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,"The sword of the Lord and Gideon."
The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,And "Lord have mercy on my soul,"Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,In agony searching for their God.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,"The sword of the Lord and Gideon."
And men repent and then forgetThat heavenly wrath they ever met,The band of Gideon yet will comeAnd strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.Each black cloudIs a fiery steed.And they cry aloudWith each strong deed,"The sword of the Lord and Gideon."
On the dusty earth-drumBeats the falling rain;Now a whispered murmur,Now a louder strain.
Slender, silvery drumsticks,On an ancient drum,Beat the mellow musicBidding life to come.
Chords of earth awakened,Notes of greening spring,Rise and fall triumphantOver every thing.
Slender, silvery drumsticksBeat the long tattoo—God, the Great Musician,Calling life anew.
I am so tired and weary,So tired of the endless fight,So weary of waiting the dawnAnd finding endless night.
That I ask but rest and quiet—Rest for days that are gone,And quiet for the little spaceThat I must journey on.
Roscoe C. Jamison
These truly are the Brave,These men who cast asideOld memories, to walk the blood-stained paveOf Sacrifice, joining the solemn tideThat moves away, to suffer and to dieFor Freedom—when their own is yet denied!O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by,Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified!
These truly are the Free,These souls that grandly riseAbove base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs,Who march to war with visions in their eyesOf Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs,Aforetime, while they front the firing line.Stand and behold! They take the field to-day,Shedding their blood like Him now held divine,That those who mock might find a better way!
Jessie Fauset
On summer afternoons I sitQuiescent by you in the park,And idly watch the sunbeams gildAnd tint the ash-trees' bark.
Or else I watch the squirrels friskAnd chaffer in the grassy lane;And all the while I mark your voiceBreaking with love and pain.
I know a woman who would giveHer chance of heaven to take my place;To see the love-light in your eyes,The love-glow on your face!
And there's a man whose lightest wordCan set my chilly blood afire;Fulfilment of his least behestDefines my life's desire.
But he will none of me, Nor IOf you. Nor you of her. 'Tis saidThe world is full of jests like these.—I wish that I were dead.
Oh little Christ, why do you sighAs you look down to-nightOn breathless France, on bleeding France,And all her dreadful plight?What bows your childish head so low?What turns your cheek so white?
Oh little Christ, why do you moan,What is it that you seeIn mourning France, in martyred France,And her great agony?Does she recall your own dark day,Your own Gethsemane?
Oh little Christ, why do you weep,Why flow your tears so soreFor pleading France, for praying France,A suppliant at God's door?"God sweetened not my cup," you say,"Shall He for France do more?"
Oh little Christ, what can this mean,Why must this horror beFor fainting France, for faithful France,And her sweet chivalry?"I bled to free all men," you say"France bleeds to keep men free."
Oh little, lovely Christ—you smile!What guerdon is in storeFor gallant France, for glorious France,And all her valiant corps?"Behold I live, and France, like me,Shall live for evermore."
If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.Better the wound forever seeking balmThan this gray calm!
Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breathThan passion's death!
"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!
From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)
I hope when I am dead that I shall lieIn some deserted grave—I cannot tell you why,But I should like to sleep in some neglected spotUnknown to every one, by every one forgot.
There lying I should taste with my dead breathThe utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death;And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate,The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state.
To me would never penetrate the prayers and tearsThat futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears;There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would blessOblivion—the shroud and envelope of happiness.
Anne Spencer
Garden of Shushan!After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee:Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple,Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye;Sorcerer, release the dreams born here whenDrowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain;And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essayBefore these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile toStir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mineArms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind—Slave, send Vashti to her King!
The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flameThe marbled towers of Shushan:So at each day's wane, two peers—the one inHeaven, the other on earth—welcome with theirSplendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.
Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her kneeFinding glory for mine head,—still, nearly shamedAm I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharpBreath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between;Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky,Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth;Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redderThan the grape, a rose in the night of her hair;Then—Sharon's Rose in my arms.
And I am hard to force the petals wide;And you are fast to suffer and be sad.Is any prophet come to teach a new thingNow in a more apt time?Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament;How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine;How to the altar may not come to break and drink,Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit!
I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn;I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and whenI thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger.I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list.No woman in all Persia sets out strange actionTo confuse Persia's lord—Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment;I, thy King, so say!
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 healthAnd 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!
Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of thingsFrom earth to star;Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, andOver the border the bar.Though rank and fierce the marinerSailing the seven seas,He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes,Coaxing the Pleiades.
I cannot love them; and I feel your gladChiding from the grave,That my all was only worth at all, whatJoy to you it gave.These seven links theLawcompelledFor the human chain—I cannot lovethem; andyou, oh,Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!
A jungle there, a cave here, bred sixAnd a million years,Sure and strong, mate for mate, suchLove as culture fears;I gave you clear the oil and wine;You saved me your hob and hearth—See howevenlife may be ere theSickle comes and leaves a swath.