I am a pilgrim far from home,A wanderer like Mars,And thought my wanderings ne'er should come,So fixed behind the bars!I left my sunny Southern homeBeneath the silver stars;A northward path began to roam,Not seeking prison bars.I sought a higher, holier life,Which never virtue mars;But Fate had spun a net of strifeFor me behind the bars!My mother's lowly thatched-roofed cotMy nobler senses jars;And so I seek to aid her lot,But not behind the bars!'Tis said, forsooth, the poet learnsThrough sufferings and warsTo sing the song which deepest burnsBehind the prison bars!Thus I resign myself to Fate,Regardless of her scars;For soon she'll open wide the gateFor me behind the bars.I plead to you, my fellow man,For all who wear the tars;To lend what little help you canTo us behind the bars.O God, I breathe my prayer to Thee,Who never sinner bars:Set each immortal spirit freeBehind these prison bars!
I am a pilgrim far from home,A wanderer like Mars,And thought my wanderings ne'er should come,So fixed behind the bars!
I left my sunny Southern homeBeneath the silver stars;A northward path began to roam,Not seeking prison bars.
I sought a higher, holier life,Which never virtue mars;But Fate had spun a net of strifeFor me behind the bars!
My mother's lowly thatched-roofed cotMy nobler senses jars;And so I seek to aid her lot,But not behind the bars!
'Tis said, forsooth, the poet learnsThrough sufferings and warsTo sing the song which deepest burnsBehind the prison bars!
Thus I resign myself to Fate,Regardless of her scars;For soon she'll open wide the gateFor me behind the bars.
I plead to you, my fellow man,For all who wear the tars;To lend what little help you canTo us behind the bars.
O God, I breathe my prayer to Thee,Who never sinner bars:Set each immortal spirit freeBehind these prison bars!
'Tis once in life our dreams come true,The myths of long ago,Quite real though fairy-like their view,They surge with ebb and flow;Thus thou, O haunt of childhood dreams,More beauteous and fairThan Nature's landscape and her streams,Historic Harvard Square.My soul hath panted long for thee,Like as the wounded hartThat vainly strives himself to freeFull from the archer's dart;And struggled oft all, all aloneWith burdens hard to bear,But now I stand at Wisdom's throneTo-night in Harvard Square.A night most tranquil,—I was proudMy thoughts soared up afar,To moonbeams pouring through the cloud,Or some lone twinkling star;And musing thus, my quickened paceBeat to the printery's glare,Where first I saw a friendly faceIn classic Harvard Square."Ho! stranger, thou art wan and wornOf journey's wear and tear;Thy face all haggard and forlorn,Pray tell me whence and where?""I came—from out—the Sunny South—The spot—on earth—most fair,"Fell lisping from my trembling mouth—"In search—of—Harvard Square.""Here rest, my friend, upon this seat,And feel thyself at home;I'll bring thee forth some drink and meat,'Twill give thee back thy form."And then I prayed the Lord to blessUs, and that little lair—Quite sure, I thought, I had found restMost sweet in Harvard Square."I came," I said, "o'er stony ways,Through mountain, hill and dale,I've felt old Sol's most scorching rays,And braved the stormy gale;I've done this, Printer, not for gold,Nor diamonds rich and rare—But for a burning in my soulTo learn in Harvard Square."I've journeyed long without a drinkNor yet a bite of bread,While in this state, O Printer, think—No shelter for my head.I mused, 'Hope's yet this side the grave'—My pluck and courage thereThen made my languid heart bear brave—Each throb for Harvard Square."A sound soon hushed my heart's rejoice—"The watchman on his search?""No!" rang the printer's gentle voice,"'Deak' Wilson in from church.O'er there, good 'Deak'," the printer said,"The wanderer in that chair,Hath come to seek the lore deep laidUp here in Harvard Square.""It matters not how you implore,He can no longer stay;But on the night's 'Plutonian shore,'Await the coming day.I'm sorry, sir," he calmly said,"Though hard, I guess 'tis fair,Thou hast no place to lay thy head—Not yet in Harvard Square!""Good night!" he said, and we the same—I sighed, "Where shall I go?"He soon returned and with him cameAn officer and—Oh!"Now sir, you take this forlorn trampWith all his shabby ware,And guide him safely off the 'Camp'Of dear old 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!
'Tis once in life our dreams come true,The myths of long ago,Quite real though fairy-like their view,They surge with ebb and flow;Thus thou, O haunt of childhood dreams,More beauteous and fairThan Nature's landscape and her streams,Historic Harvard Square.
My soul hath panted long for thee,Like as the wounded hartThat vainly strives himself to freeFull from the archer's dart;And struggled oft all, all aloneWith burdens hard to bear,But now I stand at Wisdom's throneTo-night in Harvard Square.
A night most tranquil,—I was proudMy thoughts soared up afar,To moonbeams pouring through the cloud,Or some lone twinkling star;And musing thus, my quickened paceBeat to the printery's glare,Where first I saw a friendly faceIn classic Harvard Square.
"Ho! stranger, thou art wan and wornOf journey's wear and tear;Thy face all haggard and forlorn,Pray tell me whence and where?""I came—from out—the Sunny South—The spot—on earth—most fair,"Fell lisping from my trembling mouth—"In search—of—Harvard Square."
"Here rest, my friend, upon this seat,And feel thyself at home;I'll bring thee forth some drink and meat,'Twill give thee back thy form."And then I prayed the Lord to blessUs, and that little lair—Quite sure, I thought, I had found restMost sweet in Harvard Square.
"I came," I said, "o'er stony ways,Through mountain, hill and dale,I've felt old Sol's most scorching rays,And braved the stormy gale;I've done this, Printer, not for gold,Nor diamonds rich and rare—But for a burning in my soulTo learn in Harvard Square.
"I've journeyed long without a drinkNor yet a bite of bread,While in this state, O Printer, think—No shelter for my head.I mused, 'Hope's yet this side the grave'—My pluck and courage thereThen made my languid heart bear brave—Each throb for Harvard Square."
A sound soon hushed my heart's rejoice—"The watchman on his search?""No!" rang the printer's gentle voice,"'Deak' Wilson in from church.O'er there, good 'Deak'," the printer said,"The wanderer in that chair,Hath come to seek the lore deep laidUp here in Harvard Square."
"It matters not how you implore,He can no longer stay;But on the night's 'Plutonian shore,'Await the coming day.I'm sorry, sir," he calmly said,"Though hard, I guess 'tis fair,Thou hast no place to lay thy head—Not yet in Harvard Square!"
"Good night!" he said, and we the same—I sighed, "Where shall I go?"He soon returned and with him cameAn officer and—Oh!"Now sir, you take this forlorn trampWith all his shabby ware,And guide him safely off the 'Camp'Of dear old 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!
Cell No. 40, East Cambridge Jail,Cambridge, Mass., July 26, 1910
Though man through life so swiftly wends,And o'er its journey runs his race;Though rough, or smooth, or 'round the bends,In distance putting fleetest friend:Alas! there comes a halting place,A place of rest—the journey's end!
Though man through life so swiftly wends,And o'er its journey runs his race;Though rough, or smooth, or 'round the bends,In distance putting fleetest friend:Alas! there comes a halting place,A place of rest—the journey's end!
Original variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained except for the following three changes:
Page29: A comma was added after banks for consistency.(From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,—)Page62: Caucasin was changed to Caucasian(statements which place them with the Caucasian race;)Page65: Pharaoahs changed to Pharaohs.(Once in great splendor did thy Pharaohs rule)
Page22: In the line: "There are homes are our natal, and nothing is fatal," the first "are" may be a typo for "our." Left unchanged.