THE BACHELOR'S SONG

I call thee angel of this earth,For angel true thou artIn noble deeds and sterling worthAnd sympathetic heart.I, therefore, seek none from afarFor what they might have been,But sing the praise of those which areThat dwell on earth with men.For when man was a tottling wee,Snug nestling on thy breast,Or sporting gay upon thy knee,Oh, thou who lovest him best;An overflowing stream of love,Sprung at his very birth,And made thee gentle as a dove,Fair angel of this earth.Thou cheerest ever blithesome youthWith songs and fervent prayers,And fillest heart with love and truthA store for future cares.Thou lead'st him safely in his prime,True guide of every stage,And then at last, as fades the time,Thou comfortest his age.Like as the sunshine after rain,Far chasing 'way the mist,Thou soothest human grief and pain,Fleet messenger of bliss.In battles where the sword and shieldFull lay the mighty low,Thou hov'rest ever o'er the field,To ease life's ebb and flow!Thou standest, ever standest near,Before man's waning eyes,An angel true to him more dearThan all beyond the skies!No fabled sprites of chants and creeds,Nor myths of bygone years,For thou suppliest all his needsAnd wip'st his briny tears.So, if he quail in desert wasteOr toss life's stormy sea,He turns his tear-stained eye in hasteFor one fond glimpse of thee.He longs to hide beneath thy wing,And nestle on thy breast;He lists to hear thee softly singHim into peaceful rest!Oh, sing aloud Mt. Zion's songs,To cheer each languid heart;For now some feeble spirit longsThy blessings to impart.And thus thou keepest the Master's will,And showest all thy worth,Through loving kindness thou art stillThe angel of this earth!

For when man was a tottling wee,Snug nestling on thy breast,Or sporting gay upon thy knee,Oh, thou who lovest him best;An overflowing stream of love,Sprung at his very birth,And made thee gentle as a dove,Fair angel of this earth.

Thou cheerest ever blithesome youthWith songs and fervent prayers,And fillest heart with love and truthA store for future cares.Thou lead'st him safely in his prime,True guide of every stage,And then at last, as fades the time,Thou comfortest his age.

Like as the sunshine after rain,Far chasing 'way the mist,Thou soothest human grief and pain,Fleet messenger of bliss.In battles where the sword and shieldFull lay the mighty low,Thou hov'rest ever o'er the field,To ease life's ebb and flow!

Thou standest, ever standest near,Before man's waning eyes,An angel true to him more dearThan all beyond the skies!No fabled sprites of chants and creeds,Nor myths of bygone years,For thou suppliest all his needsAnd wip'st his briny tears.

So, if he quail in desert wasteOr toss life's stormy sea,He turns his tear-stained eye in hasteFor one fond glimpse of thee.He longs to hide beneath thy wing,And nestle on thy breast;He lists to hear thee softly singHim into peaceful rest!

Oh, sing aloud Mt. Zion's songs,To cheer each languid heart;For now some feeble spirit longsThy blessings to impart.And thus thou keepest the Master's will,And showest all thy worth,Through loving kindness thou art stillThe angel of this earth!

While I keep my lonely hall,You are welcome one and all,As I sing my little song;Stay, I'll cheer you all day long—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.While this world is wild with glee,Chime I now my song to thee;In my bosom lurks no care,I can loiter everywhere—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.Oh dear, what a happy lifeFor the man who has no wife,To bind with sore distresses,And silk and satin dresses—While he sows his bachelor-buttons,While he sows his bachelor-buttons.His heart is ever merry,His way is bright and cheery;No peevish baby crying,No jealous wife a-sighing—While he sows his bachelor-buttons,While he sows his bachelor-buttons.Ah! praise the God who hath givenA life so much like heaven;Quit it? Oh no, I'll never,But live happy forever—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.

While I keep my lonely hall,You are welcome one and all,As I sing my little song;Stay, I'll cheer you all day long—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.

While this world is wild with glee,Chime I now my song to thee;In my bosom lurks no care,I can loiter everywhere—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.

Oh dear, what a happy lifeFor the man who has no wife,To bind with sore distresses,And silk and satin dresses—While he sows his bachelor-buttons,While he sows his bachelor-buttons.

His heart is ever merry,His way is bright and cheery;No peevish baby crying,No jealous wife a-sighing—While he sows his bachelor-buttons,While he sows his bachelor-buttons.

Ah! praise the God who hath givenA life so much like heaven;Quit it? Oh no, I'll never,But live happy forever—And sow my bachelor-buttons,And sow my bachelor-buttons.

Put nothing in another's way,Who's plodding on through life,But fill each heart with joy each day,With peace instead of strife.So then let not a missent word,Or thought, or act, or deedBe by our weaker brother heardTo cause his heart to bleed.Put nothing in another's way,It clear and ample leave;For words and actions day by dayLife's great example weave.'Tis then not meet that we should thinkThat we are solely freeIn manners, dress, in food, or drink,Or fulsome revelry.Put nothing in another's way,Just learn the Christian partTo let a holy, sunny rayShine in thy brother's heart.Help him to bear his load of care,His soul get edified—'Twas only for the soul's welfareThat Jesus bled and died.Put nothing in another's way,Ye who are sent to teach;No dark cloud cast across the day,Ye who the gospel preach.Ye twain must set the truth arightWith joy and peace and love;For in your souls shines forth the lightFrom Jesus Christ above.Put nothing in another's way,Belovèd Christian friends;On through your toils, and cares, still pray,Till life's fleet journey ends.When at the resurrection dawnEternal life is given,We'll get our harp, our robe, our crown,The star-lit crown of heaven.

Put nothing in another's way,It clear and ample leave;For words and actions day by dayLife's great example weave.'Tis then not meet that we should thinkThat we are solely freeIn manners, dress, in food, or drink,Or fulsome revelry.

Put nothing in another's way,Just learn the Christian partTo let a holy, sunny rayShine in thy brother's heart.Help him to bear his load of care,His soul get edified—'Twas only for the soul's welfareThat Jesus bled and died.

Put nothing in another's way,Ye who are sent to teach;No dark cloud cast across the day,Ye who the gospel preach.Ye twain must set the truth arightWith joy and peace and love;For in your souls shines forth the lightFrom Jesus Christ above.

Put nothing in another's way,Belovèd Christian friends;On through your toils, and cares, still pray,Till life's fleet journey ends.When at the resurrection dawnEternal life is given,We'll get our harp, our robe, our crown,The star-lit crown of heaven.

Ships the angry sea is lashing;But I launch my little bark,Though the thunder peals are crashing,And the sea is pitchy dark!See by lightning's vivid flashingHow to shift my tattered sail—Far across the billows dashing,I am floating with the gale.CHORUSFloating, floating, floating everOn the stormy deep blue sea,Far from father and dear motherAnd, true love, away from thee!Go, ye zephyrs, sweetly laden,Cheer my loved ones in their wail;Tell my wee sweet bright-eyed maidenI am floating with the gale!When the siren maids are waking,And are singing wild sea songs,Dear, they start my heart to aching,For its love to thee belongs.Now my love-lorn soul is shakingWith a spell of bitter wail,And my heart is sadly breaking,For I'm floating with the gale!CHORUSNow my hopes are fading ever,Gloom is chasing 'way the bliss;Dear, I know that I can neverCome thy ruby lips to kiss!But my heart will cling foreverTo that love I oft did hail,For those ties I can not sever,Though I'm floating with the gale!CHORUSDear, my heart is ever longing,Longs surfmen my bark to save;Through my brain these thoughts are thronging,Of a grave beneath the wave;Of loved ones my heart is wronging,And the belly of the whale;'Round my soul their ghosts are thronging,As I'm floating with the gale!CHORUSDear, I fain would be returningTo the cove just where thou art,While my languid breast is burningLight and love full out my heart!But cruel Fate my hopes is spurning,And winds blow against my sail;While out Death my life is burning,I'm still floating with the gale!CHORUS

CHORUS

Floating, floating, floating everOn the stormy deep blue sea,Far from father and dear motherAnd, true love, away from thee!Go, ye zephyrs, sweetly laden,Cheer my loved ones in their wail;Tell my wee sweet bright-eyed maidenI am floating with the gale!

When the siren maids are waking,And are singing wild sea songs,Dear, they start my heart to aching,For its love to thee belongs.Now my love-lorn soul is shakingWith a spell of bitter wail,And my heart is sadly breaking,For I'm floating with the gale!

CHORUS

Now my hopes are fading ever,Gloom is chasing 'way the bliss;Dear, I know that I can neverCome thy ruby lips to kiss!But my heart will cling foreverTo that love I oft did hail,For those ties I can not sever,Though I'm floating with the gale!

CHORUS

Dear, my heart is ever longing,Longs surfmen my bark to save;Through my brain these thoughts are thronging,Of a grave beneath the wave;Of loved ones my heart is wronging,And the belly of the whale;'Round my soul their ghosts are thronging,As I'm floating with the gale!

CHORUS

Dear, I fain would be returningTo the cove just where thou art,While my languid breast is burningLight and love full out my heart!But cruel Fate my hopes is spurning,And winds blow against my sail;While out Death my life is burning,I'm still floating with the gale!

CHORUS

Written in Quinn Chapel, A. M. E. Church, Ninth and Walnut Streets, Louisville, Ky., Wednesday evening, October 16th, 1907, while Miss Lula E. Johnson was singing "Ave Maria."

I have heard the mock-bird singing when the orchards were in bloom,And the sweetness of his music made the peacock don his plume;Ay! I've heard cock-robin-redbreast chirping on a sunny day,And the skylark soaring skywards, merrily sing his festal lay;And the brown thrush and the bluebird thrill their little treble notes;All the woodland songsters pouring songs of gladness from their throats—But not one has touched so deeply, and not one has last so longAs the ever ringing cadence of sweet Lula Johnson's song!When the breeze has ceased to whisper and the night is soft and still,Save the awe-provoking shrilling of the ghastly whippoorwill,As the moonbeams pour down brightly on the woodland, hill and dale,I oft listen at my window to the queenly nightingale;But no song of merry woodland, neither hill, nor dale, nor dell,Has ever smote my bosom, nor has made my spirit swell,Like the soul-inspiring music that so softly glides alongOh! so softly and so gently in sweet Lula Johnson's song!Oh! my soul has caught the music, as it softly floats along—Ah! the soul-entrancing music of sweet Lula Johnson's song!If my feet shall ever falter, it shall cheer me on my way;Ay, sustain and give me comfort,—make my feeble spirit gay.All we need to have, my brothers, in our war of peace 'gainst strife,Is the cadence of sweet music sprinkled in to sweeten life;It will sweeten all our bitters, which now seem so very long,If we have it soft and gentle, as sweet Lula Johnson's song.In the lonely hours of midnight, when fair Luna 'gins to pale,I have heard her songs a-ringing, floating softly on the gale.And I hope when dawns the morning, when I draw my fleeting breath,When my friends are gathered 'round me, and my eyes are closed in death—Ere you throw the sods upon me, on my never-heaving breast,While my body's lying silent and my soul is seeking rest—Then I'll wing straight home to glory, for the journey won't be long,On the spirit-wafting music of sweet Lula Johnson's song!

When the breeze has ceased to whisper and the night is soft and still,Save the awe-provoking shrilling of the ghastly whippoorwill,As the moonbeams pour down brightly on the woodland, hill and dale,I oft listen at my window to the queenly nightingale;But no song of merry woodland, neither hill, nor dale, nor dell,Has ever smote my bosom, nor has made my spirit swell,Like the soul-inspiring music that so softly glides alongOh! so softly and so gently in sweet Lula Johnson's song!

Oh! my soul has caught the music, as it softly floats along—Ah! the soul-entrancing music of sweet Lula Johnson's song!If my feet shall ever falter, it shall cheer me on my way;Ay, sustain and give me comfort,—make my feeble spirit gay.All we need to have, my brothers, in our war of peace 'gainst strife,Is the cadence of sweet music sprinkled in to sweeten life;It will sweeten all our bitters, which now seem so very long,If we have it soft and gentle, as sweet Lula Johnson's song.

In the lonely hours of midnight, when fair Luna 'gins to pale,I have heard her songs a-ringing, floating softly on the gale.And I hope when dawns the morning, when I draw my fleeting breath,When my friends are gathered 'round me, and my eyes are closed in death—Ere you throw the sods upon me, on my never-heaving breast,While my body's lying silent and my soul is seeking rest—Then I'll wing straight home to glory, for the journey won't be long,On the spirit-wafting music of sweet Lula Johnson's song!

The sweetest singer once thou wast, but art no more;An elf thou wast of what thou now shalt be,Where thou art in realms of that celestial shore;There thou shalt sing through all eternity.We, peerless bard, bewail thy lossAnd shed heart-broken tears,Though meekly thou hast borne thy crossAnd winged the flight of years!Thrice blessed singer, wrapped in heavenly bliss,Of earth's poor souls thy fortune who can tell?Perchance thy splendid lot be solely this:To change thy lute with the angel Israfel!If so, then smite thy golden stringsWith fingers nimble, strong,Till all along fair heaven ringsWith cadence of thy song!Thee tyrant earth once held, imprisoned soul,That suffered tortures of relentless strife,Fair heaven now holds within her sheltered fold,And gives thee robe and harp—eternal life!Grant him, O God, unfaltering breathTo sing from heaven afarA song to cheer our souls in death—The peerless Paul Dunbar!

Thrice blessed singer, wrapped in heavenly bliss,Of earth's poor souls thy fortune who can tell?Perchance thy splendid lot be solely this:To change thy lute with the angel Israfel!If so, then smite thy golden stringsWith fingers nimble, strong,Till all along fair heaven ringsWith cadence of thy song!

Thee tyrant earth once held, imprisoned soul,That suffered tortures of relentless strife,Fair heaven now holds within her sheltered fold,And gives thee robe and harp—eternal life!Grant him, O God, unfaltering breathTo sing from heaven afarA song to cheer our souls in death—The peerless Paul Dunbar!

Were I a bird free born to flyAloof on two wee, downy wings,My canopy would be the skyWhen rosy morn its dawning springs.Were I a bird I'd sweetly singEarth's vesper song in tree-tops high,And chant the carol of the SpringTo every weary passer by.Were I a bird, the sweetest voiceThat human ear has ever heard,—The mocking-bird would be my choice,For he's the sweetest singing bird!Were I a bird my life would beIn keeping with the Will divine—I'd sing His carols full and freeIn spreading oak and cony pine!Were I a bird through air I'd roam,Just flitting on the morning breeze,In search of summer's sunny dome,To live contentedly at ease.Were I a bird I'd sing a tuneFor farmers seeking shady restBeneath the spreading oak in June,In swinging boughs that rock my nest.Were I a bird I'd scale the cliffWhen dawns the bleak December day,Far from the ice and snow I'd shiftUntil the fairest day in May!Were I a bird, a mocking-bird,The King of birdie's singing sons,My music would fore'er be heardAs I sweet sang to cheerless ones.Were I a bird I'd seek my restWhen jocund Day blows out his light;In boughs that hover o'er my nestI'd sweetly sing, "Good Night, Good Night!"

Were I a bird free born to flyAloof on two wee, downy wings,My canopy would be the skyWhen rosy morn its dawning springs.

Were I a bird I'd sweetly singEarth's vesper song in tree-tops high,And chant the carol of the SpringTo every weary passer by.

Were I a bird, the sweetest voiceThat human ear has ever heard,—The mocking-bird would be my choice,For he's the sweetest singing bird!

Were I a bird my life would beIn keeping with the Will divine—I'd sing His carols full and freeIn spreading oak and cony pine!

Were I a bird through air I'd roam,Just flitting on the morning breeze,In search of summer's sunny dome,To live contentedly at ease.

Were I a bird I'd sing a tuneFor farmers seeking shady restBeneath the spreading oak in June,In swinging boughs that rock my nest.

Were I a bird I'd scale the cliffWhen dawns the bleak December day,Far from the ice and snow I'd shiftUntil the fairest day in May!

Were I a bird, a mocking-bird,The King of birdie's singing sons,My music would fore'er be heardAs I sweet sang to cheerless ones.

Were I a bird I'd seek my restWhen jocund Day blows out his light;In boughs that hover o'er my nestI'd sweetly sing, "Good Night, Good Night!"

After years of patient study and historical research, I have made the following deductions of parts played by the Ethiopian in the annals of history, under the caption, "An Ode to Ethiopia." It is true that questions will rise regarding the racial identity of some of my characters, in view of historical statements which place them with the Caucasian race; yet I firmly believe, were impartial history written, my claims would be justified. However, Time, the great Arbiter, will finally decide the equity of my claims.

IThou Sovran Queen of Afric's sunny strands,I smite my lyre to sing thy praise unsung;In strains far sweeter than seraphic bands,A lay deep in my bosom's core is sprung.Fair Queen, although my years as yet be young,Deep thoughts and musings of thy history old,Where odes and fiery epics long have hung,Live centuries in my immortal soulAnd strike sweet Lydian measures on my harp of gold.IITherefore, my song floats softly up to thee,Full soft as those sweet zephyrs of the spring,Of which it was and is and still must be,The sweetest of aeolian strains that ring!I breathe it on the soft sea winds which bringTheir cooling treasures from the rolling deep;They 'fresh my brow and make my sad heart singAnd ever lure my drowsy eyes from sleep,And bid thy vesper chorist strictest vigil keep.IIIOf all the nations that have trod the earth,In civil states or in the forest wild,Thou wast the first of real enlightened birth,Born in fair Egypt on the spreading Nile.In valleys fertile, sunny climates mild,Thou sternly taught the "chosen" Hebrew race—Madonna sheltered with her Holy Child,Who came to plead man's all unworthy case,And drained His sacred heart, earth's vilest sin efface!IVLong ere the Grecian oped his classic lidsOr mould' true beauty with artistic hands,Thou reared upon thy plains the lofty pyramids,With sphinx and obelisks 'decked thy burning sands.Aye! Queen, thou then wast hailed in all the landsLong ere vain Babel 'fused the human tongueIn dialects rude of wild barbaric bands;Thou soared to Wisdom's realm, her sceptre wrung,And reigned the wisest queen the nations all among.VThou first taught man the mystic sciences probe,To scan earth's apex, median, and base;Thou, too, inscribed the belt around the globe,And made deep tracings on its hoary face.Well fixed each angle, arc, and line in place,Then soared thou far into the "milky way,"Far in the bright, celestial span of space,Where orbs and planets all their homage payUnto the sun, the ever reigning "King of Day."VIOnce in great splendor did thy Pharaohs ruleIn Egypt, with her glory flown of yore;They laid foundations of the mundane school,And taught the art of governmental lore.And then from thy great military storeThou sent the gallant Hannibal to war,Taught Romans tactics never known before,And filled their hearts with ever-cowering awe,And bowed their haughty heads to thy majestic law.VIIBut in this age is writ another story;Then pen of arrogant, vain Caucasian sage,Has thee full robbed of thy immortal glory,And smeared thy name on History's sacred page!Forsooth, the Book, once closed for many an age,Is opened by thy sons—though fraught with pain—The curtain's drawn; they rise upon the stage;And their valiant deeds and blood shall wash the stainAs clean as April showers wash the dusty plain.VIIII sing now of thy heroes of today,Thy sturdy warriors and thy gallant knights,Who charge into the thickest of the fray,And die for country and their free-born rights,—For orphans, widows and their little mites.Thus, Attucks brave, without a moment's pause,(While reeled the Nation in her darkest plights)Full bared his breast in Freedom's holy cause,First fell and tore the code of Tyranny's cruel laws!IXNow, if my lay is yet not sweet enough,I'll bid a gentler, subtler strain awake,And sing of fights with Jackson on the GulfAnd Perry's hard-fought battle on the Lake!Of fights in fen and moor and hoary brake,On Lookout Mountain and the rolling main—Through searing blasts of bleak December's flake,And drenching torrents of fair April's rain:Their valiant deeds are springing ever up amain!XThey fought, the Union from State's Rights to free;At Vicksburg, Wagner, and Port Hudson lentTheir aid; their deeds at Pillow and OlusteeRose surge on surge like ocean billows rent!The praises of the gallant Ninth and TenthWill ever rise and soft float to the sky—They bagged Old Bull in Rocky Mountain tent;Then stormed the Spanish block-housed Hills on high,And bade the tyrant Spaniard's heaving heart to die!XI"High time, my Haitian islet must be free!"Great Touissant thus his declaration tacks;Then drives proud Frenchmen into the yawning sea—"The bravest whites, by bravest of the blacks."Brave Maceo pursues the Spanish packs,And Aguinaldo, in the mountain wilds,Pours shot and shell into the tyrants' backs—They save her throne and Freedom on them smiles,True heroes, and the Fathers of their sunlit Isles!XIIThy sons have triumphed in the Halls of State;Hamilton and Douglas were the first to gain,With lightning eye and tongue of thunder great,The civic lead of thy illustrious train.Next Bruce and Revels, senatorial twain;John Lynch and Small emit a brilliant light,And Langston, Pinchback, Cheatham all remain;With Dancy, Vernon, Anderson, and White,Liang Williams, Lyons, Terrell stand for "Civic Right."XIIIIn science's realm with Banneker we start,Then read on Medicae's emblazoned wall:"Dan Williams here first stitched the human heart!"Close by the names of Curtis, Boyd, and Hall.But others list'd and heard Invention's call,In all its sweetness of the days of yore,And Woods, the greatest foreman of them all,Shouts on his voyage with Black and Baltimore:"We come! we come! good Dame, thy region to explore!"XIV"I, too," said 'Monia Lewis, "can make a man!"Then mould' his form with most artistic ease—But all aeolian strains Blind Tom could scan,And play as softly as the South Sea breezeUpon his major and his minor keys!Good Douglas gently wakes the violin's song,And White leads home the zephyrs from the seas;While Coleridge-Taylor with an art more strongFull finds the key-note of Dame Nature's vesper song!XVIf shady nooks in Poesy's realm they choose,Or barks to drift the smooth, prosaic stream,There Phillis held communion with the Muse,And Chesnutt woke the "Colonel" from his dream!Max Barber, Thompson, Knox and Fortune beam;Great Braithwaite scales the classic mountain heights,And Cooper, like a beacon light, will gleam;While Dunbar, sun-like, sheds his holy lightsIn dazzling splendor on his solar satellites!XVIThese brilliant names shall never fade away:Emblazoned in the sacred Hall of Fame,They shall remain till dawns that direful Day,The valid seal beneath thy sacred name.Deft Tanner, artist, ever blazing flame,With Pickens, Bruce and Locke of classic dell,Old Truth and Harper, Yates and Ruffin came,And Walker, Terrell, Williams, known so wellLong ere Marie had taught the hoary world to spell!XVIIThe learned Scarborough writes the classic Greek;Dean Miller thinks in calculations cold;While Cogman writes the annals of the meek,DuBois reveals the secrets of the Soul!But all shall read in letters gilded gold:"Who teaches head and heart and hands, has wonThe priceless boon, the guerdon of the goal,The portion due thy most illustrious son,Tuskegee's seer and sage, the noble Washington!"XVIIIThy songs inspire and cheer the human soul,Still plodding forth in search of Beulah's vale;Lead wondering lambs into the Master's fold,When Flora Burgeon's notes far float the gale!Though Patti Brown we loud applaud and hail,And Hackley's voice is heard in every land,—Black Patti is the queenly nightingaleThat leads the chorus, as they singing standAs Miriam stood, to sing thee to the "Promised Land!"XIXI see the Prophet's mandate to the land,In golden letters glit'ring in the sky:"Fair Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hand,Her sons shall sway the earth long ere they die!"As swift as lightnings with the storm-clouds fly,To light the path celestial feet have trod:So be thy soaring to the realms on high,When mortal feet no more shall tread this sod,And thy holy spirit wings its homeward flight to God!

Thou Sovran Queen of Afric's sunny strands,I smite my lyre to sing thy praise unsung;In strains far sweeter than seraphic bands,A lay deep in my bosom's core is sprung.Fair Queen, although my years as yet be young,Deep thoughts and musings of thy history old,Where odes and fiery epics long have hung,Live centuries in my immortal soulAnd strike sweet Lydian measures on my harp of gold.

Therefore, my song floats softly up to thee,Full soft as those sweet zephyrs of the spring,Of which it was and is and still must be,The sweetest of aeolian strains that ring!I breathe it on the soft sea winds which bringTheir cooling treasures from the rolling deep;They 'fresh my brow and make my sad heart singAnd ever lure my drowsy eyes from sleep,And bid thy vesper chorist strictest vigil keep.

III

Of all the nations that have trod the earth,In civil states or in the forest wild,Thou wast the first of real enlightened birth,Born in fair Egypt on the spreading Nile.In valleys fertile, sunny climates mild,Thou sternly taught the "chosen" Hebrew race—Madonna sheltered with her Holy Child,Who came to plead man's all unworthy case,And drained His sacred heart, earth's vilest sin efface!

Long ere the Grecian oped his classic lidsOr mould' true beauty with artistic hands,Thou reared upon thy plains the lofty pyramids,With sphinx and obelisks 'decked thy burning sands.Aye! Queen, thou then wast hailed in all the landsLong ere vain Babel 'fused the human tongueIn dialects rude of wild barbaric bands;Thou soared to Wisdom's realm, her sceptre wrung,And reigned the wisest queen the nations all among.

Thou first taught man the mystic sciences probe,To scan earth's apex, median, and base;Thou, too, inscribed the belt around the globe,And made deep tracings on its hoary face.Well fixed each angle, arc, and line in place,Then soared thou far into the "milky way,"Far in the bright, celestial span of space,Where orbs and planets all their homage payUnto the sun, the ever reigning "King of Day."

Once in great splendor did thy Pharaohs ruleIn Egypt, with her glory flown of yore;They laid foundations of the mundane school,And taught the art of governmental lore.And then from thy great military storeThou sent the gallant Hannibal to war,Taught Romans tactics never known before,And filled their hearts with ever-cowering awe,And bowed their haughty heads to thy majestic law.

VII

But in this age is writ another story;Then pen of arrogant, vain Caucasian sage,Has thee full robbed of thy immortal glory,And smeared thy name on History's sacred page!Forsooth, the Book, once closed for many an age,Is opened by thy sons—though fraught with pain—The curtain's drawn; they rise upon the stage;And their valiant deeds and blood shall wash the stainAs clean as April showers wash the dusty plain.

VIII

I sing now of thy heroes of today,Thy sturdy warriors and thy gallant knights,Who charge into the thickest of the fray,And die for country and their free-born rights,—For orphans, widows and their little mites.Thus, Attucks brave, without a moment's pause,(While reeled the Nation in her darkest plights)Full bared his breast in Freedom's holy cause,First fell and tore the code of Tyranny's cruel laws!

Now, if my lay is yet not sweet enough,I'll bid a gentler, subtler strain awake,And sing of fights with Jackson on the GulfAnd Perry's hard-fought battle on the Lake!Of fights in fen and moor and hoary brake,On Lookout Mountain and the rolling main—Through searing blasts of bleak December's flake,And drenching torrents of fair April's rain:Their valiant deeds are springing ever up amain!

They fought, the Union from State's Rights to free;At Vicksburg, Wagner, and Port Hudson lentTheir aid; their deeds at Pillow and OlusteeRose surge on surge like ocean billows rent!The praises of the gallant Ninth and TenthWill ever rise and soft float to the sky—They bagged Old Bull in Rocky Mountain tent;Then stormed the Spanish block-housed Hills on high,And bade the tyrant Spaniard's heaving heart to die!

"High time, my Haitian islet must be free!"Great Touissant thus his declaration tacks;Then drives proud Frenchmen into the yawning sea—"The bravest whites, by bravest of the blacks."Brave Maceo pursues the Spanish packs,And Aguinaldo, in the mountain wilds,Pours shot and shell into the tyrants' backs—They save her throne and Freedom on them smiles,True heroes, and the Fathers of their sunlit Isles!

XII

Thy sons have triumphed in the Halls of State;Hamilton and Douglas were the first to gain,With lightning eye and tongue of thunder great,The civic lead of thy illustrious train.Next Bruce and Revels, senatorial twain;John Lynch and Small emit a brilliant light,And Langston, Pinchback, Cheatham all remain;With Dancy, Vernon, Anderson, and White,Liang Williams, Lyons, Terrell stand for "Civic Right."

XIII

In science's realm with Banneker we start,Then read on Medicae's emblazoned wall:"Dan Williams here first stitched the human heart!"Close by the names of Curtis, Boyd, and Hall.But others list'd and heard Invention's call,In all its sweetness of the days of yore,And Woods, the greatest foreman of them all,Shouts on his voyage with Black and Baltimore:"We come! we come! good Dame, thy region to explore!"

XIV

"I, too," said 'Monia Lewis, "can make a man!"Then mould' his form with most artistic ease—But all aeolian strains Blind Tom could scan,And play as softly as the South Sea breezeUpon his major and his minor keys!Good Douglas gently wakes the violin's song,And White leads home the zephyrs from the seas;While Coleridge-Taylor with an art more strongFull finds the key-note of Dame Nature's vesper song!

If shady nooks in Poesy's realm they choose,Or barks to drift the smooth, prosaic stream,There Phillis held communion with the Muse,And Chesnutt woke the "Colonel" from his dream!Max Barber, Thompson, Knox and Fortune beam;Great Braithwaite scales the classic mountain heights,And Cooper, like a beacon light, will gleam;While Dunbar, sun-like, sheds his holy lightsIn dazzling splendor on his solar satellites!

XVI

These brilliant names shall never fade away:Emblazoned in the sacred Hall of Fame,They shall remain till dawns that direful Day,The valid seal beneath thy sacred name.Deft Tanner, artist, ever blazing flame,With Pickens, Bruce and Locke of classic dell,Old Truth and Harper, Yates and Ruffin came,And Walker, Terrell, Williams, known so wellLong ere Marie had taught the hoary world to spell!

XVII

The learned Scarborough writes the classic Greek;Dean Miller thinks in calculations cold;While Cogman writes the annals of the meek,DuBois reveals the secrets of the Soul!But all shall read in letters gilded gold:"Who teaches head and heart and hands, has wonThe priceless boon, the guerdon of the goal,The portion due thy most illustrious son,Tuskegee's seer and sage, the noble Washington!"

XVIII

Thy songs inspire and cheer the human soul,Still plodding forth in search of Beulah's vale;Lead wondering lambs into the Master's fold,When Flora Burgeon's notes far float the gale!Though Patti Brown we loud applaud and hail,And Hackley's voice is heard in every land,—Black Patti is the queenly nightingaleThat leads the chorus, as they singing standAs Miriam stood, to sing thee to the "Promised Land!"

XIX

I see the Prophet's mandate to the land,In golden letters glit'ring in the sky:"Fair Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hand,Her sons shall sway the earth long ere they die!"As swift as lightnings with the storm-clouds fly,To light the path celestial feet have trod:So be thy soaring to the realms on high,When mortal feet no more shall tread this sod,And thy holy spirit wings its homeward flight to God!

On seeing her December 25th, 1904, after two years' travel.

Take, fair maid, these simple linesFrom my pen;Think of strollings 'neath the pines,Which have been—Long and lonesome were the daysWe were apart,But may Love, now, have her sways,—Bind heart to heart!O'er main to isle and back to landHave I been;Beheld on either handA maiden queen:But none with captivating charmsLike thine;None to nestle in her arms,Love of mine!Charms unto thee God gaveTo banish strife;To glorify and saveOne sweet life—Take this, dear, before we partFrom this bliss;'Tis but love flowing from my heart,Thine to kiss!

I hold a token in my hand,A very tiny thing;And yet within its golden bandA thousand memories cling.Aye! thrice ten thousand memories clingOf signal victories won,Enshrined within this little ring,Reward of duty done.I ever shall this token prize,And wear it with true grace—The tie that binds the kindred tiesOf friendship race to race.And when I soar full through the skies,Yet ever will I clingWithin the gates of ParadiseThis sacred little ring!

I hold a token in my hand,A very tiny thing;And yet within its golden bandA thousand memories cling.

Aye! thrice ten thousand memories clingOf signal victories won,Enshrined within this little ring,Reward of duty done.

I ever shall this token prize,And wear it with true grace—The tie that binds the kindred tiesOf friendship race to race.

And when I soar full through the skies,Yet ever will I clingWithin the gates of ParadiseThis sacred little ring!

Oh! What is living but moving about,Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife—What's the use?What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?Naught but a span of space where one may roam:Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head—What's the use?Now, what is loving but acting a fool?And what is quitting?—Producing a rule:Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!What's the use?Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?What, then, is your state my friend, after you've wed?Naught but a vial of wrath poured upon your head!What's the use?Ah! what is batching but living a man;Sporting and sleeping—just running his plan?Come when he's ready, and go when he please—Brain's full of joy, his heart is at ease—See, that's the use!

Oh! What is living but moving about,Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt?What is the draught of breath we harp on as life?Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife—What's the use?

What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"?Naught but a span of space where one may roam:Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread;Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head—What's the use?

Now, what is loving but acting a fool?And what is quitting?—Producing a rule:Break short the flight of Dan Cupid's swift dart,Aimed at the core of an innocent heart!What's the use?

Say, what is marrying but getting in trouble?Trifling 'way joy while your sorrow is double?What, then, is your state my friend, after you've wed?Naught but a vial of wrath poured upon your head!What's the use?

Ah! what is batching but living a man;Sporting and sleeping—just running his plan?Come when he's ready, and go when he please—Brain's full of joy, his heart is at ease—See, that's the use!

On Saturday, March 1, 1902, I left Alcorn and went home in order to earn money enough to defray my expenses for the year 1902-03. I began work as soon as I reached home and labored on father's farm until the last week in June, 1902. I had seen by that time that there was nothing to be realized from that source but disheartening failure.I then acted as agent for the "Zion Record," published by Rev. R. A. Adams, 39 St. Catherine Street, Natchez, Miss., until August 20, 1902. Knowing that there was a dormitory to be built for girls at Alcorn, I went there, hoping to get work and to be there when school opened. On arriving, I failed to get employment. I had no money. The Boarding Hall was run by boys who stayed over summer. Finding I was unemployed, they refused to let me take meals with them. There I was—friendless and penniless—without a bite of bread and nowhere to lay my head. To drive the wolf of starvation away and to keep from being devoured, I made arrangements with President Lanier to cut wood for something to eat, until school opened Sept. 2, 1902.When school opened, the Faculty met the first day and distributed the positions to the eligibles. On going down to the Hall to take my first meal, to my surprise I found I had been awarded the position of waiter. To hold a position, or even remain on the Campus, one must matriculate within three days after school starts, if there when it opens, or after he arrives, if not. I then wrote home for the matriculation fee ($13), as I had labored there all summer. As that letter was sealed my destiny was sealed in it. It was one that hauled my anchor of hope; yes, one to bring glad tidings of great joy and crowning success, or the gloom of disastrous failure. Thus, having my hope sealed, I wrote across it "In Haste!"The night of its return was a dark, rainy one. As all sat discussing different events that had transpired since the new session had begun, suddenly a whistle was heard. How our hearts throbbed with gladness as we exclaimed, "There, that's the mail!" Dear reader, you cannot imagine how overjoyed I was. I knew that bag contained a letter for me; so anxious was I to receive it I did not trust anyone, but rushed to the office, and ere long my name was called.I opened it then and there, with an eager look for a green piece of paper styled a "Money Order." I looked, but found it not. All hope vanished; joy faded; and gloom hovered over me—a feeling I never before had, nor since, and I hope never again to have, electrified my body. It was then raining at full headway: the lightnings flashed; the thunders pealed out peal after peal, each succeeding one louder than the first. By this time all had gone to bed but me. I thought thought after thought, prayed prayer after prayer, sent up cry after cry, shed tear after tear. I went to bed, but could not sleep. I then thought of this subject: "O God, Wilt Thou Help Me in School?" After writing it, my feelings were changed, the gloom was dispelled, and 'Smiling Hope' returned with joyous tidings of happiness and a blissful future.

I then acted as agent for the "Zion Record," published by Rev. R. A. Adams, 39 St. Catherine Street, Natchez, Miss., until August 20, 1902. Knowing that there was a dormitory to be built for girls at Alcorn, I went there, hoping to get work and to be there when school opened. On arriving, I failed to get employment. I had no money. The Boarding Hall was run by boys who stayed over summer. Finding I was unemployed, they refused to let me take meals with them. There I was—friendless and penniless—without a bite of bread and nowhere to lay my head. To drive the wolf of starvation away and to keep from being devoured, I made arrangements with President Lanier to cut wood for something to eat, until school opened Sept. 2, 1902.

When school opened, the Faculty met the first day and distributed the positions to the eligibles. On going down to the Hall to take my first meal, to my surprise I found I had been awarded the position of waiter. To hold a position, or even remain on the Campus, one must matriculate within three days after school starts, if there when it opens, or after he arrives, if not. I then wrote home for the matriculation fee ($13), as I had labored there all summer. As that letter was sealed my destiny was sealed in it. It was one that hauled my anchor of hope; yes, one to bring glad tidings of great joy and crowning success, or the gloom of disastrous failure. Thus, having my hope sealed, I wrote across it "In Haste!"

The night of its return was a dark, rainy one. As all sat discussing different events that had transpired since the new session had begun, suddenly a whistle was heard. How our hearts throbbed with gladness as we exclaimed, "There, that's the mail!" Dear reader, you cannot imagine how overjoyed I was. I knew that bag contained a letter for me; so anxious was I to receive it I did not trust anyone, but rushed to the office, and ere long my name was called.

I opened it then and there, with an eager look for a green piece of paper styled a "Money Order." I looked, but found it not. All hope vanished; joy faded; and gloom hovered over me—a feeling I never before had, nor since, and I hope never again to have, electrified my body. It was then raining at full headway: the lightnings flashed; the thunders pealed out peal after peal, each succeeding one louder than the first. By this time all had gone to bed but me. I thought thought after thought, prayed prayer after prayer, sent up cry after cry, shed tear after tear. I went to bed, but could not sleep. I then thought of this subject: "O God, Wilt Thou Help Me in School?" After writing it, my feelings were changed, the gloom was dispelled, and 'Smiling Hope' returned with joyous tidings of happiness and a blissful future.

O, God to Thee, who knowest all things,To Thee each being his praises brings,In heaven, or earth, or sea, or sky—To-night to Thee I raise my cry.To-night as Thou doth know the why,The why I make each tearful sigh—Hast Thou not crowned and blest my way?Why'st Thou forsaken me to-day?To-night while in my deepest grief,I calmly wait Thy sweet relief;Thou knowest I have done my best,Oh, give my pondering soul some rest.To-night, O God, grant all to know,For man to reap he first must sow;To know to have both bread and wineHe must reap all at harvest time.To-night, O God, to Thee I plead,Thou must protect me, guide and leadThrough this which is my darkest nightTo a day when Thou shalt give me light.To-night my soul does bleed with pain,As murky clouds drip down the rain!O God, heal me of this heart ache,For thy dear Son Christ Jesus' sake.To-night me compass grief and fears,To-night while drip heart-broken tears;There seems to be no one to saveMy weeping soul from chilly grave.To-night as I, Thy servant, prayTo Thee, to turn my darkness day,And change my many blinding fearsTo brighter hope for future years.O restless soul, thou canst not sleep,For, ship-like, thou art tossed the deep;Aye, tossed by surge of mighty wave,With none to share and none to save.O God, in Thee I now believe,Since life in Thee I do receive;I pray Thee now with trembling fearTo my sad soul draw near, draw near.O God, Thou knowest this night I dread,As 'twere to number me with the dead—I plead to Thee as by a rule,O God, wilt Thou help me in school?To-night, O God, the darkest gloomHangs o'er me like a cloud to doom;I cry while sitting on this stool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?This wide world o'er my mind doth roam,So many miles away from home,With thoughts thread-like wound in a spool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?Dear Lord, I ask of Thee one boon,Pure as the light of "harvest moon";And cry as when bathed in a pool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?While time and tide flow o'er my mind,For wisdom, Lord, I ever pine;But not in folly of a fool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?Oh, may I now look up and smile,As children, mirthful all the while,When playing in the shade so cool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?When life's long journey nears its end,And friend so dear must part from friend,To bathe deep in Thy living pool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?Oh days of woe, oh do relent,For all my sins I now repent,To bathe in Siloam's ancient pool—O God, right now help me in school.Ah, when this stormy life is o'er,I'll moor my bark on th' eternal shore;Then shall I cross life's mortal pool,And God will then help me in school!

O, God to Thee, who knowest all things,To Thee each being his praises brings,In heaven, or earth, or sea, or sky—To-night to Thee I raise my cry.

To-night as Thou doth know the why,The why I make each tearful sigh—Hast Thou not crowned and blest my way?Why'st Thou forsaken me to-day?

To-night while in my deepest grief,I calmly wait Thy sweet relief;Thou knowest I have done my best,Oh, give my pondering soul some rest.

To-night, O God, grant all to know,For man to reap he first must sow;To know to have both bread and wineHe must reap all at harvest time.

To-night, O God, to Thee I plead,Thou must protect me, guide and leadThrough this which is my darkest nightTo a day when Thou shalt give me light.

To-night my soul does bleed with pain,As murky clouds drip down the rain!O God, heal me of this heart ache,For thy dear Son Christ Jesus' sake.

To-night me compass grief and fears,To-night while drip heart-broken tears;There seems to be no one to saveMy weeping soul from chilly grave.

To-night as I, Thy servant, prayTo Thee, to turn my darkness day,And change my many blinding fearsTo brighter hope for future years.

O restless soul, thou canst not sleep,For, ship-like, thou art tossed the deep;Aye, tossed by surge of mighty wave,With none to share and none to save.

O God, in Thee I now believe,Since life in Thee I do receive;I pray Thee now with trembling fearTo my sad soul draw near, draw near.

O God, Thou knowest this night I dread,As 'twere to number me with the dead—I plead to Thee as by a rule,O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

To-night, O God, the darkest gloomHangs o'er me like a cloud to doom;I cry while sitting on this stool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

This wide world o'er my mind doth roam,So many miles away from home,With thoughts thread-like wound in a spool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

Dear Lord, I ask of Thee one boon,Pure as the light of "harvest moon";And cry as when bathed in a pool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

While time and tide flow o'er my mind,For wisdom, Lord, I ever pine;But not in folly of a fool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

Oh, may I now look up and smile,As children, mirthful all the while,When playing in the shade so cool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

When life's long journey nears its end,And friend so dear must part from friend,To bathe deep in Thy living pool—O God, wilt Thou help me in school?

Oh days of woe, oh do relent,For all my sins I now repent,To bathe in Siloam's ancient pool—O God, right now help me in school.

Ah, when this stormy life is o'er,I'll moor my bark on th' eternal shore;Then shall I cross life's mortal pool,And God will then help me in school!

Back to Index Next