The Complete Poems E-Book

Paul Laurence Dunbar

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 429

Beschreibung

I think I should scarcely trouble the reader with a special appeal in behalf of this book, if it had not specially appealed to me for reasons apart from the author's race, origin, and condition. The world is too old now, and I find myself too much of its mood, to care for the work of a poet because he is black, because his father and mother were slaves, because he was, before and after he began to write poems, an elevator-boy. These facts would certainly attract me to him as a man, if I knew him to have a literary ambition, but when it came to his literary art, I must judge it irrespective of these facts, and enjoy or endure it for what it was in itself.

Leseprobe

The Complete Poems

The Complete PoemsIntroduction To Lyrics Of Lowly LifeLYRICS OF LOWLY LIFEEre Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary EyesThe Poet And His SongRetortAccountabilityFrederick DouglassLifeThe LessonThe Rising Of The StormSunsetThe Old Apple-TreeA PrayerPassion And LoveThe SeedlingPromiseFulfilmentSongAn Ante-Bellum SermonOde To EthiopiaThe Corn-Stalk FiddleThe Master-PlayerThe MysteryNot They Who SoarWhittierTwo SongsA Banjo SongLongingThe PathThe Lawyers' WaysOde For Memorial DayPremonitionRetrospectionUnexpressedSong Of SummerSpring SongTo LouiseThe RivalsThe Lover And The MoonConscience And RemorseIoneReligionDeacon Jones' GrievanceAliceAfter The QuarrelBeyond The YearsAfter A VisitCurtainThe Spellin'-BeeKeep A-Pluggin' AwayNight Of LoveColumbian OdeA Border BalladAn Easy-Goin' FellerA Negro Love SongThe Dilettante: A Modern TypeBy The StreamThe Colored SoldiersNature And ArtAfter While. A Poem Of FaithThe Ol' TunesMelancholiaThe WooingMerry AutumnWhen De Co'n Pone's HotBalladThe Change Has ComeComparisonA Corn-SongDiscoveredDisappointedInvitation To LoveHe Had His DreamGood-NightA Coquette ConqueredNora: A SerenadeOctoberA Summer's NightShips That Pass In The NightThe DelinquentDawnA Drowsy DayDirgeHymnPreparationThe Deserted PlantationThe SecretThe Wind And The SeaRiding To TownWe Wear The MaskThe Meadow LarkOne LifeChanging TimeDeadA ConfidencePhyllisRight's SecurityIfThe SongSigns Of The TimesWhy Fades A Dream?The SparrowSpeakin' O' ChristmasLonesomeGrowin' GrayTo The Memory Of Mary YoungWhen Malindy SingsThe PartyLYRICS OF THE HEARTHSIDELove's ApotheosisThe ParadoxOver The HillsWith The LarkIn SummerThe Mystic SeaA Sailor's SongThe BohemianAbsenceHer Thought And HisThe Right To DieBehind The ArrasWhen The Old Man SmokesThe GarretTo E. H. K. On The Receipt Of A Familiar PoemA Bridal MeasureVengeance Is SweetA Hymn After Reading "Lead, Kindly Light"Just Whistle A BitThe BarrierDreamsThe DreamerWaitingThe End Of The ChapterSympathyLove And GriefLove's ChasteningMortalityLoveShe Gave Me A RoseDream Song IDream Song IIChristmas In The HeartThe King Is DeadTheologyResignationLove's HumilityPrecedentShe Told Her BeadsLittle Lucy LandmanThe GourdThe KnightThou Art My LuteThe Phantom KissCommunionMare RubrumIn An English GardenThe CrisisThe Conquerors. The Black Troops In CubaAlexander Crummell—DeadWhen All Is DoneThe Poet And The BabyDistinctionThe SumSonnet On An Old Book With Uncut LeavesOn The Sea WallTo A Lady Playing The HarpConfessionalMisapprehensionPrometheusLove's PhasesFor The Man Who FailsHarriet Beecher StoweVagrantsA Winter's DayMy Little March GirlRememberedLove DespoiledThe LapseThe Warrior's PrayerFarewell To ArcadyThe Voice Of The BanjoThe Stirrup CupA ChoiceHUMOUR AND DIALECTThen And NowAt Cheshire CheeseMy Corn-Cob PipeIn AugustThe DisturberExpectationLover's LaneProtestHymnLittle Brown BabyTime To Tinker 'Roun'!The Real QuestionJiltedThe NewsChrismus On The PlantationAngelinaFoolin' Wid De SeasonsMy Sort O' ManPossumOn The RoadA Death SongA Back-Log SongLullabyThe PhotographJealousPartedTemptationPossum TrotDelyBreaking The CharmHunting SongA LetterChrismus Is A-Comin'A Cabin Tale. The Young Master Asks For A StoryAt Candle-Lightin' TimeWhistling SamHow Lucy BackslidLYRICS OF LOVE AND LAUGHTERTwo Little BootsTo The RoadA Spring WooingJoggin' ErlongIn MayDreamsThe TrystA PleaThe DoveA Warm Day In WinterSnowin'Keep A Song Up On De WayThe Turning Of The Babies In The BedThe DanceSoliloquy Of A TurkeyFishingA Plantation PortraitA Little Christmas BasketThe ValseReponseMy Sweet Brown GalSpring FeverThe VisitorSongThe Colored BandTo A Violet Found On All Saints' DayInspirationMy Lady Of Castle GrandDrizzleDe Critters' DanceWhen Dey 'Listed Colored SoldiersLincolnEncouragementThe Boogah ManThe WraithSilenceWhip-Poor-Will And Katy-Did'Long To'ds NightA GrievanceDinah Kneading DoughTo A Captious CriticDat Ol' Mare O' MineIn The MorningThe PoetA Florida NightDifferencesLong AgoA Plantation MelodyA SpiritualThe Memory Of MarthaW'en I Gits Home"Howdy, Honey, Howdy!"The Unsung HeroesThe PoolPossessionThe Old Front GateDirge For A SoldierA FrolicNoddin' By De FireLove's CastleMorning Song Of LoveOn A Clean BookTo The Eastern ShoreReluctanceBalladeL'envoiSpeakin' At De Cou't-HouseBlack Samson Of BrandywineThe Looking-GlassA Misty DayLi'l' GalDouglassWhen Sam'l SingsBooker T. WashingtonThe Monk's WalkLove-SongSlow Through The DarkThe Murdered LoverPhilosophyA PreferenceThe DebtOn The Dedication Of Dorothy Hall, Tuskegee, Ala., April 22, 1901A RoadwayBy Rugged WaysLove's SeasonsTo A Dead FriendTo The South On Its New SlaveryThe Haunted OakWeltschmertzRobert Gould ShawRosesA Love SongItching HeelsTo An IngrateIn The Tents Of AkbarThe Fount Of TearsLife's TragedyDe Way T'ings ComeNoonAt The TavernDeathNight, Dim NightLyrics Of Love And SorrowLYRICS OF SUNSHINE AND SHADOWA Boy's Summer SongThe Sand-ManJohnny SpeaksWinter-SongA Christmas FolksongThe Forest GreetingThe Lily Of The ValleyEncouragedTo J. Q.DiplomacyScampWadin' In De CrickThe QuiltingPartedForeverThe Plantation Child's LullabyTwilightCuriosityOpportunityPuttin' The Baby AwayThe Fisher Child's LullabyFaithThe Farm Child's LullabyThe Place Where The Rainbow EndsHopeAppreciationA SongDayTo DanWhat's The UseA Lazy DayAdviceLimitationsA Golden DayThe Unlucky AppleThe DiscoveryMorningThe AwakeningLove's DraftA MusicalTwell De Night Is Pas'BlueDreamin' TownAt NightKidnapedCompensationWinter's ApproachAnchoredThe VeteranYesterday And To-MorrowThe ChangeThe ChaseSupposeThe Death Of The First BornBein' Back HomeThe Old CabinDespairCircumstances Alter CasesTill The Wind Gets RightA Summer NightAt Sunset TimeNightAt Loafing-HoltWhen A Feller's Itchin' To Be SpankedThe River Of RuinTo HerA Love LetterAfter Many DaysLiza MayThe MastersTrouble In De KitchenChristmasRoses And PearlsRain-SongsA Lost DreamA SongMISCELLANEOUSThe CaptureWhen Winter Darkening All AroundFrom The Porch At RunnymedeEquipmentEveningTo PfrimmerTo The MiamiChristmas CarolA Summer PastoralIn Summer TimeA Thanksgiving PoemNutting SongLove's PicturesThe Old HomesteadOn The Death Of W. C.An Old MemoryA CareerOn The RiverPoor Withered RoseWorn OutJames Whitcomb RileyA MadrigalA Starry NightA LyricHow Shall I Woo TheeCopyright

The Complete Poems

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Introduction To Lyrics Of Lowly Life

I think I should scarcely trouble the reader with a special appeal in behalf of this book, if it had not specially appealed to me for reasons apart from the author's race, origin, and condition. The world is too old now, and I find myself too much of its mood, to care for the work of a poet because he is black, because his father and mother were slaves, because he was, before and after he began to write poems, an elevator-boy. These facts would certainly attract me to him as a man, if I knew him to have a literary ambition, but when it came to his literary art, I must judge it irrespective of these facts, and enjoy or endure it for what it was in itself.

It seems to me that this was my experience with the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar when I found it in another form, and in justice to him I cannot wish that it should be otherwise with his readers here. Still, it will legitimately interest those who like to know the causes, or, if these may not be known, the sources, of things, to learn that the father and mother of the first poet of his race in our language were negroes without admixture of white blood. The father escaped from slavery in Kentucky to freedom in Canada, while there was still no hope of freedom otherwise; but the mother was freed by the events of the civil war, and came North to Ohio, where their son was born at Dayton, and grew up with such chances and mischances for mental training as everywhere befall the children of the poor. He has told me that his father picked up the trade of a plasterer, and when he had taught himself to read, loved chiefly to read history. The boy's mother shared his passion for literature, with a special love of poetry, and after the father died she struggled on in more than the poverty she had shared with him. She could value the faculty which her son showed first in prose sketches and attempts at fiction, and she was proud of the praise and kindness they won him among the people of the town, where he has never been without the warmest and kindest friends.

In fact from every part of Ohio and from several cities of the adjoining States, there came letters in cordial appreciation of the critical recognition which it was my pleasure no less than my duty to offer Paul Dunbar's work in another place. It seemed to me a happy omen for him that so many people who had known him, or known of him, were glad of a stranger's good word; and it was gratifying to see that at home he was esteemed for the things he had done rather than because as the son of negro slaves he had done them. If a prophet is often without honor in his own country, it surely is nothing against him when he has it. In this case it deprived me of the glory of a discoverer; but that is sometimes a barren joy, and I am always willing to forego it.

What struck me in reading Mr. Dunbar's poetry was what had already struck his friends in Ohio and Indiana, in Kentucky and Illinois. They had felt, as I felt, that however gifted his race had proven itself in music, in oratory, in several of the other arts, here was the first instance of an American negro who had evinced innate distinction in literature. In my criticism of his book I had alleged Dumas in France, and I had forgetfully failed to allege the far greater Pushkin in Russia; but these were both mulattoes, who might have been supposed to derive their qualities from white blood vastly more artistic than ours, and who were the creatures of an environment more favorable to their literary development. So far as I could remember, Paul Dunbar was the only man of pure African blood and of American civilization to feel the negro life aesthetically and express it lyrically. It seemed to me that this had come to its most modern consciousness in him, and that his brilliant and unique achievement was to have studied the American negro objectively, and to have represented him as he found him to be, with humor, with sympathy, and yet with what the reader must instinctively feel to be entire truthfulness. I said that a race which had come to this effect in any member of it, had attained civilization in him, and I permitted myself the imaginative prophecy that the hostilities and the prejudices which had so long constrained his race were destined to vanish in the arts; that these were to be the final proof that God had made of one blood all nations of men. I thought his merits positive and not comparative; and I held that if his black poems had been written by a white man, I should not have found them less admirable. I accepted them as an evidence of the essential unity of the human race, which does not think or feel, black in one and white in another, but humanly in all.

Yet it appeared to me then, and it appears to me now, that there is a precious difference of temperament between the races which it would be a great pity ever to lose, and that this is best preserved and most charmingly suggested by Mr. Dunbar in those pieces of his where he studies the moods and traits of his race in its own accent of our English. We call such pieces dialect pieces for want of some closer phrase, but they are really not dialect so much as delightful personal attempts and failures for the written and spoken language. In nothing is his essentially refined and delicate art so well shown as in these pieces, which, as I ventured to say, described the range between appetite and emotion, with certain lifts far beyond and above it, which is the range of the race.

He reveals in these a finely ironical perception of the negro's limitations, with a tenderness for them which I think so very rare as to be almost quite new. I should say, perhaps, that it was this humorous quality which Mr. Dunbar had added to our literature, and it would be this which would most distinguish him, now and hereafter. It is something that one feels in nearly all the dialect pieces; and I hope that in the present collection he has kept all of these in his earlier volume, and added others to them.

But the contents of this book are wholly of his own choosing, and I do not know how much or little he may have preferred the poems in literary English. Some of these I thought very good, and even more than very good, but not distinctively his contribution to the body of American poetry. What I mean is that several people might have written them; but I do not know any one else at present who could quite have written the dialect pieces. These are divinations and reports of what passes in the hearts and minds of a lowly people whose poetry had hitherto been inarticulately expressed in music, but now finds, for the first time in our tongue, literary interpretation of a very artistic completeness.

I say the event is interesting, but how important it shall be can be determined only by Mr. Dunbar's future performance. I cannot undertake to prophesy concerning this; but if he should do nothing more than he has done, I should feel that he had made the strongest claim for the negro in English literature that the negro has yet made. He has at least produced something that, however we may critically disagree about it, we cannot well refuse to enjoy; in more than one piece he has produced a work of art.

W. D. HOWELLS.

LYRICS OF LOWLY LIFE

Ere Sleep Comes Down To Soothe The Weary Eyes

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought

The magic gold which from the seeker flies;

Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,

And make the waking world a world of lies,—

Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,

That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs,—

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How all the griefs and heart-aches we have known

Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise

From some base witch's caldron, when the crone,

To work some potent spell, her magic plies.

The past which held its share of bitter pain,

Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,

Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;

What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise

Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.

What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,

And pangs of vague inexplicable pain

That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,

Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?

Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies

Tends her far course to lands of mystery?

To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,

Where shapes unknowable to being spring,

Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies

Much wearied with the spirit's journeying,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How questioneth the soul that other soul,—

The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,

But self exposes unto self, a scroll

Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise,

In characters indelible and known;

So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,

The soul doth view its awful self alone,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,

The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,

And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize

For kissing all our passions into calm,

Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,

Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,

Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,

At glooms through which our visions cannot see,

When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.

The Poet And His Song

A song is but a little thing,

And yet what joy it is to sing!

In hours of toil it gives me zest,

And when at eve I long for rest;

When cows come home along the bars,

And in the fold I hear the bell,

As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,

I sing my song, and all is well.

There are no ears to hear my lays,

No lips to lift a word of praise;

But still, with faith unfaltering,

I live and laugh and love and sing.

What matters yon unheeding throng?

They cannot feel my spirit's spell,

Since life is sweet and love is long,

I sing my song, and all is well.

My days are never days of ease;

I till my ground and prune my trees.

When ripened gold is all the plain,

I put my sickle to the grain.

I labor hard, and toil and sweat,

While others dream within the dell;

But even while my brow is wet,

I sing my song, and all is well.

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,

My garden makes a desert spot;

Sometimes a blight upon the tree

Takes all my fruit away from me;

And then with throes of bitter pain

Rebellious passions rise and swell;

But—life is more than fruit or grain,

And so I sing, and all is well.

Retort

"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart,

"Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art,

To be led astray by the trick of a tress,

By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;"

And my heart was in sore distress.

Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair,

The light gleamed soft on her raven hair;

And her lips were blooming a rosy red.

Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air:

"Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"

Accountability

Folks ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;

Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.

Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,

Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.

We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same;

We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame.

Ef we 'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin'

We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill,

An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill.

John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike;

Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.

When you come to think about it, how it 's all planned out it 's splendid.

Nuthin 's done er evah happens, 'dout hit 's somefin' dat 's intended;

Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,—

Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.

Frederick Douglass

A hush is over all the teeming lists,

And there is pause, a breath-space in the strife;

A spirit brave has passed beyond the mists

And vapors that obscure the sun of life.

And Ethiopia, with bosom torn,

Laments the passing of her noblest born.

She weeps for him a mother's burning tears—

She loved him with a mother's deepest love.

He was her champion thro' direful years,

And held her weal all other ends above.

When Bondage held her bleeding in the dust,

He raised her up and whispered, "Hope and Trust."

For her his voice, a fearless clarion, rung

That broke in warning on the ears of men;

For her the strong bow of his power he strung,

And sent his arrows to the very den

Where grim Oppression held his bloody place

And gloated o'er the mis'ries of a race.

And he was no soft-tongued apologist;

He spoke straightforward, fearlessly uncowed;

The sunlight of his truth dispelled the mist,

And set in bold relief each dark hued cloud;

To sin and crime he gave their proper hue,

And hurled at evil what was evil's due.

Through good and ill report he cleaved his way.

Right onward, with his face set toward the heights,

Nor feared to face the foeman's dread array,—

The lash of scorn, the sting of petty spites.

He dared the lightning in the lightning's track,

And answered thunder with his thunder back.

When men maligned him, and their torrent wrath

In furious imprecations o'er him broke,

He kept his counsel as he kept his path;

'T was for his race, not for himself he spoke.

He knew the import of his Master's call,

And felt himself too mighty to be small.

No miser in the good he held was he,—

His kindness followed his horizon's rim.

His heart, his talents, and his hands were free

To all who truly needed aught of him.

Where poverty and ignorance were rife,

He gave his bounty as he gave his life.

The place and cause that first aroused his might

Still proved its power until his latest day.

In Freedom's lists and for the aid of Right

Still in the foremost rank he waged the fray;

Wrong lived; his occupation was not gone.

He died in action with his armor on!

We weep for him, but we have touched his hand,

And felt the magic of his presence nigh,

The current that he sent throughout the land,

The kindling spirit of his battle-cry.

O'er all that holds us we shall triumph yet,

And place our banner where his hopes were set!

Oh, Douglass, thou hast passed beyond the shore,

But still thy voice is ringing o'er the gale!

Thou 'st taught thy race how high her hopes may soar,

And bade her seek the heights, nor faint, nor fail.

She will not fail, she heeds thy stirring cry,

She knows thy guardian spirit will be nigh,

And, rising from beneath the chast'ning rod,

She stretches out her bleeding hands to God!

Life

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,

A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,

A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,

And never a laugh but the moans come double;

And that is life!

A crust and a corner that love makes precious,

With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;

And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,

And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;

And that is life!

The Lesson

My cot was down by a cypress grove,

And I sat by my window the whole night long,

And heard well up from the deep dark wood

A mocking-bird's passionate song.

And I thought of myself so sad and lone,

And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;

Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,

Of my heart too sad to sing.

But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,

A thought stole into my saddened heart,

And I said, "I can cheer some other soul

By a carol's simple art."

For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives

Come songs that brim with joy and light,

As out of the gloom of the cypress grove

The mocking-bird sings at night.

So I sang a lay for a brother's ear

In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,

And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,

Though mine was a feeble art.

But at his smile I smiled in turn,

And into my soul there came a ray:

In trying to soothe another's woes

Mine own had passed away.

The Rising Of The Storm

The lake's dark breast

Is all unrest,

It heaves with a sob and a sigh.

Like a tremulous bird,

From its slumber stirred,

The moon is a-tilt in the sky.

From the silent deep

The waters sweep,

But faint on the cold white stones,

And the wavelets fly

With a plaintive cry

O'er the old earth's bare, bleak bones.

And the spray upsprings

On its ghost-white wings,

And tosses a kiss at the stars;

While a water-sprite,

In sea-pearls dight,

Hums a sea-hymn's solemn bars.

Far out in the night,

On the wavering sight

I see a dark hull loom;

And its light on high,

Like a Cyclops' eye,

Shines out through the mist and gloom.

Now the winds well up

From the earth's deep cup,

And fall on the sea and shore,

And against the pier

The waters rear

And break with a sullen roar.

Up comes the gale,

And the mist-wrought veil

Gives way to the lightning's glare,

And the cloud-drifts fall,

A sombre pall,

O'er water, earth, and air.

The storm-king flies,

His whip he plies,

And bellows down the wind.

The lightning rash

With blinding flash

Comes pricking on behind.

Rise, waters, rise,

And taunt the skies

With your swift-flitting form.

Sweep, wild winds, sweep,

And tear the deep

To atoms in the storm.

And the waters leapt,

And the wild winds swept,

And blew out the moon in the sky,

And I laughed with glee,

It was joy to me

As the storm went raging by!

Sunset

The river sleeps beneath the sky,

And clasps the shadows to its breast;

The crescent moon shines dim on high;

And in the lately radiant west

The gold is fading into gray.

Now stills the lark his festive lay,

And mourns with me the dying day.

While in the south the first faint star

Lifts to the night its silver face,

And twinkles to the moon afar

Across the heaven's graying space,

Low murmurs reach me from the town,

As Day puts on her sombre crown,

And shakes her mantle darkly down.

The Old Apple-Tree

There's a memory keeps a-runnin'

Through my weary head to-night,

An' I see a picture dancin'

In the fire-flames' ruddy light;

'Tis the picture of an orchard

Wrapped in autumn's purple haze,

With the tender light about it

That I loved in other days.

An' a-standin' in a corner

Once again I seem to see

The verdant leaves an' branches

Of an old apple-tree.

You perhaps would call it ugly,

An' I don't know but it's so,

When you look the tree all over

Unadorned by memory's glow;

For its boughs are gnarled an' crooked,

An' its leaves are gettin' thin,

An' the apples of its bearin'

Would n't fill so large a bin

As they used to. But I tell you,

When it comes to pleasin' me,

It's the dearest in the orchard,—

Is that old apple-tree.

I would hide within its shelter,

Settlin' in some cosy nook,

Where no calls nor threats could stir me

From the pages o' my book.

Oh, that quiet, sweet seclusion

In its fulness passeth words!

It was deeper than the deepest

That my sanctum now affords.

Why, the jaybirds an' the robins,

They was hand in glove with me,

As they winked at me an' warbled

In that old apple-tree.

It was on its sturdy branches

That in summers long ago

I would tie my swing an' dangle

In contentment to an' fro,

Idly dreamin' childish fancies,

Buildin' castles in the air,

Makin' o' myself a hero

Of romances rich an' rare.

I kin shet my eyes an' see it

Jest as plain as plain kin be,

That same old swing a-danglin'

To the old apple-tree.

There's a rustic seat beneath it

That I never kin forget.

It's the place where me an' Hallie—

Little sweetheart—used to set,

When we 'd wander to the orchard

So 's no listenin' ones could hear

As I whispered sugared nonsense

Into her little willin' ear.

Now my gray old wife is Hallie,

An' I 'm grayer still than she,

But I 'll not forget our courtin'

'Neath the old apple-tree.

Life for us ain't all been summer,

But I guess we 'we had our share

Of its flittin' joys an' pleasures,

An' a sprinklin' of its care.

Oft the skies have smiled upon us;

Then again we 've seen 'em frown,

Though our load was ne'er so heavy

That we longed to lay it down.

But when death does come a-callin',

This my last request shall be,—

That they 'll bury me an' Hallie

'Neath the old apple tree.

A Prayer

O Lord, the hard-won miles

Have worn my stumbling feet:

Oh, soothe me with thy smiles,

And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen

Where'er I trembling trod;

The way was long between

My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow

Do thou my footsteps lead.

My heart is aching so;

Thy gracious balm I need.

Passion And Love

A maiden wept and, as a comforter,

Came one who cried, "I love thee," and he seized

Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath,

That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks.

While evermore his boldly blazing eye

Burned into hers; but she uncomforted

Shrank from his arms and only wept the more.

Then one came and gazed mutely in her face

With wide and wistful eyes; but still aloof

He held himself; as with a reverent fear,

As one who knows some sacred presence nigh.

And as she wept he mingled tear with tear,

That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower,—

Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand!

The Seedling

As a quiet little seedling

Lay within its darksome bed,

To itself it fell a-talking,

And this is what it said:

"I am not so very robust,

But I 'll do the best I can;"

And the seedling from that moment

Its work of life began.

So it pushed a little leaflet

Up into the light of day,

To examine the surroundings

And show the rest the way.

The leaflet liked the prospect,

So it called its brother, Stem;

Then two other leaflets heard it,

And quickly followed them.

To be sure, the haste and hurry

Made the seedling sweat and pant;

But almost before it knew it

It found itself a plant.

The sunshine poured upon it,

And the clouds they gave a shower;

And the little plant kept growing

Till it found itself a flower.

Little folks, be like the seedling,

Always do the best you can;

Every child must share life's labor

Just as well as every man.

And the sun and showers will help you

Through the lonesome, struggling hours,

Till you raise to light and beauty

Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

Promise

I grew a rose within a garden fair,

And, tending it with more than loving care,

I thought how, with the glory of its bloom,

I should the darkness of my life illume;

And, watching, ever smiled to see the lusty bud

Drink freely in the summer sun to tinct its blood.

My rose began to open, and its hue

Was sweet to me as to it sun and dew;

I watched it taking on its ruddy flame

Until the day of perfect blooming came,

Then hasted I with smiles to find it blushing red—

Too late! Some thoughtless child had plucked my rose and fled!

Fulfilment

I grew a rose once more to please mine eyes.

All things to aid it—dew, sun, wind, fair skies—

Were kindly; and to shield it from despoil,

I fenced it safely in with grateful toil.

No other hand than mine shall pluck this flower, said I,

And I was jealous of the bee that hovered nigh.

It grew for days; I stood hour after hour

To watch the slow unfolding of the flower,

And then I did not leave its side at all,

Lest some mischance my flower should befall.

At last, oh joy! the central petals burst apart.

It blossomed—but, alas! a worm was at its heart!

Song

My heart to thy heart,

My hand to thine;

My lip to thy lips,

Kisses are wine

Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade;

Let me drink deep, then, my African maid.

Lily to lily,

Rose unto rose;

My love to thy love

Tenderly grows.

Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain,

Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.

An Ante-Bellum Sermon

We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs,

In dis howlin' wildaness,

Fu' to speak some words of comfo't

To each othah in distress.

An' we chooses fu' ouah subjic'

Dis—we'll 'splain it by an' by;

"An' de Lawd said, 'Moses, Moses,'

An' de man said, 'Hyeah am I.'"

Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt,

Was de wuss man evah bo'n,

An' he had de Hebrew chillun

Down dah wukin' in his co'n;

'T well de Lawd got tiahed o' his foolin',

An' sez he: "I' ll let him know—

Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh

Fu' to let dem chillun go."

"An' ef he refuse to do it,

I will make him rue de houah,

Fu' I'll empty down on Egypt

All de vials of my powah."

Yes, he did—an' Pher'oh's ahmy

Wasn't wuth a ha'f a dime;

Fu' de Lawd will he'p his chillun,

You kin trust him evah time.

An' yo' enemies may 'sail you

In de back an' in de front;

But de Lawd is all aroun' you,

Fu' to ba' de battle's brunt.

Dey kin fo'ge yo' chains an' shackles

F'om de mountains to de sea;

But de Lawd will sen' some Moses

Fu' to set his chillun free.

An' de lan' shall hyeah his thundah,

Lak a blas' f'om Gab'el's ho'n,

Fu' de Lawd of hosts is mighty

When he girds his ahmor on.

But fu' feah some one mistakes me,

I will pause right hyeah to say,

Dat I 'm still a-preachin' ancient,

I ain't talkin' 'bout to-day.

But I tell you, fellah christuns,

Things'll happen mighty strange;

Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul,

An' his ways don't nevah change,

An' de love he showed to Isrul

Was n't all on Isrul spent;

Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs

Dat I's preachin' discontent.

'Cause I isn't; I'se a-judgin'

Bible people by deir ac's;

I 'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah,

I 'se a-handin' you de fac's.

Cose ole Pher'oh b'lieved in slav'ry,

But de Lawd he let him see,

Dat de people he put bref in,—

Evah mothah's son was free.

An' dahs othahs thinks lak Pher'oh,

But dey calls de Scriptuah liar,

Fu' de Bible says "a servant

Is a-worthy of his hire."

An' you cain't git roun' nor thoo dat,

An' you cain't git ovah it,

Fu' whatevah place you git in,

Dis hyeah Bible too 'll fit.

So you see de Lawd's intention,

Evah sence de worl' began,

Was dat His almighty freedom

Should belong to evah man,

But I think it would be bettah,

Ef I'd pause agin to say,

Dat I'm talkin' 'bout ouah freedom

In a Bibleistic way.

But de Moses is a-comin',

An' he's comin', suah and fas'

We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin',

We kin hyeah his trumpit blas'.

But I want to wa'n you people,

Don't you git too brigity;

An' don't you git to braggin'

'Bout dese things, you wait an' see.

But when Moses wif his powah

Comes an' sets us chillun free,

We will praise de gracious Mastah.

Dat has gin us liberty;

An' we 'll shout ouah halleluyahs,

On dat mighty reck'nin' day,

When we 'se reco'nised ez citiz'—

Huh uh! Chillun, let us pray!

Ode To Ethiopia

O Mother Race! to thee I bring

This pledge of faith unwavering,

This tribute to thy glory.

I know the pangs which thou didst feel,

When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,

With thy dear blood all gory.

Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed!

But through the land the fruitful seed

Of better times was growing.

The plant of freedom upward sprung,

And spread its leaves so fresh and young—

Its blossoms now are blowing.

On every hand in this fair land,

Proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand

Beside their fairer neighbor;

The forests flee before their stroke,

Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,—

They stir in honest labour.

They tread the fields where honour calls;

Their voices sound through senate halls

In majesty and power.

To right they cling; the hymns they sing

Up to the skies in beauty ring,

And bolder grow each hour.

Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul;

Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll

In characters of fire.

High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky

Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly,

And truth shall lift them higher.

Thou hast the right to noble pride,

Whose spotless robes were purified

By blood's severe baptism.

Upon thy brow the cross was laid,

And labour's painful sweat-beads made

A consecrating chrism.

No other race, or white or black,

When bound as thou wert, to the rack,

So seldom stooped to grieving;

No other race, when free again,

Forgot the past and proved them men

So noble in forgiving.

Go on and up! Our souls and eyes

Shall follow thy continuous rise;

Our ears shall list thy story

From bards who from thy root shall spring,

And proudly tune their lyres to sing

Of Ethiopia's glory.

The Corn-Stalk Fiddle

When the corn 's all cut and the bright stalks shine

Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;

When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,

And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;

Then it's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,

For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

And you take a stalk that is straight and long,

With an expert eye to its worthy points,

And you think of the bubbling strains of song

That are bound between its pithy joints—

Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,

With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow

O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand!

And the music's flow never loud but low

Is the concert note of a fairy band.

Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle

To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

When the eve comes on, and our work is done,

And the sun drops down with a tender glance,

With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,

Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance,

And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle—

More time than tune—from the corn-stalk fiddle.

Then brother Jabez takes the bow,

While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,

Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,

And John takes Nellie Jones's hand,

While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,

And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

"Salute your partners," comes the call,

"All join hands and circle round,"

"Grand train back," and "Balance all,"

Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.

"Take your lady and balance down the middle"

To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

So the night goes on and the dance is o'er,

And the merry girls are homeward gone,

But I see it all in my sleep once more,

And I dream till the very break of dawn

Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle

To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

The Master-Player

An old, worn harp that had been played

Till all its strings were loose and frayed,

Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,

To play. But each in turn had found

No sweet responsiveness of sound.

Then Love the Master-Player came

With heaving breast and eyes aflame;

The Harp he took all undismayed,

Smote on its strings, still strange to song,

And brought forth music sweet and strong.

The Mystery

I was not; now I am—a few days hence

I shall not be; I fain would look before

And after, but can neither do; some Power

Or lack of power says "no" to all I would.

I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,

Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.

Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,

I grope without direction and by chance.

Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand

That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.

But I—I hear no voice and touch no hand,

Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,

And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;

Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,

And stretch my hand to find that other hand.

I question of th' eternal bending skies

That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;

But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes

On me, as I one day shall do on them,

And tell me not the secret that I ask.

Not They Who Soar

Not they who soar, but they who plod

Their rugged way, unhelped, to God

Are heroes; they who higher fare,

And, flying, fan the upper air,

Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.

'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,

Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,

May smile upon defeated care,

Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod,

Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod

To turn the keenness of the share,

For flight is ever free and rare;

But heroes they the soil who 've trod,

Not they who soar!

Whittier

Not o'er thy dust let there be spent

The gush of maudlin sentiment;

Such drift as that is not for thee,

Whose life and deeds and songs agree,

Sublime in their simplicity.

Nor shall the sorrowing tear be shed.

O singer sweet, thou art not dead!

In spite of time's malignant chill,

With living fire thy songs shall thrill,

And men shall say, "He liveth still!"

Great poets never die, for Earth

Doth count their lives of too great worth

To lose them from her treasured store;

So shalt thou live for evermore—

Though far thy form from mortal ken—

Deep in the hearts and minds of men.

Two Songs

A bee that was searching for sweets one day

Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray.

In the heart of a rose he hid away,

And forgot in his bliss the light of day,

As sipping his honey he buzzed in song;

Though day was waning, he lingered long,

For the rose was sweet, so sweet.

A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast,

And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest:

"Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green,

And the birds in your nest will soon be seen!"

She hangs on his words with a thrill of love,

And chirps to him as he sits above

For the song is sweet, so sweet.

A maiden was out on a summer's day

With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play;

And she met with a youth of gentle air,

With the light of the sunshine on his hair.

Together they wandered the flowers among;

They loved, and loving they lingered long,

For to love is sweet, so sweet.

Bird of my lady's bower,

Sing her a song;

Tell her that every hour,

All the day long,

Thoughts of her come to me,

Filling my brain

With the warm ecstasy

Of love's refrain.

Little bird! happy bird!

Being so near,

Where e'en her slightest word

Thou mayest hear,

Seeing her glancing eyes,

Sheen of her hair,

Thou art in paradise,—

Would I were there.

I am so far away,

Thou art so near;

Plead with her, birdling gay,

Plead with my dear.

Rich be thy recompense,

Fine be thy fee,

If through thine eloquence

She hearken me.

A Banjo Song

Oh, dere 's lots o' keer an' trouble

In dis world to swaller down;

An' ol' Sorrer 's purty lively

In her way o' gittin' roun'.

Yet dere's times when I furgit em,—

Aches an' pains an' troubles all,—

An' it's when I tek at ebenin'

My ol' banjo f'om de wall.

'Bout de time dat night is fallin'

An' my daily wu'k is done,

An' above de shady hilltops

I kin see de settin' sun;

When de quiet, restful shadders

Is beginnin' jes' to fall,—

Den I take de little banjo

F'om its place upon de wall.

Den my fam'ly gadders roun' me

In de fadin' o' de light,

Ez I strike de strings to try 'em

Ef dey all is tuned er-right.

An' it seems we 're so nigh heaben

We kin hyeah de angels sing

When de music o' dat banjo

Sets my cabin all er-ring.

An' my wife an' all de othahs,—

Male an' female, small an' big,—

Even up to gray-haired granny,

Seem jes' boun' to do a jig;

'Twell I change de style o' music,

Change de movement an' de time,

An' de ringin' little banjo

Plays an ol' hea't-feelin' hime.

An' somehow my th'oat gits choky,

An' a lump keeps tryin' to rise

Lak it wan'ed to ketch de water

Dat was flowin' to my eyes;

An' I feel dat I could sorter

Knock de socks clean off o' sin

Ez I hyeah my po' ol' granny

Wif huh tremblin' voice jine in.

Den we all th'ow in our voices

Fu' to he'p de chune out too,

Lak a big camp-meetin' choiry

Tryin' to sing a mou'nah th'oo.

An' our th'oahts let out de music,

Sweet an' solemn, loud an' free,

'Twell de raftahs o' my cabin

Echo wif de melody.

Oh, de music o' de banjo,

Quick an' deb'lish, solemn, slow,

Is de greates' joy an' solace

Dat a weary slave kin know!

So jes' let me hyeah it ringin',

Dough de chune be po' an' rough,

It's a pleasure; an' de pleasures

O' dis life is few enough.

Now, de blessed little angels

Up in heaben, we are told,

Don't do nothin' all dere lifetime

'Ceptin' play on ha'ps o' gold.

Now I think heaben 'd be mo' homelike

Ef we 'd hyeah some music fall

F'om a real ol'-fashioned banjo,

Like dat one upon de wall.

Longing

If you could sit with me beside the sea to-day,

And whisper with me sweetest dreamings o'er and o'er;

I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray,

And not so loud the waves complaining at the shore.

If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day,

And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old,

I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray,

Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold.

If you could walk with me upon the strand to-day,

And tell me that my longing love had won your own,

I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away,

And I could give back laughter for the Ocean's moan!

The Path

There are no beaten paths to Glory's height,

There are no rules to compass greatness known;

Each for himself must cleave a path alone,

And press his own way forward in the fight.

Smooth is the way to ease and calm delight,

And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own;

But he who craves the flower of life full-blown,

Must struggle up in all his armor dight!

What though the burden bear him sorely down

And crush to dust the mountain of his pride,

Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide;

For rugged is the roadway to renown,

Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown,

Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside.

The Lawyers' Ways

I 've been list'nin' to them lawyers

In the court house up the street,

An' I 've come to the conclusion

That I'm most completely beat.