THE PRINCE IN EBONY
AUTHOR OF " WHAT YOU GWINE TO DO WID HAM,"
" DISCORDS AND HARMONY," " THE EVENING
DREAM," "THE EMANCIPATION SONG,"
"I SHALL MISS HER WHEN THE
VIOLETS BLOOM AGA'IN,"
" CROSSING THE BAR AT EVENTIDE."
BY
J. FRANCIS LEE.
Copyright, 190J,
John Francis Lee.
ho tbe IRev. WL lb. Coffey tdjd.
wbose constant frien&sbip for twenty scare
bas been tbe greatest inspiration of
m£ life, 1T De&fcate
Ubese poems
THE NEW POET LAUREATE.
IS HE JOHN FRANCIS LEE ?
Is the Rev. John Francis Lee the coming Negro
poet of America? Will he take up the minstrel harp
that was dropped by the late Paul Laurence Dunbar?
Only 34 years of age, his career as a poet has been,
as yet, comparatively brief. He sings his songs as the
•Muses impel; sometimes twice a week, and again a
year or two apart. Often ^inspiration comes as a
result of his faithful work as pastor of the Metropoli¬
tan African Methodist Episcopal Zion church, of
Norfolk, Va.
Beginning life under the great disadvantages that
confront the poor Negro boy, John Francis Lee has
persistently and untiringly carved his own destiny.
His is the familiar story—with the familiar sequel—
of fighting his way sturdily, steadily upward; working
in the wheatfields, in brickyards, in barber shops,
wherever he could; earning money here and there,
with which to pay his way through school.
Poetic whispering came to him years ago as he
played about the banks of the P'otomac river, at
Alexandria, Va. Through all his writings runs a love
of nature—and nature is serene and attractive about
.the broad stretch of water that sweeps downward
from that quaint old Southern city to the shaded
lawn that holds the tomb of Washington.
There it was that he first felt the charm of the vernal
season that, later, when he could express himself in
fitting language, was woven into his ' 'Ode to Spring:"
She is beauteous and more modest
Than the conquer'd who retreat;
Myriads hasten to her altars;
Lavish trophies at her feet.
SIX
Sunshine, first born of her bosom,
Peeping high over hill and glade,
Sweetly smiles on rustic lovers,
Strolling on 'neath umbrous shade.
E v en if poetry shaped in the brain of the boy at an
early age, it was long before he could express his
thoughts in metre.
His father was a slave on the plantation of a brother
of General Robert E. Lee Securing his release from
bondage several years before the Civil War, however,
the father had the advantage of the common schools
of his time, and after service in the conflict, was for a
number of years, an employe in the Patent Office at
Washington.
When 7 years of age the future poet was put to
work. Since he was nine years old he has supported
himself. He plodded along, first at one occupation,
then at another until at 17, having learned to read,
he determined to secure everything possible in the
way of education.
He managed to attend the public schools of Phila¬
delphia, and afterward the Institute for Colored
Youths there; then followed courses at the Princess
Anne, Md., Academy; Bennett College, N. C.; Mary-
ville College, Tenn.; and finally, a theological course
at Livingstone College, Salisbury, N. C., the de¬
nominational school of the African Methodist Episco¬
pal Zion Church.
From the last named school Mr. Lee was graduated
in 1899 with the degree of A. B. The degree of A. M.>
was conferred upon him by the same institution last
year.
The struggle for an education was not easy. Fre¬
quently his daily allowance of food was a loaf of bread
and half pint of syrup. One winter he walked eight
miles each day to receive instruction in grammar,
for which he paid 25 cents an hour, did a day's work
in addition, and studied far into the night.
It was while working as a porter for a Philadelphia
firm that he wrote his first poem. It dealt with
SEVEN
slavery, in which his ancesters had toiled, and con¬
cluded with a hopeful outlook toward the future:
Let each man do his duty
Toward our Master's will,
That great will be our future,
For we are human still.
Mr. Lee has written poetry since 1888. Sometimes
two years elapsed between his productions; at other
times, under the spur of inspiration, he has written
verses twice a week.
He is 5 ft. 11 inches tall and weighs 210 pounds.
Physically he is as strong and robust as he is active
mentally. In demeanor he is modest and unassuming.
This poet-pastor acknowledges that much of his
inspiration has come from his wife. A native of
Salisbury, N. C., she received her early education in
the common schools of that town, enjoyed a normal
course in Livingstone College, and for some years
taught in the public schools.
The couple were married in 1896, and Mrs. Lee has
faithfully aided her husband in all his work, from the
small country districts to the charge of his present
large congregation in Norfolk.
Their home iri Norfolk is an old-fashioned house in
the once-fashionable quarter. Long since, however,
the section was abandoned by white people, and is
now populated by respectable Negro families.
Eearly last year Mr. Lee published his first volume
of poems. It was a modest little book of fifty-four
pages, bound in yellow leatherette, taking its name
from the first production, "What You Gwine to Do
Wid Ham."
This is a study of the Negro problem, and begins:
De white folks pow'rful restless now
About the colored man;
Dey say he'd better pack his duds
And leave dis blessed land.
EIGHT
Yes, 'tis a 'mentous question, sah;
It puzzles Uncle Sam,
Politisuns, all de lan—
What you gwine to do wid Ham ?
After discussing the question at some length in
dialect verse, the poem concludes:
Now Ham done sot himself to stay;
And dat's all right, you see;
To git de cash, build stores and banks
Rock Hamites on his knee.
We's gwine to hab no fuss 'bout dis,
But pile our goods like yam;
Aint no 'lution reached us yet—
What you gwine to do wid Ham ?
Since reaching a position where the wearisome and
continued manual labor was no longer necessary, the
Norfolk pastor has been an extensive reader, a careful
student of books, of men and of nature. He is a great
admirer of the works of Paul Laurence Dunbar, and
his "When Susanna Strikes de S'prano Key" was in¬
spired by Dunbar's verses, "When Malinda Sings:"
I'se sure gwine to call dis eben
On de prett'est maid of all;
'Midst honeysuckle blossoms
As dey linger in de fall;
You kiiow she is awful bashful,
As she sets and plays for me;
You ought to hear Susanna
When she strikes de s'prano key.
She plays the sweetest music;
It most sets a feller wild;
It makes me think of Georgia,
Where I was once a child;
Where de Georgia melon blossom'd,
And de 'possum grinned at me—
Well, you ought to hear Susanna
When she strikes de s'prano key.
NINE
You talk about your shoutin'
And forgettin' every sin,
Your midnight serenadin'
And your quartettes when they sing,
'Taint no use in talking,
For a sight you'll neber see
Till you listen to Susanna
When she strikes de s'prano key.
In lines written to the memory of a deceased school¬
mate, the poet gives his idea of the things of transient
life in the following verse:
Our launching, our voyage, our wrecking,
Are as swift as an eagle in flight;
Like the beauties of sunset in winter,
They are lost in the gloom of the night.
The Philadelphia North American sent a special
correspondent to Norfolk to hunt up Mr. Lee, inter¬
view him, and write up the story of his life; believing
him to be the coming successor of the late Mr. Dunbar.
As the result of this interview, the above story with
cuts of the poet, his home in Norfolk, his study, and
church appeared in the columns of the North American,
Sunday, May 20th 1906. On the 26th of same month,
it appeared also in the Philadelphia Tribune, the paper
to which the poet offered his first poem.
ELEVEN
CONTENTS.
The Prince in Ebony 13
Life 15
De Dixie Sweeten Tatar 16
The Penitent's Resolve ' 17
The Fifty Fourth Massachusetts 18
Glimpse of Ancient Glory 21
The Singer 24
The Curse 26
The Main Avenged 28
F orget 31
Church Extension Movement 33
Treat My Mother Kindly 35
There's Nothing In a Name 36
De Winter Am So Long 38
The Joy of Contentment 39
The Evening of Life 41
An Emancipation Song 43
Drifting Along With the Tide 44
A Rule That Works Two Ways 45
Fate of the Aged 47
The White Plague 49
An Evening Dream 50
There's Hope Beyond 52
The Confession 53
At Rest 54
Forgiveness 55
Conscience 56
A Blighted Flower • 58
Dixie ' 59
A Rural Song • 61
The Warrior's Soliloquy 63
Springtime 65
The Departed 66
The Mystery 67
Sambo's Trip To Yankee Land 69
The World Is Full of Sunshine 71
TWELVE
When The Robins Nest Again 7 2
The Christian Knight 74
The Penitents Confession 7 6
Ole Virginia 77
Just A Faded Rose 79'
Nearing the Tomb 8o
The Man of Honest Toil 82
The Penitents Prayer 83
When the Day Is Done 85
Ode to Evening 87
Ode to a Child 89
After All We Are Only Men 9°
Ode to Melancholy 9 2
The Penitent 93
Forsaken Tomb 94
At Easter Dawn 95
An Ode to The Ocean 96
Nature's Decrees 98
Submission - 99
Virginia 100
The Harvest is Ready. . 102
Mountain Scenes and Pleasures 103
Life 104
Death 106
The Refrain 108
What You Gwine to Do Wid Ham? 109
Uncle Joe's Religion 112
The Prince in Ebony.
There came an Ebon hero in the days of yore
From the pit of thraldom, degradation and shame;
All the heritage of a trodden race was his,
Oppression, and the curse of caste bequeathed.
As the mighty oak that battles against the winds,
Till every part is strengthened for the fray,
Or as the towering mount that gaze the azure skies
Our hero battled 'gainst the times that gave him birth.
He fought his way from depths most miserable,
From mid-night musing and his evening tears
Neath twinkling stars, and near the morning bloom,
Nigh the laughing brook that whisper'd at his feet,
Where he was wont to roam and ponder o'er his fate,
Until the weary sun had sought his couch and gone to
rest. [place.
He fought and conquered, then the noblest gave him
Alas! he fell from lofty heights and kingly sway,
Like the cherubs who desend to Stygian streams,
Fettered by the foul Prince of worlds so dark,
Bound in clanking chains, o'ercome, but still a prince.
A Prince in sable hue, majestic in his tread
Proud as a king that sways a relm and rules at will,
Graceful as the grand, and tender as the mellow rays
That fall on raptuous orbs at dawn or eventide.
A Prince so fierce and wild in battle, gainst the foe,
Forging bolts to hurl at alien hosts who make their
charge [foes,
Like McDonald's ranks that pierced the files of worthy
And plac'd upon a kingly brow a cherish'd crown,
And proped his throne, to fall again in after years,
And send his lord in chains to old Helena's shores.
A prince in helping men to face a hostile world,
When fame and fortune once their pride have fled in
haste,
FOURTEEN
When sunken in the mire of sin and shame too long;
Men who felt the cold and clanking chains of prison
cells,
And breathed the breath of demons on their brow,
So close the sinner stood to death and yawning hell,
Men whose star of hope 'went down long years ago;
Whom friends desert in sore distress, enemies depose;
With courage sinking low and fast as tides that ebb
and flow.
And still the tempted builds his cot on silvery sands,
And dreams in silence mid the changing scenes.,
Till tides return to wash his childish charms to. sea.
A Prince, 'gainst the beast alluring men to crimes
and death. [by him,
Alexander, Goldsmith, and the brilliant Poe, o'ercome
Were bound and fetter'd, then enslav'd at his behest.
He met this valiant foe on distant fields of human gore
In Northern climes, where winter sing her funeral dirge
Whose weird piping notes echoed by sleepless waves,
Are lost in accents sweet midst ocean calm, an awing
sight! [their sweets
In Southern climes where flowers bloom and spend
On vagrant trains whose aimless roaming menaced
rural knights, [hearts.
Or mark the last repose of those so dear to human
A Prince at death's approach, in ghastly livery.
When morn has fled and evening shades have come;
The sun has robed himself in haze and bid adi^u;
And yet his rugged smiles fling shadows o'er the west.
He flares the dawn that men may see to launch,
And make their way to havens fair and safe at last,
Where comrades brave mess once more, free from the
• cannon's boom,
The screaming bugle blast that call the corps to arms,
Or dress parade at noon, or cavalry charge at eve.
Where honors are bestowed, heroes rewards are rife
Comrades free from war, the battle's bloody strife
In -calm retreat neath silent shades, midst blushing
streams
Reclining warriorers slumber in unbroken dreams.
FIFTEEN
Life.
Human life is naught but vapor,
Tossed and driven as the haze,
Fleeting as the breath of flowers,
Or the dews of autumn maize.
Tis a hill midst thorns and thistles,
That the pilgrim's bound to scale,
And in climbing toward the summit,
Some will reach it, some must fail.
Life's a brook whose sweetest music
Lulls the weary soul to sleep,
And its lullaby entrancing,
Soothe the fainting when they weep;
Truly life's a mighty ocean,
Swept by hurricanes and death;
While both weeping maids and mothers,
Linger near with faltering breath.
Somewhere life had its beginning,
As the streams that glide along;
In the sunshine of the morning,
Singing man a happy song.
And this life will have its ending,
As the sun at vesper goes,
When the veil of night is dropping,
Noiseless to its last repose.
SIXTEEN
De Dixie Sweeten Tatar.
Den in de bleak November
When de winds am blowing fast,
De summer time is ober,
And de frost am come at last.
Dars all sorts ob prankin,
And de pickininies song,
De fires am a blazen,
And de sweeten tata's on.
I lubs de sweeten tata,
For it waters up my mouth,
De Dixie sweeten tata
Dat grows down in de South;
You kin bake 'em in de ashes
Until dey's nice and brown,
I'll neber stop from eaten,
Till de stweetin tata gon.
I'll tell you when I'se happy
As a lober when he's true,
'Tis when I'se got de possum
And de sweeten tata too;
I eats awhile and shuffle
Den I stops and sing;
I feels so very jolly,
I kin cut de pigeon wing.
Sambo lubs his 'possum,
And you he's not to blame,
He quits his work to hunt him,
But he gits dar all de same.
'Tis 'possum and de tata,
While I libs upon de earth;
I'se bound to sniff de graby
When its poppin on de hearth.
SEVENTEEN
The Penitent's Resolve.
I ofttimes strive in earnest
And seek to do the right,
Resist the tempter's power,
And stand against his might;
With wounds of many a conflict
I've often fought, but fell;
Have not won the victory,
Nor broke the Siren's spell.
I will not always falter,
The battle may be long,
I will not yield to satan,
A victim to his wrong;
By grace I'll break his power,
The galley's galling chain,
I will sing the song of triumph,
And chant its sweet refrain.
I can, must, will be master
Of my soul, its castle gates
I'll guard the sacred treasure
Against the whims of fate,
The lamps of hope still glimmer,
I can not lose my way;
I will not quit the struggle,
Nor scamper from the fray.
If then I can but conquer
When the battle's din is done,
When evening shades are falling,
Night vigils have begun,
Fold o'er me the ensign,
For which my life I gave,
Let my rest be peaceful
In hero's unmark'd grave.
EIGHTEEN
The Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts.
To freedom! was the watchword,
Of soldiers true and brave
Who marched to beat the enemy,
Or else to fill their grave;
These were the Massachusetts,
The first to wear the blue;
The Sable Sons of Africa,
To the Union loyal true.
Their leader was a hero,
With burning blood for war,
He was a youthful patriot,
The gallant colonel Shaw.
Forward to Fort Wagner,
These troops marched all day,
In time to face great danger;
And bear the laurels away.
For more than forty eight hours
They marched through mud, rain,
To reach a post of honor,
Where hundreds soon were slain.
No time for taking rations
Nor to renew their strength,
Were given but five minutes
These to breathe were spent.
Double quick, boys! forward!
Rang out all down the line,
None paus'd to ask the meaning,
For well they knew this sign.
Just about four furlongs,
The old Fort stood away;
In charge of Southern soldiers,
Unanxious for the fray.
NINETEEN
Onward marched the brave ones,
As veterans truly tried,
To meet the deadly vollies,
From which so many died.
And now begins the conflict,
As a thousand demons met;
The gazing heavens tremble,
The ground is bloody wet.
These heroes still go forward,
In the very jaws of hell,
As men who know not danger,
There countless humans fell.
The maddened cannons threaten,
Instant death to all;
The muskets have no pity,
But hurls their cruel ball.
Do war gods view this conflict,
And yet these humans fight;
Perchance it gives them pleasure,
Perhaps 'tis their delight.
Upon the mighty breast works,
For Carney knew no lag;
Amidst the belching cannons,
He plants the regiment's flag.
Back they retreat with vict'ry,
But death has thinn'd their ranks,
A lad of nineteen summers,
Leads the right and left flanks;
But when old smiling Pheobus,
Has rode the skies till fair,
Some will answer to their names,
Many will not be there.
In the dreary hospital,
Upon a dingy bed,
Lay brave Sergent Carney,
Still bleeding from the head;
TWENTY
But as his wounded comrades,
Cheer him, which is but fair,
Who kept the honor'd colors,
Afloat upon the air.
Said he the fighting Dixies
Shot Shaw and others down;
But boys the old flag yonder,
Has never touch'd the ground.
At roll call of the morning,
In that mysterious world,
Where there's no blood or carnage,
No banners are unfurled;
Our comrades who have fallen
Upon their dented shields;
Here! here! each one will answer,
From many battle fields.
TWENTY-ONE
Glimpse of Ancient Glory.
Heaven's peaceful dream at last is broken;
Angels gaze upon a wondrous sight,
A world of beauty and a land of recent birth.
They bless a God who brings a world from naught;
And strike their harps in praise of new-born chants.
Jehovah moved at hearing songs of birds
That chirp his praise in modest humble lays;
He hears the murmuring brooks and sees the
Fragrant bloom, the fruit, the stately bowing palm,
The yelping beasts of prey pay homage at his feet;
And at the sight of him, they bow o'er awed.
The council chamber lit from rays of golden light
That shine from brows of Spirits most divine;
They light the temple, loom the festooned dome;
And give an everlasting noon, night ne'er comes.
In this sacred chamber heaven's council met,
To fix an earthly relm and place a Prince to rule.
In that land of Cush, God set the place at will;
From the sombrous soil, where Gihon circumscribe
The whole, morning, noon and eventide,
Man was first made, incased in sable hue.
Eastward in Eden he was first placed,
To keep the garden in its beauteous state.
From his loins most noble lineage came;
Outlived the flood, and peopled earth again.
In the land of Shinar on Egyptian plains,
Great nations should be born to bless the earth.
What of Egypt's fame, Babylon's mighty strength,
That overhung the Nile and graced the plains
Where Mizriam's fame undying was commenced?
No one knows the time or vastness of his reign.
Where Nimrod's mighty genius blazon'd forth,
These people brought forth Kings and Princes too,
And swarthy queens whose beauty is renowned;
Gave birth to art, and rear'd the hoary Sphinx,
TWENTY-TWO
They built to heaven's dome a mighty tower,
And from its height they read the vaulted dome.
They placed a city on the plains that spann'd
The Euphrates across at human will,
And raised a mighty wall of strength around
That envious darts should never hope to pierce.
What of their glory on the seas the mystic deep ?
Thereon they ruled and brought their wares
To foreign ports, left on every land a trace.
The glory of Hametic rule; gave the world
True greatness, such as none had ever done.
Thy glory as the sun has ever shone
Other men as satellites caught the passing ray
To rob thee of thy glory men would dare do this,
But for the records of the past, that firmly stand.
The setting of thy sun brought on the night;
And thou shalt group in darkness for thy sins
Till broken idols shall be ground to dust,
The warrior's weapons beat to prunning hooks;
'Till human sacrifice lives in forgotten past,
Till freedom breaks the captives fetters off,
Breaks clanking chains whose creaking mars the wood¬
land song
And leaves them silent as the gloom of brooding night.
But when the night is passed thou shalt wake,
And force thy way to power as streams that
Burst their bands and flood the fields, awful havoc
play.
The sullen forest and the vale shall bloom again;
The roaring deep shall own her swarthy lord.
Out of the wrecked and ruined courts, shall come
Lofty strains; a sacred theme to him shall rise,
Who brought thee from the dust and spread thy fame;
And made thy Princess great and good, made chaste
thy queens.
Like the hoary sun at morn comes from the deep,
In splendid liv'ry with fiery prancing steeds
That paw the main 'til mist o'erhangs his brow,
And too, the smiles that beam upon his face,
Have stripped the golden east of fog,
And lit the earth for man, that each may win his bread.
TWENTY-THREE
Thou shalt rise and light the world, nations yet unborn
Shall learn of thee, come from the east the west,
To prove thy fame thy greatness understand.
Thy hands out-spread to God shall be at last;
Thy prayer in pleading accents shall ascend.
Thy praise shall-go to him, and He will answer thee;
Thy sin and shame all wash'd away by blood,
Thou shalt rule, all nations shall pay homage at thy
shrine.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Singer.
[A tribute to the late Paul Lawrence Dunbar.J
There came a sweet singer
To a down trodden race,
From the dark pit of thraldom,
A miserable place,
An offspring of decades.
To bonadge and its sin,
The heel of oppression
The bold warrior's den.
He came, the sweetest singer
Of life—its lowly psalms,
He echoed our sorrows,
Sweetly chanted their charms,
With songs from the Muses
Lofty strains he would sing—
Just a touch of the Lyre,
So skillful the string.
Like the Zephyrs of Eden,
O'er the first dawn of day,
His chantings were pleasing,
Melodious his lay;
He sang to the lowly,
The haughty, and the proud,
The Hamite of sorrow—
The weeping that bowed.
There came a pale angel
One day to that home,
From garret to cellar
In silence he roamed;
He paused near a cot,
Where he heard gasping breath,
He kissed the wan sufferer—
'Twas the angel of death.
TWENTY-FIVE
As twilight of evening
Lingered o'er the brook,
The last page of that life
Was closed as a book:
The mist of all myst'ries
Has vanished from him—
There's reward for his labors,
Whatever they have been.
TWENTY-SIX
The Curse.
I have wronged my brother,
Betrayed a sacred trust,
Degraded honored manhood,
A serpent in the dust!
Fate marks me a victim,
On land or raging sea,
For I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me.
Conscience smites me sorely,
The wound is very deep;
Could tears be restitution,
The stars have seen me weep;
Now I may hide my sinning,
The world may never see,
That I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me.
The Lion shorn of power
Is but a beast of prey;
He cowers as the conquer'd;
His enemies hold sway;
I am bereft of power
As any infant be,
For I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me.
My brother's hand is against me,
And I must flee like Cain;
If I am discovered,
I should, I will be slain;
If I should join my comrades
In laughter and its glee,
I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Like an impious culprit
In silence oft I crept,
Like dew-besprinkled flowers
At early dawn I weep,
When honest men are wanted
The world will not seek me,
For I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me,.
If I will be repentant,
And seek to right the wrong;
If I will make confession,
How deep my sin, how long—
My lot may be a hard one,
And why should it not be?
For I have wronged my brother,
His curse has followed me.
O, Father, grant me mercy,
'Tis Heaven's want to give;
Grant to me repentance
That I may look and live;
Be Thou my intercessor
And let my soul go free,
Though I have wronged my brother
Grace has pardoned me.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Maine Avenged.
Sing muse the fate of Sigbee's ship, that sailed the
wintry sea,
With armour bright and banners gay floating on the
breeze;
On friendly trip our battleship went to distant lands
away,
To a land of blood and foulest deeds a land of treachery
She landed safe in a foreign port, the Old Havana bay;
And took her place assign'd by fores upon the silvery
spray.
All was at peace, the battleship safe, the sailor gone
to rest,
The dazzling stars the honor'd stripes afloat o'er hoary
crest.
Hark! what means this distant peal, the roaring shot
and bursting shell
That rise on lips of a silent night, like demons born of
Hell,
Tis not a charge or battle cry that greets the listening
ear;
But the cruel deed of Spanish clans that ring out loud
and clear.
A nations pride, a nations heart, are touched and
wrung to-night;
We shall defend the Stars, the stripes 'gainst insults
of such might?
Wrecked ill-fated Maine! gone to the bottom of the
deep
Spanish Lord and Rulers scorn, but Americans will
weep.
TWENTY-NINE
Our bravest men have met a fate, the old Jack Tar
the youth,
Which comes to them who bare their breast, defending
a country's truth.
Many hearts are sad to-night, many eyes wet with
tears,
Lover's hopes and mothers joys are buried neath
gloom of years.
Two hundred graves or more are fresh, two hundred
coffins new
O'er the train of honor'd dead wave the red white and
the blue;
Weeping mothers, maidens, lovers in far off distant
land,
Have heard the news with aching hearts, our tears
their grief demand.
Treacherous Spain shall pay a price, for each man laid
to rest,
Shall pay in blood of honored sons, the truest and the
best;
Spanish rule for ages past so cruel and unjust,
For every noble son we lose, a Lord shall bite the dust.
Bagley, Grey and Patterson, were among the first who
fell;
There Meeks and Cox and Varveres, and the negro
John Tunnell.
Like sons of yore these gave their lives to heed a
country's call.
On freedom's Alters sacrificed their homes, their youth,
their all.
Old Pheobus smiles and hastes to rest, he shrouds the
sea in haze
The Queen of night in azure robed, the stars peep out
so amaz'd.
The angry billows rocked to rest out on the lurid deep,
As silent as an infant child by Morpheus wooed to sleep.
THIRTY
Black robed messengers of death, propell the slum¬
bering sea,
They laugh to scorn a lurking death, so certain of
victory.
"Remember the Maine,"! is their passport, and thus
her fate men tell;
They guide their war ships over the sea, to the very
jaws of hell.
A flashing light and bursting shell, now open the awful
fray—
Old Pheobus drawn by his prancing steeds disclose
the dawn of day.
The roaring guns the deafening shells from the Span¬
iards of Cavite,
Salute approach- of our battle ships, trimming them
for fight.
Our circled fleet from a port-side fire led by Olymphia,
Pours forth her deadly vollies still her hull shows not a
scar.
Dire distruction now came forth, from the mouth of
every gun;
The Spaniards loose in deadly hordes, Americans not
one
The stars and stripes still float aloft upon the silent
breezes,
Mid shot and shell and blinding smoke they shield
our ships on seas;
As our braves and honored dead, they guard a sacred
trust;
Though shatter'd torn and blackened much, they ne'er
shall trail the dust.
The Spanish fleet has gone to death, swallowed by the
sea,
From treacherous mines and Spanish lords, we won
great victory.
Appalling grief as blackest night o'er hangs defeated
Spain—
Here the muses end their song,'the "Averlging of the
Maine.'
THIRTY-ONE
Forget.
Happy would man's future be, wherever his lot be cast,
There would be no anguish nor remorse, could he for
get the past.
The past that makes us humble souls, recalls our folly,
shame;
Condone the faults of other men, in kindness lisp their
name.
Forget the hardships of our youth, like shadows they
should seem,
Just as the sleepers of the night forget the midnight
dream.
Forgeting then should be a charm, that soothes our
grief and fear;
A balm of Gilead in distress that often dries a tear.
Forget thy wounds, the honored scars that blazoned
forth thy frame,
That mark the battles that thou fought, enshrine
thy mighty name.
A veteran's passport to the ranks, an honored hero's
share,
To brave the tempest thou hast stood, many souls
would dare.
Forget the slights, though great they be, for thou hast
given pain;
Let them vanish like the shades, ne'er to return again.
As the footsteps on the strand are lost midst mingled
dust,
So the slights that thou hast felt, should be forgotten
thus.
THIRTY-TWO
Forget the footprints thou hast made, the by-paths
thou didst tread;
For many noble souls as thou are numbered with the
dead;
Soon the winding sheet, the tomb, shall give thee ease
and rest,
Just as the millions slumb'ring now upon a mother's
breast.
With kings of every clime and race, regal lords of earth
Some have suffered just as thou to twilight's eve from
birth.
The slave, the freemen and the wise, will grant thee
. thy share,
For men of rank and paupers, too, all claim kindred
there.
THIRTY-THREE
Church Extension Movement,
Just one hundred years ago,
Father Varrick launch'd this ship,
To leave the sterile waters
And make prospective trip;
To stem the surging billows,
With black men at the wheel;
To carry free salvation
And ruin Satan's field.
The Church Extension banner,
Follows in Zion's wake,
To scatter Satan's army
To make them fear and quake;
With Coffey as the general,
And Walters in the van,
We'll ever make new conquests
Spread Zion in every land.
Our Warner led the vanguard,
Our Curry knew no lag;
When Satan pressed the army
Our Coffey caught the flag-
He spiked guns of Satan
Raised Zion's colors high
Loud cheers of acclamation
Ring out through the sky.
We cheer our chief commanders
Who marshall Zion's hosts
The earliest church of any,
Is now our young men's boast.
We heard it from our Alstork,
Hood, Small and Caldwell too,
Smith, Lomax, Clinton, Harris—
There is no doubt 'tis true.
THIRTY-FOUR
Soon a million soldiers,
Will march in Zion's band,
The sounding of the bugle,
The Bishop's stern command.
With Church Extension banner
A floating in the breeze,
We'll charge advancing cohorts
The newest conquest seize.
She helps a many brother
From mountain top to sea,
Has kept a many chaple
Standing upon the lea.
There never was a movement
That brought to Zion fame,
The honor and the prospects
To spread the Master's name.
THIRTY-FIVE
Treat My Mother Kindly.
'Twas a cold and bitter day
The evening shadows.faded fast;
Little Freddie only twelve they say
Was wont to face the winter chilly blast.
'Twas his to help a dear old mother now,
A darling sister's future he must save;
Old age and feebleness cause ma to bow,
His sire slept the sleep of many brave.
Treat my mother kindly, if you want to be my friend,
Treat my mother kindly boys I say,
She may be old and feeble now, she brought to this end
Treat my mother kindly if you want to be my friend.
The lad has grown to manhood, and is off'upon the sea,
He dreams of mother's fondling and his place upon
her knee.
There often comes a message no matter where he roams
Treat my mother kindly lads ere long I'll reach my
home.
He sailed a fated vessel on the ocean wide and deep
The billows chant the funeral dirge neath silvery
crest he sleeps.
And as his vessel parted, he thus was heard to cry,
Treat my mother kindly, farewell to her, good bye.
The morning sun is shining o'er wreckage on the lea
While sad hearts long for loved one asleeping in the
sea.
There lies a simple sailor in a cottage nigh the glen
Who thought of mother's comforts in the choosing
of his friend.
THIRTY-SIX
There's Nothing In a Name.
There's lots of agitation,
About the black man's name;
About his habitation
The clime from he came.
For general satisfaction
That no one be to blame
Say colored man or negro
There's not much in name.
For when they called Sambo •
The treatment then was bad
They sold us to the rice swamps
With everything we had.
'Twas always separation
Qf mother, maid and son,
This cursed combination
Always favored none.
If colored now you call us
Don't sound it with a jeer,
Or some peculiar accent
That grates upon the ear.
No name will stop the Jim Crow
Nor give a better show,
They ostracise, discriminate
Just as they did before.
If any name will help us,
For heaven's sake contend;
Just gather appellations
Until there is no end.
You will not find things changing
Conditions are the same,
Experience then decides me
There's nothing in a name.
But after all our fretting,
It does not mean so much
Japheth claims the country,
Has magic in his touch.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Some day 'twill be better—
But one thing I avow,
It is not what men call us
But how they treat us now.
One may be very worthless,
Or toil from sun to sun;
No matter what task given,
Nor how well it is done;
They said we must be soldiers,
Must carry sword and gun,
Must fight the nations battles
Until the strife was done.
They said we must be landlords,
Must own the smiling soil;
Each man must get a homestead,
Must teach his son to toil;
We must get education;
Must keep laws of the land;
Submit to separation,
On every labeled strand.
Yet we have done our duty,
Met every rule laid down
In every country village,
The cities and the town.
Now, I am very hopeful,
For best folks of the land,
Are earnest in their efforts,
And want to understand;
They greet Ham as a brother
Though cased in swarthy hue;
Passion does rule them,
But reason leads them through.
Then call us what is proper,
And treat us all the same
Then there will be changes,
There'll be much in a name.
THIRTY-EIGHT
De Winter Am So Long.
I thought the Springtime was a comin
And de flowers was in bloom;
And de bees had gone to hummin,
And de earth would loose its gloom.
I thought de waters was aflowing
And de sun would shine so bright; .
Den de honey suckles blossom
And de cherries would be right.
I thought de summer time was comin,
And de winds would cease to blow
Den de flowers would be growin
Den we has no ice and snow,
I thought de peach trees would be bloomin,
In de orchard long de road
And de apple trees abowin
Neath a heavy cumbrous load.
I thought de parties was agoin
And de dancing had begun;
And de ribbons was aflowin
In de breezes and de sun.
I thought I went down to a party,
In my trousers wid de stripe;
Dey had apple roily bolly,
And de mellon fine and ripe.
But I 'spects I was a dreamin
'Cause I ate de possum brain,
'Cause I walked down from de kitchin,
Wid my lassie, through de lane.
Listen to de winds a blowin
Howling like an angry beast
When he's powin and lowin
In de jungles at his feast.
THIRTY-NINE
The Joy of Contentment.
A light hearted lassie
Went by gayly skipping,
The morning was dark,
The clouds were still dripping;
A dusky hued maiden,
With cares of her casting;
Her sorrows came too,
But they never were lasting.
A light hearted lassie,
Her duties were binding;
She ever could smile,
When her labors were grinding;
She braved every storm,
When chiding was stinging;
And she bore many cares,
But still she went singing.
A light hearted lassie,
When neighbors were fretting;
She then did her best,
Misfortunes forgetting;
She never gives up,
For the world and its scorning;
The night may be dark,
She waits for the morning;
A lighthearted lassie,
When birds cease singing;
A sable browed maiden,
The sunshine is bringing.
Some heart is saddened,
O'ercome by its sorrows;
She'll touch it to-day,
'Twill be lighten'd tomorrow.
FORTY
A light hearted lassie,
When the world is asighing;
She may shed a tear,
Midst weeping and dying;
Her faith is not failing,
Her soul is aglow;
She heeds other's sorrows,
Their burdens and woe.
A light hearted maiden,
When toilings are ending,
The shadows are lengthen'd,
The sun is descending.
The light hearted damsel
Passed out as if sleeping,
Her neighbors are sighing,
And lov'd ones are weeping.
FORTY-ONE
The Evening of Life.
Hasting shadows! tarry long,
Till I end my latest song;
Song that whispers in my breast,
As a murmuring brook at rest.
Let me harp my humble lay,
Ere the sun has gone to stay,
Let me strike a favorite strain,
That will rob the soul of pain.
Hasting shadows! stay the night
May the heavens grant me light!
Light to chase the mist away,
Light that man may never stray,
From the path of duty's road,
Leading mortals up to God;
Till each one has done the right,
And the noon is lost in night.
Why should I not sing my song?
For the dawn may not be long;
A moment more for man to weep,
Then the soul is lulled to sleep.
Let me sing my song to-day,
As I battle in the fray,
While the muses harp at will,
And my lyre has its skill.
Now the burden of my song,
That will lighten human wrong,
'Tis not troubles mortals bear,
Nor the sorrows that they share,
Tis not poverty of hearth,
But the slights men meet in earth;
Tis the battle not yet won,
Though the evening has begun.
FORTY-TWO
The song is end'd with its strain,
Angels chant the sweet refrain;
Men may learn the song some day,
When the singer's passed away.
Listen well and catch the song,
Learn it, ere the night comes on,
When each one has done his best,
And the singer's gone to rest.
FORTY-THREE
An Emancipation Song.
We hail with joy the glorious day,
On which freedom was born,
The day that Lincoln touched the pen,
The freedman's brightest morn;
Many aged* sires, the beardless youth,.
Wept for joy at the news,
Many guiltless maidens, laddies too,
And the weeping mothers choose.
Chorus.
Hail we the happiest day of all,
The day to freedmans given
We'll come to duty and her call,
And fix our hopes on heaven,
Ten million join the chorus now,
Well done since freedoms dawn,
The battle fields slave-pens their wrongs,
Vanished 'neath freedom's morn.
Many dusky warriors bar'd their breast,
On t'altar of the race,
The broken hearted tell the rest,
How anguish left its trace;
Many dying comrades on the field,
Fought no more with their load,
Did not place the banner on yon fort,
They their cause report to God.
FORTY-FOUR
Drifting Along With the Tide.
O'er bosom of silv'ry stream
A lone boatman slowly went;
With furled sails, with idle oars
Thus his seasons were spent.
No point in view at which to land,
No tidings does he bring
But glides along as wounded birds
That nurse a broken wing.
He was drifting along with the tide,
Not driven fast by the wind;
O'er-awed with joy of the stream
To frenzy quite close akin.
Unconscious of rock-bound course,
This lord of leisure sails on,
Heeding not the rocks or shoals
But merriment, glee and song.
Said a boatman on the strand,
Whither does this frail bark^sail ?
What can she hope to do at sea,
When she meets an awful gale?
What will she do when near the Falls,
Midst danger and dread alarms?
Where breakers strong are merciless,
Controlled by death and her charms?
A hurricane, an angry wave;
The wreckage now fills the train,
Tells us the fate of a drifting bark,
Destroyed upon your main.
This life is but an ocean wide,
With many drifting o'er,
Drifting, drifting with the tides
To found on an unknown shore.
FORTY-FIVE
A Rule That Works Two Ways.
(The Negro's attitude toward Race Separation on
public carriers.)
On a railroad train in Dixie,
I took a ride one day
I did not feel so jolly then,
And didn't have much to say.
Just as the train was tooting,
The porter shouts "Aboard!"
The engine bell was ringing,
The sliding gang-way low'r'd.
Said the man, ' 'Your car is rearward,
I know you'll make no fuss,
For you know the situation,
'Twon't help to raise a muss."
I packed my "duds" together,
It did not take me long;
Had seen the sign up posted,
I could not hit it wrong.
I reached my place in silence,
And said, ' 'I know I'm right;"
But, yet, my car was crowded
And all of them were white.
I did not stop to question,
Soon found myself a seat,
Put up my evening paper,
And then I paused to peep.
A look of consternation
Was seen on every face,
They wondered that a Hamite
Should be in Japheth's place.
Then all looked up a moment,
As if to say within,
"We're not sure of our bearing,
We'd better read again."
FORTY-SIX
They looked up in the corner
And saw a card in red;
This settled all their doubting
And fixed facts in their head.
You should have seen them moving,
Their all, they took along;
It made me feel as jolly
As the singer of the song.
It made them feel right funny,
They had not much to say;
For that's a rule in Dixie
That works the other way.
Japheth hates this ruling—
His ox is being goad'd;
Let him but feel this burden,
How Ham must bear the load.
FORTY-SEVEN
Fate of the Aged.
When infant joys have faded,
When the cooing smile fled;
And a loving mother's kisses
Are numbered with the dead.
When youthful fads have vanished,
And manhood cares begun;
Then life begins in earnest
With toil from sun to sun.
When manhood in its splendor
Is taxed with failing fears;
Is crowned with deepest sorrow
Adorned in crystal tears.
When glistening fame and honor,
Have won for him his spurs,
Ignoble men, the noble,
Lavish on him cheers.
Then keenest disappointment,
And omens of decay
Mark their certain victim,
And chafe from day to day.
Recall unpleasant visions,
Faded long years ago;
Re-echo words of loved, ones
Who loiter on yon shore.
Second trembling childhood
Awaits us down the lane;
For kings, queens and paupers,
Gainst all, it stakes a claim.
FORTY-EIGHT
Old age we sometimes call it
'Tis the friend of awful fate,
'Twill blight one's fairest prospects
Brings failure to one's gate.
O misery and feebleness,
Ill-match'd and wretched mates,!
Thine a human heart tQ crush;
Enforce decrees of fate!
Ere long we cross mourning bars
And ride the reckless waves,
To linger upon broken spars
Then fill forgotten graves.
FORTY-NINE
The White Plague.
The rider speeds on with a scythe in his hand,
A cycle of slaughter, a scourge for the land;
Pale in his livery and rapid in chase,
Ten thousand have fallen, his mark on their face.
A reaper of mortals, of all climes and race,
In ages departed his footsteps we trace;
He breaks every family, blights coming youth,
Delusive, fanciful, concealing the truth.
As the vulture in treetops marks out his gaol,
A colt from the manger, a lamb from the fold;
So the reaper is partial, broods o'er the jam,
Selects for his victims the children of Ham.
He calls to his aid the strong drink the revel;
Feeds Hamites on chaff, device of the devil;
"Gents of loved leisure, in prison they slumber—
The White Plague still rages, decreasing our number.
More to be dreaded than armies of nations,
Earthquake, pestilence, Indian starvation;
These have some limit, restraining their arm,
The White Plague still rages a dark brooding storm.
He keeps a dark prison, his numbers are vast
His cells never empty, he fills them so fast;
The felon, the honored, the black leg, the knave,
Meet on a level in that prison, the grave.
Rise! valiant heroes!'put the foe to flight;
Wave victorious banners, muster to the fight;
Re-enforcements's coming, an army fierce, strong,
Join the charging cohorts, sing the victor's song.
FIFTY
An Evening Dream.
One day while quietly seated
In my lodgings on the lea,
While list'ning to the echoes,
That died upon yon sea,
A silent calm came o'er me,
In rapture awe it seem'd,
'Twas not a scene of earth so fair,
But visions or a dream.
Chorus.
The evening dream has vanish'd,—
The scene has faded now—
There is no chant from Heaven—
No garland'd victor's brow;
I long to view the Angels,
And hear their Heavenly strains,
To see them crown their victor,
And catch their sweet refrain.
Dying sun that lit the west,
Had left a crimson hue,
Surging waves with hoary crest,
Had died in silent blue,
In lofty notes I heard a chant,
I know not whence it came,
My soul aspir'd to greet the lay,
And learn the heav'nly strain.
Methought myself in Paridise,
For earth had vanished long,
The toils, tears of human souls,
Were lost in sweetest song.
Broken homes and bleeding hearts
All found a balm so fair,
Repenting sighs, midnight grief,
Each one claimed solace there.
FIFTY-ONE
Angels deck'd the victor's brow
In garlands of pure gold,
They sang his deeds to joy'ous throngs
All writ on Heaven's scroll;
Array'd in white, the hero's palms,
He walk'd the golden street,
Upon the crystal banks he stood,
His loved one there to greet.
I linger'd , I long'd to stay
Where flowers ever bloom,
Where there's no parting, and no sin,
No epitaphs, no tomb.
Angels bade me to return
Recross the crystal stream,
And battle 'gainst the ills of life,
'Twas but an evening dream.
FIFTY-TWO
There's Hope Beyond.
In the moments of our anguish,
When this earth has lost charm,
Midst the deepest human sorrow,
Near temptations dread alarm,
O'ercome by disappointments,
When our saddest hours dawn,
Doubt o'ercasts her gloomy shadows,
But at last, there's hope beyond.
When our dearest friends forsake us
And the grave is human goal,
When there is no word from mother,
To caress and cheer the soul,
When the dream'd and costly castles
Lie in wreckage at our feet,
Then the world can give no sunshine,
Yet there's hope for those who weep.
O'er the grave of buried friendship
And the tomb of broken vow
There may lie the loved of childhood
But their words are silent now.
We may listen at the Jordon,
For a message o'er the sea
Midst the wildest surging billow—
There is hope across the lea.
There is hope beyond my comrade
Just across the swelling tide,
Where the blessed love'd ones wait us
On the banks of streams so wide;
Yes, there's hope in some sweet relm,
Where the true hearts e'er abound,
With the holy and the spotless,
There is hope, there's hope beyond.
FIFTY-THREE
The Confession.
Wretched mortal prone to sin,
To break thy law, fall again;
My soul is restless as the sea,
Or waving grass upon the lea.
If justice would impose her right
Wield the power of her might,
I should be driven from thy face,
And step of fallen cherubs trace;
Those driven from the relms of light,
In awful darkness, dismal night.
If thou forsake me, O Divine,
Slight this mortal soul of mine,
Demons would become my friend,
Join me to their woeful end.
Naught is left me but thy grace,
Forget my sin and show thy face.
FIFTY-FOUR
At Rest.
[Tribute to my friend Captain Mills.]
Let him rest whose toils are done,
His warfare is o'er, victory's won;
No more the battle's bugle call;
No more shall earthly sorrows fall;
It is not death, the soul's release,
He is discharg'd and rests in peace;
He laid aside his sword and shield
And quits the scene, the battle field;
Against the foe, he's boldly striv'n,
The battle's done reward given.
FIFTY-FIVE
Forgiveness.
Man must forgive his brother
If he hopes to be forgiven,
And he should be relenting,
If his aim is fixed on heaven.
It is a holy city,
No sordid evils there;
Beings of perfect goodness,
Redeeming glory share.
Beings of holy vision,
Perfect in God's own way,
As Vigils of an army,
At heaven's entrance stay.
Passions of vile bodies
Are unknown in that place;
Beams of righteous living,
Adorn each blessed face.
Forgiving's one condition
That fits us for that home,
Men who live without it
Are never bidden come;
They would mar the peace of heaven
Who enter there with sin,
The King of love and goodness
Could never reign again.
Forgive and be forgiven,
Our brother may be wrong,
If he comes repenting,
Receive his prayer, his song;
To err is human weakness,
Forgiving is divine;
Forgive and be forgiven
Then heaven's surely thine.
FIFTY-SIX
Conscience.
One pleasant April ev'ning as the winds were whistling
past,
The tides were ebbing slowly and the sun was sinking
fast;
I sniffed the breath of flowers, along the hedges they
grew;
The sweetly smiling sunbeam was lost in azure blue.
Twas Springtime down in Dixie, with the robin on the
wing;
The laddies and the lassies, were wont to romp and
sing.
I started on a journey; chose rather land than sea;
And as we cross'd the trussle, the clouds were chasing
me.
I was no fleeing convict escaping from the right,
Nor had I broken precepts mid darkness of the night;
And yet they chas'd and chas'd me till almost out of
breath,
Till clouds were faint and weary and I was nigh to
death.
The flowers blushed in protest, the sighing winds gave
vent,
They would not join the chasing nor give their own
consent;
The sunbeams smiled in anguish, and veil'd their face
in haze,
The timid bashful streamlets looked on in great amaze.
FIFTY-SEVEN
The Knightly winds were angry and came to my de¬
fence,
They hurled a charging phalanx, the conflict had
commence;
The winds pressed into service the blinding dust and
smoke,
They clinched in deadly combat, and fought but never
spoke.
Thus men are chas'd by conscience, can not escape,
their fate,
Are driven to repentance before it is too late;
The image of their follies brings to them remorse,
The only refuge for them, is found within the cross.
FIFTY-EIGHT
A Blighted Flower.
A tiny bud was seen to struggle 'gainst the fiercest
winds,
Against the angry storm it seemed to strive in vain;
Fate seemed to plot against it to blight its strongest
claim,
To threaten sure destruction if it ever strove again.
So noble was that species and the clime that gave it
birth,
It seemed akin to heaven, a stranger to our earth;
A sunbeam smiled upon it and kissed it with good cheer,
It then blushed into beauty, and bloomed that very year.
Alas! that bloom is blighted, and a sadness fills the
air;
And all the neighboring flowers bowed in deep despair;
The bud has fill'd its mission though it never bloomed
in full;
Twasbut a bud of beauty, that the gardner plants pull.
It left the sweetest fragrance a perfume very rare,
That other buds which linger may imitate and share;
The other buds of promise, these buds so close akin,
Will weep around the altar and seek their loved again.
FIFTY-NINE
Dixie.
I love thee fair Southland, forever
Midst struggles, privations and toil,
Thy great men are famous and clever,
And I was lately born on thy soil.
I love thee for shelter then given,
When the shackles of thraldom fell loose,
When the honor of Dixie was riven,
Men dwelled under a white flag of truce.
I love thee, I love thee fair Dixie,
With a heart, with a soul, with a will,
Though fettered denied of our privilege,
Thou fair land I love thee so still.
Dear Dixie! fair Dixie! land of my birth,
The land where our sires have bled,
Thy name, thy honor, thy fame, fill earth,
In thee lies the ashes of our dead.
What gives the right to call thee our land,
Our asylum of refuge our home?
The sweat of our brow, the toil of our hand,
Give us a birthright, and make thee our own.
In each conflict we have stood by thy side,
And fought like a Trojan with a will,
As balance of power, we oft turn the tide,
In battle, at the hoe, at the mill.
Down in our hearts we love the old flag,
Our hope, our Mecca, and our trust,
Whenever thou callest us there's no lag—
Give us protection, treat our sons just.
In union tis best we should live,
As brothers in black, and in white,
Our help and sympathy give,
Set up one standard, let all do the right.
SIXTY
The shadows of night have an ending,
The brightness of morning does shine,
The rivers and rills are descending,
The landscapes are made more divine;
Thus shadows and shades of our Dixie,
Shall vanish, the morning will down,
The sorrows and shame of oppression,
Shal bring forth a day newly born.
SIXTY-ONE
A Rural Song.
The autumn days in Dixie
Of beauty rare are shorn,
The russet leaves are falling,
The winds as mortals mourn;
The bashful streams in shyness,
Are gliding through the dale,
The rubish of the woodland,
Consent to join the trail.
The yard dog's bark is pleasing,
The raven cries in fear,
The autumn birds are chirping,
The hunter's notes ring clear.
The rustic son of toiling,
Is happy with his wares,
The land-lord, church and parson,
Will come in for their shares.
The cypress trees are bowing,
As mourners for the dead,
As bearers of the casket,
With stately solemn tread;
Majestic pines are guarding,
As sentries on their beat,
That sound the pealing tocsin,
For battle or retreat.
Persimmon trees are bowing,
Beneath a cumbrous load,
The possum steals his dainties,
And skulks along the road.
There's ample from the vintage,
To serve the rural knight,
There's plenty from the harvest,
To give him brawn and might.
SIXTY-TWO
The autumn days in Dixie
Have faded, and the bloom
Of modest humble flowers,
Has lost its rich perfume.
The bashful brooks are silent,
The autumn vine at rest,
Reclining on the bosom,
A patient mothers breast.
SIXTY-THREE
The Warrior's Soliloquy.
On every field of battle
Midst the blinding smoke of strife
Mid the fury of the cannon
Where the conflict is most rife,
Will I ever turn the traitor
Let sacred colors trail;
With the master's eyes upon me
Will I do my best or fail?
On the field of homan struggle,
When the bugle blast is blown,
Where heroes are still falling
In their garments rent and torn.
Will I falter in the fighting
Will I throw aside my shield,
Let my comrades do the battle
While I scamper from the field.
Let men call me a coward,
And say I will not fight,
I don't possess the courage
To dare and do for right.
They say my faults are many
I'll loose the cause in hand
That I am most unworthy
That I won't obey command.
Men often miss in judging
As the runner in the race,
Can't always read the secrets
In the outlines of ones face;
Yet they give decisions
As the wisest in the land,
Know not the heart of nature,
How can they understand.
SIXTY-FOUR
Now if I can but struggle
Against the odds of earth,
No heritage from ancestors,
No genius in my birth;
If I should win in battle,
Ascend the mount of fame,
Men will mark my courage,
And records scroll my name.
SIXTY-FIVE
Springtime.
Blades of grass with life are teeming,
Streamlets join the cheerful song,
Springtime burst upon our vision,
As the infant newly born;
Fragrant flowers deck our pathway,
Flung along by nature's hand,
Like the innocence of angels,
Grace and beautify our land.
Pelting raindrops come in phalanx
Like some army on a charge,
Sprinkling flower's in baptism,
Bring out beauties, fame enlarge.
Vanquished winter not disheartened,
Soon reclaims what he has lost,
Planning treachery every moment,
Soon will robe the grass in frost.
SIXTY-SIX
The Departed.
Weep not for him whose radiant splendor lingers as
the noonday sun,
Who has won the garland in life's conflict, and whose
race is fully run.
In thy sorrow and in sadness let thy faith pierce
through the gloom,
Look to heaven for thy loved one, noble spirits cling
not to the tomb.
If on earth, he cheer'd the lowly with true kindness
and with tender care,
God called him to a hero's fadeless joys, angels crown
him there.
If to hope he raised the hopeless, converted too the
faltering youth,
Thou shalt meet him on the banks of Eden why he left
thee, learn indeed the truth.
SIXTY-SEVEN
The Mystery.
I am a stranger in the earth to which I came,
Without my will or pleading for a place like this,
Whence I came is all unknown and lost in mystery.
No one knew me in this earth until one vernal morn,
The last lines of mist had left the hazy west,
And bashful nature smiled neath flooding light,
That kissed the velvet bloom the lilac bud,
That climbed the hill desended wooded dale,
To greet the smiling brook and join its rural chant,
And chase the bashful rill, toward the open sea.
The union of a happy pair was blessed when I was sent.
Can it be that I have liv'd and roamed the world,
And spent a thousand years to make my way in earth.
As men who roam from port to port cargo to discharge ?
Why was I sent to live where friends are false to each ?
Where selfish rulers sway and fills the world with
shame ?
Where passion like the raging stream overflood its
banks?
Men wreck the lives of other men at will,' there's
no complaint,
Where weeping, sorrows, grief and pain, are given as
decrees
Where death the reaper lurks around to hurry mortals
off.
Millions yet shall join his ranks and bow at his behest;
Lo Waterloo, Gettysburg, and all the bloody fields of
slain,
Are but a portion of the relm so vast the host he claims
How will earth go when I am gone to join recruiting
ranks ?
When mustered from the battle's din at eventide?
The infant's cry will still be heard, they will still be
here,
Still upon the tiny cheek the cooing smile is hung.
Men will succeed and men, will fail as now they do;
SIXTY-EIGHT
Sordid passion fill some soul, there will be noble men,
Disdaining wrong promoting good and lifting mortals
up.
Men will come to take my place and better do my task
Than I could ever hope to do, though I have done my
best.
Honors that we win today, will be forgotten then;
For other men will grace the list the world shall know
their name,
The world will never stop, though I should leave at
morning,
Or noon, or night, a thousand years may pass,
The the world moves on just as if I had never lived
on earth.
SIXTY-NINE
Sambo's Trip To Yankee Land.
I sure is gwine to Boston,
The black mail's Beaulah Land;
Gwine take dat shoofly engine,
And ride da like a man. •
Sho gwine to leave old Dixie,
Ain't neber gwine come no mo
I's gwine where Sam's got carpet
And do bell on de do.
I's done got to Boston,
Wha black folks make de cash,
Da ain't no chance for Jim Crow;
Aint gwine lib on trash.
Done got so cold in Boston,
De winds am blowin a breeze,
Tain't like down in Dixie,
Good Lord, I's bout to freeze.
Can't get no job for nothin,
Done walked from end to end,
No one done spoke to Sambo.
Wha am dem Yankee friend?
Done spend all money I brung here,
Ain't got nothin fer to do;
My clothes am thin and ragged,
And de snow done full my shoe.
Sam don't like dese changes;
Knows I goes wha I please,
De folks so cold and stingy
Dey puts me ill at ease.
Dey makes tend dey so sorry,
Dat Sam can't get no job.
'Don't fall in the hands of sharpers,
Den learn to steal and rob."
SEVENTY
Don't cite me Yankee kindness,
Dey say cuss words neath dey breath'
Dey fill you up on sweetness,
Den let you starve to death.
Dey ain't done nothin to help me
To be an honest man;
Sam gwine to leave dese folks;
Gwine back to Dixie Land.
Now Sam gwine stay in Dixie,
Wha white folks knows me best,
Wha I can get some labor,
From de sunshine have some rest;
Wha I kin pull de melon,
So sweet and fresh and fine;
Kin drop my hoe in de gyarden,
And make right straight for de vine.
SEVENTY-ONE
The World Is Full of Sunshine.
The azure haze has faded,
The mist has rolled away,
The morning birds are singing,
Just aft the peep of day.
The ocean waves receeding,
• Their plaintive song we hear;
The earth is always teeming,
With sunshine and good cheer.
The world is full of sunshine,
Though shadows cross our way,
The sunshine is forever,
The gloom must pass some day,
Just as the wildest echo,
Must spend its force and pass,
When sunshine comes with smiling,
The clouds must fade at last.
The shades may fall at evening,
May fill our earth with gloom,
The sunbeams dance at morning,
Midst flowers in their bloom;
The verdant grain will ripen,
Man may dismiss his pain,
The world will soon be brighten'd,
When sunshine comes again.
There's sunshine in the homestead,
There's gladness in earth's soil,
When twilight fades at evening,'
There's sweetness in man's toil.
Misfortunes come to mortals,
They do not last for aye,
When earth is full of sunshine,
The gloom must pass away.
SEVENTY-TWO
When The Robins Nest Again.
In the month of merry June,
Birds chirped their wedding tune
We were seated on the lawn,
Near the cot where she was born;
I asked her if she knew,
That she promised to be true;
Then her cheeks grew slowly red,
As these words she softly said.
When the robins nest again,
You won't love your Mary Anne,
She may love you then in vain;
You will cause her heart to pain.
And you may doubt her too,
And deny that she was true,
You will not love me then
When the robins nest again.
She sighed when she thought
A reason I had sought,
To scorn her simple youth,
To doubt her love and truth;
She said my love was false,
And my hand to her was lost;
No never would she wed
Since my love to her was dead.
Many years have rolled away,
Since the fatal parting day;
Her hair is silvr'y grey'd,
And her beauty has decayed,
Her form is slightly bent,
Her life is well nigh spent;
She has loved me and was true,
But her heart I never knew.
SEVENTY-THREE
In a village near my home,
One day I chanced to roam,
There at the altar bowed
A silent weeping crowd;
There in a narrow space,
Lay her lifeless smiling face,
I'm old and helpless now,
But I rue that broken vow.
SEVENTY-FOUR
The Christian Knight.
The pilgrim was knighted a man of the cross,
To forward its conquest and seek out its lost,
He was given a charger, a sword and a shield,
A helmet for service, and placed on the field-
He woke from his reverie, as a Mid-Summer dream,
And thought o'er the vision, in slumber he'd seen.
He fixed in his mem'ry the scenes that remain
And buried in silence, he then dreamed again.
He spied in the distance, a mountain so tall,
Shrouded in mystery and as black as a pall,
There patriarchs, prophets, in long, dark parade,
All hasten to the mount and their homage paid.
'Twas blood on the altar, of pigeon and dove,
Smoke of sweet incense was ascending above.
These types and these shadows, all left an impress,
And foretold periods when man should have rest.
'Tis the sound of a trumpet! the pilgrim roused,
He recalls his oath, and the cause he espoused.
With an untarnished armor, fresh to the fray,
He charged for the enemy, scarce an arm's length away.
They clinched and a clatter of arms rang out,
The shock was terrific when the saint met the scout.
A glittering of shields against the bright sun,
A beaming of spears, ere the conflict was done.
The struggle was awful, the sight was sublime,
Like the moonbeams of winter that ghastly shine,—
The Sir Knight is wounded and fatal his end,
There paleness and crimson in harmony blend.
SEVENTY-FIVE
The Sir Knight falls wounded, he utters a prayer,
His heart's filled with anguish almost to despair.
Repenting his folly, commits all to God,
Knowing his own weakness, he leans on the Lord.
Far, far in the distance, another mount stood,
Hallowed and crowded, though crimson with blood.
The poor trembling sinner, no offering to give,
Looked from Mount Sinai to Calvary and lived.
Many then were knighted, and they made a great
throng,
They pointed to Calvary and raised a great song.
All glory to Jesus, who died for us all,
To redeem our breth'ren and race from the fall.
SEVENTY-SIX
The Penitents Confession.
I have wandered from my Lord,
I have failed to trust his word;
My crimes and guilt are very great,
They sink me as a mighty weight;
So very frail and weak am I,
When my Saviour is not nigh;
Oft have I thy spirit grieve,
Come Lord! my guilty soul relieve,
Come Lord Jesus! if thou wilt,
Free my burdened soul from guilt,
Free me through thy loving grace,
Let me behold thy smiling face..
I am so weak, thou art so strong,
Let me sing the victors song,
How I long to break sin's chain,
All my efforts have been vain.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Ole Virginia.
Wake up Liza! its a snowin,
And de ground is cohered white;
You done laid da and been snorin,
All this lib long blessed night.
Thought yous said it wasn't cloudy,
When I called you from de do,
Oo, oo! ain't dat wind got roudy,
And I must run up to de stor.
Hurry Bill! don't lay da prankin,
Everything is upside down,
Make aste Sal you needs a spankin,
Go fetch a black log from de barn.
Philip whar'd you put them matches
Dat I gib you on de street?
Wake up boy don't stand da scratchin
I clare, if he aint fast asleep.
Libby whar's dat fat pine rosin,
Sammy fetch'd home from de barn?
Who is all daf racket causin?
Turn quick gal! don't stand and yarn
Run Nic see what Sue is bringin!
From de barn in dat ole can,
Hurry boy don't stand da grinin
You must think yousef a man.
Liza! aint dat dodger burnin?
What made you put it on the hearth ?
Look hyre, old ma, stop dat singin
You's no count upon dis erth.
Rastus! Rastus! call dem chickins,
.From de barn and from de creek;
Let 'em git dis mornin pickins,
Tse gwine to sell 'em all next week.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Hurry gals don't stand da peepin,
You knows yous dady ought to ate,
If you want to see some creepin,
Just let my breakfast be some late.
Ha! ha! Pet look dar runnin
Like de debil's ater him,
I tell you Tom, aint he comin?
Bless my soul it's my dog Tim!
Daddy said we might go gunnin,
While dis har snow is on the groun;
Dont guess de ole man was a funnin,
You take Tim, and me de houn.
Run in Pet! and git dat powder
Bring dat kickin musket too,
I'll fill her up, gee whiz, I'll crowd her
Den she'll go off vim, vip, voo.
Look dar Peter what dat settin
In dat rotten hollow tree?
I can't guess yet, but reckin,
I kin run down dar and see.
Thunderation! its a daisy,
It's a har gum I declar!
If dis aint luck call me crazy,
Pull dat dor up! yon a hare.
Pet, hyre Tim! cotch him Bruno'
Don't gib dat buckeye any show,
Why didn't I fotch along old Juno.?
She 'ould done had him long ago
I knowed you was a fool kine darky,
You haint got one spoon of sense,
I told you 'stinkly pull de trigger
You don sat upon dat fense.
Look har Tom I takes no bother.
I dont take no darky lip;
I'll let you know you aint my dady
Don't think I let dat ole hare slip
SEVENTY-NINE
Just a Faded Rose.
I plucked a rose one day in June,
Twas not a bud, an open'd bloom;
A little blighted, faded too,
It told of worthy deeds so true;
It told a hero's life so brave,
Twas from an humble unmark'd grave.
It told of virtues all unknown
That rose above the world's dread scorn
It told the battles that he fought,
The kind of service that he wrought;
It told of sad hearts left behind,
Of words oft spoken so unkind.
The grave has open'd for the clay,
And he is muster'd from the fray;
The roll is call'd, rewards are given
He's safe amid the throngs of heaven.
EIGHTY
Nearing the Tomb.
When all the sorrows of this life,
When all its toils are done,
Though man has risen as the stars,
As radiant as the sun;
Like dying echoes of a voice
Or quick receeding wave
His beauty gone, his force is spent,
Man must approach the grave.
Like flowers in their fullest bloom,
Or cadences of song;
Men vanish from the paths of life
None stay so very long.
The earth will plead their wasting frame
The perfect form she gave;
She knows the fates will urge her claim,
Man must approach the grave.
Then feeble limbs diluting eye
Scarce teeth, scarce every thing;
The raven locks have long since gray'd
Frame shakes like slender strings;
Tis true of men of every rank,
If they be lords or slave,
What e'er their lot where'er they be
They must approach the grave.
The tombs the place where thou shalt rest
With men of native soil;
Free from the sting of sland'rous tongue,
Free from the grime of toil.
Thy failures and thy faults though rife
Ambition and its crave
Shall quit thee when life's day is done
And thou approach the grave.
EIGHTY-ONE
The grave holds secrets in its breast
The world will never know,
Of sorrow, crimes, repentence too,
Of great men and the low.
O grave! the friend the foe to men;
Some love, some call thee knave,
The infant, maid and matron all,
Will join thee in the grave.
EIGHTY-TWO
The Man of Honest Toil.
The busy sons of mother earth, are many in the race
The lord, the slave, the man of toil each fills his given
place;
Sometimes upon palacial thrones in gilded halls or hut,
Bach man must hoe his chosen row, there is no shorter
cut;
Tomorrow they must do again just what they did today
Some for honor, some for gold, and some for lesser pay.
The kings, the great, the favor'd few, have gold, have
honor fame,
Some humble souls have scarce a crust, men rarely lisp
their name;
The brave of earth is still forgot, and often they are
spurn'd;
The pauper's brother to the king, this lesson all should
learn.
The toiling man should have a chance ,be given better
fare,
The earth has blossom'd as a rose and he has done his
share;
No honor here for sons of toil but just across the stream
All his cares and tears are gone, he wakes in lands of
dream,
The gates of pearl ope wide to him, and angels hearld
his name,
Millions bow before him now, confess their debt, his
claim,
Chanting cherubs sing his deeds, for these the first to
know,
Profusing honors on his brow, his humble deeds adore.
EIGHTY-THREE
The Penitents Prayer.
At early dawn, I heard one pray
In plaintive pleading tones;
Poured forth the anguish of his soul
In deep pathetic groans.
My sin is great, my crimes are vast
I have spurn'd thy grace;
Unworthy though I be, I come
To seek thy loving face.
0 grant me pardon as before,
This I have not deserved;
1 have wandered from thy fold
And passion's idols served.
Unless to thee I come by faith,
Who shall my sin forgive?
O! who shall wash my guilt away
That I may look and live.
Naught but thy grace can satisfy
Can give me strength to fight,
To wage the battle gainst the foe,
And stand against his might.
Let angels guide me as I walk
Each moment of the day,
Let saint'd loved ones linger near
O'er all my thoughts sway.
Suffus'd my eyes with penitent tears,
Tears that unbidden flow;
Tears wept in secret from the world
Tears of distress and woe;
My tears alone are not enough
To wash my guilt away,
I need the cleansing of thy blood,
For this I plead, I pray.
EIGHTY-FOUR
My pledges I have given thee
But broken every one,
Like foot prints on the driven snow
That fade neath morning sun;
Again once more I vow to thee
To live and do the right;
Help me to make my promise good
And rally for the fight.
Sweet is my peace how can I stray
Far from the shepherd's fold?
Off on the barren mount away
Midst winter's bleak and cold?
Calm and serene my soul shall rest
As shades of silent night;
Thou hast pardoned I am free,
My darkness turn'd to light.
EIGHTY-FIVE
When the Day is Done.^
The ev'ning sun is setting
The day is fading fast;
The dews of night are falling
Upon the verdant grass;
The cricket's chirp is music
The night birds join the tune;
The dusky maid and lover,
Are strolling neath the moon.
The dayman's toil is ended,
His heart is light and gay;
His steps are homeward turning,
Just at the close of day.
The good wife comes to greet him
While children romp and play;
For labor's cares are ended,
Just at the closing day.
The warriors cease their charging
And tent upon the fields,
The cannon's boom is silent,
Men sheathe their swords, hang shields.
They sleep amidst the carnage
Of men they wont to slay;
They dream of home and loved ones,
Just at the close of day.
The sailor reefs his canvass
As a mother folds her child
He sleeps upon the ocean,
Midst tempest fierce and wild.
The surging waves are restless,
Now evening has begun;
Nature's lamps are burning
The day is ready d<3ne.
EIGHTY-SIX
The house wife's task is ended;
" She wears her newest gown,
She fondles baby Johnnie,
Hi§ infant prattles drown;
She meets her brave companion
Whose heart she's ready won;
The hearth and home are happy
Whene'er the day is done.
The twilight fades in beauty
Just as the autumn rose;
The moon beams fall in splendor,
On waves o'er distant shores:
The fragrant autumn flowers,
Are blushing into bloom;
The day at last has ended
But left a rich perfume.
May this life close in beauty
When human ills are done.
When pilgrimage is ended,
And life is fully run.
May earth forget our follies,
For ages lisp our name,
The tomb may hide our failures,
And the good outlive our shame.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Ode to Evening.
The toiler quits his labor,
And lays his craft aside,
He parts with boon companions,
Their follies and their pride;
All disperse like streamlets
Whose missions differ wide
As the evening zephyrs
Or swift receeding tides.
O'er trodden hills and vallies
He hastens on his way,
The evening stars are watching
The closing of the day.
The fields are heavy ladened
The brawny rural son
Lays aside his reaping,
The toil at last is done.
The house dog romps with pleasure
With children on the lawn;
They frolic neath the twilight
Like visions' newly born.
The toiler's heart is lighten,
As he wends his homeward way;
He thinks of waiting loved ones,
Just at the close of day.
The steeple clock is ticking,
A faithful task is done;
It warns man of the seasons
And the hours of the sun;
Like the honest miller
Who has no favored ones
It warns each weary mortal,
When e'er the day is done.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Each thoroughfare is crowded
A motley crew goes by;
All these one mother's children,
And dwell beneath the sky;
Each seeks his own comfort,
A cot, his daily bread;
Soon all must cease their toiling, .
And slumber with the dead.
Along the narrow by-path,
Just down the wooded lane,
The wife and little lassie,
Now greet their sire again;
Relate to him their sorrows,
And now they pass away
For papa's home from grinding
Just at the close of day.
Homes on earth are visions,
Of the homes that wait above,
Of the family circle
That lives in perfect love.
Soon we shall cease our labors
Like other sons of lust,
Earth will greet our bodies,
And the tomb will claim our dust.
Like the feast of ancients
In bronz'd and brazen halls,
Men shall there assemble,
Oppress'd, oppressor, all;
And each shall greet his brother,
The pauper, lord or king;
Then in a song of triumph,
All men shall join and sing.
EIGHTY-NINE
Ode to a Child.
She gave me a picture of her dear little self
A miniature lady a sweet tiny elf,
With brow like an angel and raven like curl,
A creature of heaven destin'd for that world.
A dimpled cheek lassie in fast sable hue,
A mate for the angels innocent and pure,
Her smile was all sunshine refreshing divine,
It came as sweet zephyrs from far distant climes.
To greet her one moment was just like a dream,
Or visions of heaven in slumber oft seen.
I took the maid's picture, I look at it now,
A life of true purity in secret I vow.
A smile lit my face, not one word was spoken;
A thought filled my soul of the pledges I've broken.
NINETY
After All We are Only Men.
Skillful men of master minds,
Great Trojans in the fight,
Lords, emperors of our kind,
Heroes and kings of might,
Hopeful prospects in this life
Destin'd to immortal end.
Our failures and our faults are rife
For we are naught but men.
Like glist'ning gems, polish'd steel,
Diamonds in beauty rare;
Tis ours to shine on chosen fields,
In great or small affair.
T'j fanciful, fondest vice
Each mortal does attend;
For glory pay highest price,
For we are only men.
Constructing castles is our theme,
At this we do our best;
Near some riv'let sylvan stream,
On dreamland height we rest.
In gorg'ous hues rainbow tint,
The basest passions trend,
To duplicate heroes dint
For we are naught but men.
On fields of glory oft we stand,
Brilliant titles earn;
Marshall hosts at our command,
Most artful lessons learn.
The world is dazzled at our fame,
Our victories command;
On brazen tablets gild the name,—
That fails like mortal men.
NINETY-ONE
Then arise more serious thoughts,
Of failing manhood, death;
Decay in every fiber wrought,
We live on borrowed breath.
Our hearts are sicken'd mid the gloom,
Where shall the future end,
Marching forward to the tomb
The fate of mortal men.
NINETY-TWO
Ode to Melancholy.
There are sad conditions that men must undergo,
Some are soon forgotten others long endue;
Some will pass like dewdrops mingled with the dawn,
Others always linger until the peep of morn.
One is born of failure, or melancholy's pain,
Some are born of friendship that passes as the rain;
Each one comes on missions to lord and slave the same
Flinging umbrageous shadows o'er honored name.
No music in her chanting, no magic in her touch;
She' comes in forms ungainly despised so very much.
Who courts melancholy? a helpless hopeless guide,
Faithless in her pledges, as changing as the tide.
Go view her fallen, altars none worship at her shrine
Long throneless and long vanquished she seeks the
human mind.
NINETY-THREE
The Penitent.
A pilgrim once bow'd at the altar and kneel'd,
With a heavy heart and a burdened soul;
He showed true repentance from a heart unsealed;
His brow soon disclosed an agony untold.
His step was so stately his tread as devout,
As cedars of Lebanon, a Judge of the land,
He carried an ensign a cross very stout,
He prayed at the altar and there took a stand.
O'ercome by the tempter for pardon he does seek,
With remorse with repentance and in tears;
Unfaithful shepherd for mercy he does speak,
That heaven may pardon assuaging his fears.
NINETY-FOUR
Forsaken Tomb.
Angels sing the stars shine bright,
The earth has waken'd into.light;
Rippling rills and gentle bird
Make their sweetest music heard.
Tis Easter day we shout and sing,
The risen Lord is Christ our king;
Angels roll the stone away,
The greedy tomb has lost its prer.
Easter lillies white and pure,
From them sweetest fragrance flow;
Happy child skip and play,
Violets bloom tis Easter day.
Weeping women at the tomb,
Mistake the Lord amid their gloom,
Bow in anguish of defeat,
Amazing sight for Christ they meet!
The risen Christ in garments stain'd,
Conquered death broke his aim,
Teach the pilgrims they shall rise,
To dwell in mansions of the skies.
Tomb's forsaken Christ has gone,
Rose on earth Easter morn;
Join'd the angels in their song,
Quit the grave at Easter dawn.
NINETY-FIVE
At Easter Dawn.
Watchman what of the hour so long mighty darkness
doth reign,
Have death and the tomb all power , will the conqueror
burst his chain?
Twas the promise from Eden given a conquering
king should come,
Would bruise the head of the monster, to win the
pilgrim home.
Hope! hope is no stranger to the child of the king,
The Lord of glory has risen angels his message bring;
They tell of his splendid triumph over the demon that
fell
Open the gates of our prison, drag down the powers
of hell.
Long wait benighted pilgrim, saved by "The Sign of
the Cross",
To hear the glad tidings of mercy, salvation has come
to the lost.
They hear the triumphant stories, of Christ who burst
the dark tomb
To free us from death and its terrors, dispersing their
sorrow and gloom.
Soon the darkness will vanish o'er hills of Palestine
Where angels sing their sweetest chants lowly shep¬
herds are seen,
Hark there comes a sweet message out from distant
prison,
Go tell my disciples and Peter that Christ the Lord is
risen.
NINETY-SIX
An Ode to The Ocean.
The silent sea in slumber wrapped -lost in sweetest
dream,
A friend to rivulets crescent rills a refuge for the stream
Myriads sport upon thy strand thy music seems to
charm,
Angry waves, destructive winds are thine amid the
storm.
What is thy charm that wins the gay, the mariner, the
great ?
What is thy craze decoying men and what is thy
victim's fate?
The orphan's cry the widow's need fall upon thine ear,
The victims tear the hero's plea and yet thou never
hear.
Thy wares are safe, the hoarded gold, beneath the
roaring deep
A thousand fathoms may unfold the hidden crimes
thou keep,
Crimes of bloodshed, done for gain for crimes with
thee are rife,
Crimes of dishonor and of shame, crimes of eternal strife.
In thy deluding realm is kept a dungeon foul dark;
A thousand nobles fill her cells a thousand victims
marked;
Round thine alters at thy shrines a nations brave
hearts bow,
To check thy greed take back thy gain, a people's
heroes vow.
A thousand pages gilded well, thy entries do unfold,
Thy tarnished records of the past and deeds of blood
untold;
Ten thousand sirs 'brace the sleep that never knows
a morning,
They slumber upon narrow cots to wait the final
warning.
NINETY-SEVEN
What is thy task; O treacherous sea, what joy art thou
bringing ?
What comfort or what sorrows thine as onward thou
go singing ?
Heed the moaning hearts of earth for each one has its
sorrow.
Haste thou the sleeping sol to rouse fling sunshine on
tomorrow,
To some thou gave a watery couch now they lie re¬
clining ;
The long moaned for, the honored sirs for whom men
are repining;
Mingled with an honored train, their footsteps still
receeding,
They sleep with slaves with serfs and lords, of ill or
noble breeding.
NINETY-EIGHT
Nature's Decrees.
Stern nature issues her decree to men who come to
earth
As ling'ring lays of songs, be their stay so very brief,
As bashful sunbeam smiling upon cheeks so fair,
Or humming birds that flitting but a moment on the
flagrant bloom.
Whither be their lot midst gilded halls with regal state
and pomp,
Or in a hovel where the lonely hermit dwells till free ¬
dom comes by death;
To every son stern nature issures her divine decree.
Each man is tested by his power to stand or yield;
From infants morn to manhood's setting sun, the eve
of mortal life.
Tis his to front the fray to heed the bugle's call to arms;
To face the foe amid the galling strife of bloody war.
Thou mayst be wounded on the field be driven from
the ranks,
Ere victory's wrought for thee against the foe of might
Stern nature may decree that smitten thou should be.
That life should quit thy frame as the ebbing tide at
noon or night;
Men will list thy death among the unknown brave
that fall;
And loved ones never find thy grave thy last repose.
Forsooth a polished shaft may mark thy gra\Te, the
sacred spot,
When time grows old and feeble and his head is hoary
as the frost,
■ Then Progeny will write thy greatest deeds on honor's
scroll.
This the edict nature has sent forth to realms of mortal
men,
Unchanging as the laws of Persians and the warlike
Medes,
Not one escapes the judgment of decreeing fates,
Not e'en the hardy son of toil or son of regal grace.
The sycophant the idler, all shall heed decrees of fate.
N/METY-XINE
Submission.
There was a sound of weeping by night
When the angel of death hover'd low;
O'er the quiet home once happy and bright,
And a badge of mourning drap'd the door.
A mother's farewell, father's goodbye
Now break the long silence of night;
Death smites the sweetest bloom of home,
Tis God's way, it can not be but right.
They bow, will not murmur at his will
Out of sorrow, and its deepest gloom,
For they remember in their choosing
They always pluck the rare sweetest bloom.
God gave us these to dwell in human sight
Let him come and pluck his own delight.
ONE HUNDRED
Virginia.
Three hundred years have faded
Since we first took this soil,
First landed on the Chespeake
To suffer die or toil.
To colonize a forest,
That blossoms as a rose,
To plant a home of freedom
To grace the Western shores.
Hail to our great Columbus,
And to this favored land,
Hail to our great Raleigh,
And Smith the mighty man.
Hail to the greatest progress,
Of our dear Dixie land,
See our nation's commerce,
That brightens every strand.
We struggle with the red men,
At morning, noon and late,
A thousand gallant heroes
Suffered cruel fate.
We faced great hardships, famine
And the grimest monster death,
To found a noble lineage,
To breathe the freeman breath.
Our blessed old Virginia,
A modern Paradise!
The home of honest toilers,
And men of all device.
The greatest home in Dixie,
For justice and fair play,
Her fame is moving nations,
Her banners high to-day.
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE
From ashes of our fathers,
Who perished on the stream,
There comes our old Dominion,
Excells our fondest dream;
Cities in their greatness,
That rival every land,
That lift their dome to heaven,
They rise at our command.
America's native daughter,
The first our fate to share,
The first to bless the nation,
The "Tat" Virginia Dare;
She was a queen so noble,
Her blood has left its trace,
The founder of the nation,
The mother of our race.
There is no North, no South to-day,
Men of a signle blood,
We bridg'd the chasm with our life,
Now work for common good;
We'll never let the banner fall,
Or trail ignoble dust,
We'll crown the land with garlands fair,
Uphold the good the just.
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO
The Harvest is Ready.
The fields are white with harvest,
That should be reaped to-day,
The golden grain is scattered,
Neath the sunlight's beaming ray;
O come and glean ye reapers,
For the Master calls us all;
Thrust in now thy sickle,
And heed his earnest call.
The fields are white with harvest,
The laborers are few,
They linger by the way side,
And say there's time to do.
Still the Master's calling,
Come there's work for you,
For there is no tomorrow,
And the reaper's passing through.
The work is for the Savior,
A rich reward he'll give;
Come and join the reapers,
And for the conqueror live;
Labor for the fallen
His jewels precious fair;
Then at the coronation,
His glory thou shalt share.
ONE HUNDRED AND THREE
Mountain Scenes and Pleasures.
At twilight on a queenly eve;
On a village near the hills,
The shadows flung from summit high
Had crept o'er every sill.
The azure sky with crimson cheek,
Was decked in jewels rare,
Honored sires held their rank,
Forgetting toil and care. .
A maiden mother graced the hearth,
' Of every charming home,
Who guides the feet of infant's joys,
Within and without that home.
Tis truly joyous when alone,
A family spends its heart,
When father, mother, children, all
Are wont to share a part.
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
Life.
What is life without its battles?
Tis a sea without her storms,
Or a by-path without danger,
Robs the chasing of its charms.
Life would not be life in earnest,
If there were no hills to climb,
If there were no disappointments
And no brevity of time.
If there were no fording rivers,
And no mid-night with its gloom,
If there were no separation,
And no journey to the tomb.
Life would not be life in earnest
If the maiden never sighed,
If the pious and the holy
Never swerved as the tide,
If the path of life were thornless,
And the flowers ever bloom,
If our labors were not grinding,
As the toilers at the loom.
Life would not be life in earnest
If birds would always sing,
If the landscapes always gladden,
As they, do at birth of Spring.
If the morning of our childhood,
And the noon-time of our fame,
And the evening shades of manhood,
Were all sunshine just the same.
Life would not be life in earnest,
If some efforts were not vain;
Both our pleasures and our follies,
Could be gathered without pain;
If each mortal knew his weakness,
And each creature found his mate,
Could forecast each disappointment,
And could thwart decrees of fate.
It would not be life in earnest,
ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE
If our scenes were always new,
If the good had always charmed us,
Man to man were always true.
Life is always life in earnest,
To the lowly son of toil,
To the weary child of plodding,
To the true the ever loyal,
To the hero of the battle,
Who has fought on glorious fields,
To the vanquished and thy dying
Who have fallen on their shields.
To the maid whose love is buried
Neath the gloom of passing years,
One who never told her sorrows—
But they steal out in her tears.
One whose heart is often broken,
But whose love has never fled,
And her faith is ever piercing,
Though her soul is with the dead.
One who knows the world grows better,
And who still has faith in man,
Though her slights and wrongs are many,
One whom men don't understand.
To the hero of the evening,
When the sun is bending low,
And the scars of many battles,
Set the bleeding face aglow,
When the honor'd brow is garland'd,
Man is mustered from the fray,
When the robes and crowns are offered .
To the heroes of the day.
ONE HUNDRED AND SIX
Death.
Death the reaper stalks abroad
Mid human, low and high,
He comes to kings and pau'p'rs too,
The small, the great, must die.
Throughout ages death has come
Unheralded and unsung,
Since Adam's fall, sons of men
By death, our hearts are wrung.
Filtching ev'rv day he can,
From humans, lords of earth,
Follows mortals scythe in hand
To twilight's eve, from birth ■
Oft he plucks a fragrant rose,
From brooding storms and hail,
Harbors mariners just before
The winter's stormy gale.
If perchance he comes in youth,
When buds are in their bloom,
Smites them with a blighting kiss
Certain decay's their doom:
Unwelcom'd and unhonor'd
A traitor he's proclaim'd
A dread'd foe to feeble men
Evaded and disdain'd.
Shall we 'scape death's clammy hand
Delude with magic charm?
Or wait his coming as the brave
And feel his grasping arm?
He'll sur'ly come to us some day
At morning, noon or night,
Unfinish'd lab'rs soon shall cease,
Our works shall stand, if right.
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN
Live like good men who nave spurn'd
The world, its honor, fame;
Like martyrs who have stood the test,
On tablets writ their names:
Wait thou for the crowning day
When time shall loose its claim
Mid coming joys garland brow
The world shall sing thy fame.
Then as the ev'ning shades recede
The umbrous shadows fall,
Mid the throng, near peaceful streams
In garnish'd, gilded hall;
Around the camping fires there,
The victor's song ascend,
No bugle call, nor battle cry
Beauteous scenes attend.
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT
The Refrain.
The birds are free and have no cares
They flitter where they will;
They chirp, they sing on every bow,
And wander o'er the rill.
The streams are free when labor's done
From turning grinding mill,
'Tis theirs to smile at evening
To roam o'er dale and hill.
The winds are free at even tide,
They chase and romp and play;
Are free to loiter where they love,
Just at the close of day.
I am not free, I can not go,
Even where my love ones lie
Must not wish my fetters gone;
A chattel, I must die.
ONE HUNDRED AND NINE
What You Gwine To Do Wid Ham?
De white folks pow'rful ristless now,
About de colored man;
Dey say he 'ad better pack his duds
And leave dis blessed land.
Yes, 'tis a 'mentous question, sah,
It puzzles Uncle Sam,
Politisuns, all de law,
What you gwine do wid Ham?
Afore de war da weren't no cause
For all dis har alarm;
De white folks had de darkies pat,
Deh held him wid a charm,
Dey made him drib de oxin cart,
And flogged him for a sham;
But now dey axin' 'mong demselves.
What we gwine do wid Ham?
Down in Dixy Ham was fetched,
He did not have no show;
He wurk'd, labored, night and day,
Till he could do no more.
Dey say he's awful triflin' now,
And dat he lubs his dram;
Yes, old Ephraim's got his faults,
But what you gwine do wid Ham?
De for'st been fill'd by de color'd man,
De cotton he has ho'd;
De country tri'd to de her best,
Ham done bar'd his load;
He never throws no dynamite—
He's too much like a lamb;
For all dis lab'r done for you'ns,
What you gwine do wid Ham?
ONE HUNDRED AND TEN
Ham staid home at first, you know,
While his massa went to war;
He watch'd Miss Anne and young Mars Charles
Grow'd bread massa jaw.
Ham was true to ebery trust;
He staid at home very calm;
I know dar's left some gratitude—
What you gwine do wid Ham?
I know Mas Charles ain't mad wid Ham
Because he's gettin' on;
Ain't always bound to grub de swamps,
Hoe de cotton an' corn.
Dey say we got no right to vote;
Well, dat's .an awful slam;
Up comes dat 'plexious question still,
What you gwine do wid Ham?
To treat all black folks just alike,
One mus' have lots of grit.
Wid all dis 'provement and good sense,
And what Ham's tryin' to git.
Dey say all darkies look alike,
Dey 'mus call each one Sam;
Den dat leaves de question yet,
What you gwine do wid Ham?
Now we got de Jim Crow car,
And de black man's bid to ride;
Some don't want Aunt Hagar's son
To set up by dey side.
Dey thought to hear de darkie fust
And butt just like a ram;
But dat don't solve de problem yet—
What, you gwine do wid Ham?
ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN
Ham's de tuffest bone you know,
De nation has got to know;
A legislatin' in dem halls,
And den dat mighty war.
Ain't 'nough ships to take us off—
Gwine to stay har in de jam;
Dar's neb'r no good in lynchin' us—
What you gwine do wid Ham?
Now Ham don sot himself to stay,
And dat's all right, you see;
To git de cash, build stores and banks,
Rock Hamites on his knees.
We's gwine to hab no fuss 'bout dis,
But pile our goods like yam;
Aia't no 'lution reached us yet—
What you gwine. do wid Ham?
ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE
Uncle Joe's Religion.
Ise powerful happy,
A serbin' ob de Lord;
I ain't been long convert'd,
Ise feedin' on his word;
I oft'n go to meetin',
I loves to set and sing—
Ise don got religion,
I'll neber work agin.
'Tain't no use in talkin,
I know Ise all right;
I'm done saw old satan
In de vision of de night.
De rabin feed Elijah—
Jus poured de manner in;
Ise don got religion
An' I'll neber work agin.
I ain't afraid of starvin',
Ise trustin' in de Lord;
He cares for his chillun
Who will lean 'pon his word.
White folks call me crazy,
But I don't mind dey chin—
Ise don got religion
An' I'll neber work agin.
When dis life is ober,
An' I am bound to go
To meet wid brudder Jasper
On de eberlastin' shor,
I'll tell all how I serbed him
Who sot me free from sin—
Ise don got religion
An' I'll neber work agin.