DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2019 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/anthologyofverse01whit TRINITY COLLEGE PUBLICATIONS An Anthology of Verse by American Negroes EDITORIAL NOTE This book is published because it represents meri¬ torious work in the study of a field of American liter¬ ature hitherto somewhat neglected and for the purpose of providing for both white people and Negroes mate¬ rial in convenient form for the study of a body of poetic work in which both races are naturally inter¬ ested. White students are interested because the authors of these poems have achieved their capacity for this form of expression along side of and in close association with their own people. Negroes are inter¬ ested because these selected poems are evidence of the actual accomplishment of the members of their race. Trinity College is glad to lend this encouragement to the study of achievements in which both races in America have just reasons to feel pride. An Anthology of Verse By American Negroes Edited with a Critical Introduction , Biographical Sketches of the Authors, and Biblio¬ graphical Notes by Newman Ivey White, Ph.D. Professor of English in Trinity College and Walter Clinton Jackson Vice-President and Professor of History in the North Carolina College for Women With an Introduction by James Hardy Dillard, Ph.D., LL. D. President of the Jeanes Foundation and the John F. Slater Fund VU TRINITY COLLEGE PRESS DURHAM, N. C. 1924 Copyright, 1924 By Trinity College Durham, N. C. Presses of The Seeman Printery Incorporated Durham, N. C. /"Z-C4 ■R CMR £> "Z- PREFACE This volume, except for some later additions, was ready for the press in 1921, when it would have been a pioneer in the field. Though it has lost this primacy through the recent appearance of two other volumes, we feel that there is still a place for it in that it gives fuller representation to the older poets and includes some contemporary poets omitted by the later books. Our own sins of omission in this latter field—and there are so many Negroes writing respectable verse today that doubtless we have overlooked many desirable poems—must be left to the charity of the reader and to the chance of a second edition in which, proverbially, all things are to be made perfect. As Southern white men who desire the most cordial relations between the races we hope that this volume will help its white readers more clearly to understand the Negro’s feelings on certain questions that must be settled by the cooperation of the two races. From the same point of view we hope that Negro readers, too accustomed, perhaps, to a debilitating literary patron¬ age, will not misinterpret as unfriendly a critical atti¬ tude in which we have tried to supplant patronage with honest, unbiased appraisal. In the content of this volume Professor White is responsible for the Introduction and for the Biblio¬ graphical and Critical Notes; Professor Jackson is re¬ sponsible for the biographical sketches; the choice of selections is a matter of joint responsibility. iii Preface It is a pleasure to acknowledge our indebtedness to Dr. J. H. Dillard, of the Jeanes Foundation, who has shown a friendly interest in the work and has helped with several valuable suggestions; to Dr. W. T. La- prade, of Trinity College, who supervised its publica¬ tion for the Trinity College Press; to all of the surviv¬ ing poets represented in this book, most of whom have cooperated cordially in furnishing biographical data and in giving permission to quote their verse; to The Century Magazine for the poems of J. D. Corrothers; The Crisis for poems by Countee P. Cullen and Jessie R. Fauset; The Southern Workman for the poem of Sarah C. Fernandez; the Cornhill Co. for poems by Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr., Charles Bertram Johnson and Georgia Douglas Johnson; the R. G. Badger Co. for poems by Walter Everette Hawkins; The Stratford Co. for poems by Leslie Pinckney Hill; Neale and Co. for poems by John Wesley Holloway; the Brimmer Co. for poems by Georgia Douglas Johnson; The Grafton Press for poems by H. Cordelia Ray; Sherman, French and Co. for poems by George Reginald Margetson; Harcourt, Brace and Co. for poems by Claude McKay; and to Dodd, Mead and Co. for poems by Paul Lau¬ rence Dunbar. Newman I. White W. C. Jackson March, 1924. IV CONTENTS* v Introductory Note . x Introduction. 1 Phillis Wheatley. 27 On Imagination . 28 To a Gentleman and Lady on the Death of the Lady’s Brother, etc. 30 Liberty and Peace . 31 George Moses Horton . 33 Meditations on a Cold, Dark and Rainy Night . 34 Praise of Creation . 35 James Madison Bell. 37 Song for the First of August . 38 Frances Ellen Watkins Harper . 39 The Slave Mother . 41 Bury Me in a Free Land . 42 Charles L. Reason .:. 43 Freedom . 44 Alberry A. Whitman . 50 To the Student . 50 Ye Bards of England .. 52 Paul Laurence Dunbar . 54 The Crisis. 55 Dreams (1) . 56 Dreams (2) . 57 The End of the Chapter. 57 Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes.... 59 A Hymn . 61 Love Despoiled . 61 Love’s Phases . 62 The Warrior’s Prayer . 63 Night . 64 Ode to Ethiopia. 64 Slow Through the Dark . 66 By Rugged Ways . 66 * The arrangement is in the order of the chronological appearance of the most important work of the author. Contents Drizzle .„._ 67 A Banjo Song . 68 NThe Deserted Plantation . 71 Angelina . 72 Expectation. 74 A Frolic ... 75, How Lucy Backslid. 76 Pos? m . 82 Tern ;ation . 83 > When Malindy Sings .'. 85 A Choice. 87 Mortality. 88 The Sum. 88 Life . 89 Life’s Tragedy. 90 The Poet and the Baby . 89 Compensation . 90 A Death Song . 91 George Marion McClellan . 92 The Path of Dreams . 92 To Hollyhocks . t . 94 The Ephemera . 95 The Feet of Judas... 96 A Belated Oriole. 97 Daniel Webster Davis. 98 Night on the 01’ Plantashun . 98 Hog Meat .,. 100 Stickin’ to de Hoe . 101 Pomp’s Case Argued. 103 George Hannibal Temple. 104 Crispus Attucks . 104 Charles R. Dinkins . 105 Invocation . 105 We Are Black, but We Are Men . Ill “Thy Works Shall Praise Thee” .,. 113 Timothy Thomas Fortune . 114 We Know No More . 115 Lincoln. 115 J. Mord Allen . 116 The Psalm of the Uplift . 116 The Devil an’ Sis’ Viney . 117 vi Contents When the Fish Begin to Bite . 128 Shine on, Mr. Sun . 130 Counting Out . 131 Clara Ann Thompson . 132 His Answer . 133 Mrs. Johnson Objects . 133 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite . .% . 134 A Little Song .. 135 By An Inland Lake . 136 In a Grave-Yard . 136 Song: To-Day and To-Morrow . 137 From the Crowd . 137 Song of a Syrian Lace Seller . 138 A Song of Living . 139 The Eternal Self . 141 Golden Moonrise . 142 Sic Vita . 142 This Is My Life . 143 Sandy Star . 144 The Mystery . 144 To the Sea . 145 Joseph Seaman Cotter . 146 The Negro’s Educational Creed . 147 On a Proud Man . 147 Destiny . 147 Walter Everette Hawkins . 148 Wrong’s Reward. 148 A Spade Is Just a Spade ...•.. 149 The Death of Justice .. 150 H. Cordelia Ray . 151 Dawn’s Carol . 152 Our Task . 152 The Triple Benison ...:. 153 Edward Smythe Jones . 154 A Song of Thanks . 154 Benjamin Griffith Brawley . 156 The Plan . 157 Chaucer ... 158 » The' Bells of Notre Dame . 158 Ballade of One that Died before his Time. 159 Contents Fenton Johnson. 160 Love’s Good-Night. 160 Death of Love . 161 In the Evening . 161 When I Die . 162 James David Corrothers ....... 163 An Indignation Dinner . 164 The Negro Singer . 165 Paul Laurence Dunbar . 166 The Dream and the Song. 167 © George Reginald Margetson . 168 A Prayer . 169 Time . 169 Resurrection . 170 James Weldon Johnson . 170 Fifty Years . 172 O Black and Unknown Bards . 175 "Lazy” . 177 Answer to Prayer ._. 178 Mother Night . 179 Joseph S. Cotter, Jr. 180 The Goal . 181 Rain Music . 181 Sonnet to Negro Soldiers . 182 And What Shall You Say? . 182 John Wesley Holloway . 183 Discouraged . 184 Plowin’ Cane . 185 Calling the Doctor . 186 The Corn Song .:. 187 Charles Bertram Johnson . 189 A Rain Song . 189 Old Things . 190 Ray E. Dandridge. 191 Days. 191 Tracin’ Tales . 192 Zalka Peetruza . 192 Jessie Redmond Fauset . 193 Oriflamme . 194 viii Contents Leslie Pinckney Hill . 194 JThe Wings of Oppression . 195 Tuskegee . 196 Freedom . 197 “So Quietly” . 197 Self-Determination . 198 To the Smart weed . 199 Christmas at Melrose . 200 The Symphony . 202 Spring . 203 Claude McKay .203 The Easter Flower . 204 The Tropics in New York . 204 Harlem Shadows . 205 In Bondage . 205 The Lynching . 206 Baptism . 206 Absence . 207 Georgia Douglas Johnson . 208 Isolation . 208 The Octoroon . 209 Little Son. 209 Taps . 209 Countee P. Cullen . 210 The Touch . 210 Sarah Collins Fernandis . 212 A Vision . 212 Biographical and Critical Notes . 214 Index of Authors . 238 Index or Titles . 239 ix INTRODUCTORY NOTE It is a happy and significant fact that this book comes from one of the leading white colleges of the South. There is nothing in the book to claim any special note of remarkableness on this score. It is simply a good piece of work done in a scholarly way, just as if the subject matter were any other body of literary pro¬ duction, as, for example, the poetry of Massachusetts or the poetry of Georgia. The treatment is both crit¬ ical and sympathetic and quite free from any implica¬ tion of patronage or favor. This book is a needed book for two reasons. It is needed as a contribution to American criticism dealing with a large and already distinguished mass of poetical production which is little known to the general public. It is needed because the general public, let us say the general white public, ought to know of such a body of poetry coming from the colored people of this country and marking both the accomplishment and the promise of notable progress. As the Introduction says, “A race, unquestionably endowed with humor and music, that has made a marked advance in poetry within the scant sixty years of its freedom, will as unquestionably produce finer poetry when conditions have followed their present tendency for a generation or two.” The editors are to be congratulated on the discrimi¬ nating and representative character of the selections which they have made from the body of available x Introductory Note material. The choice seems satisfactory both in quality and quantity. The very interesting general Introduc¬ tion is partly critical and partly historical. It serves its purpose admirably in preparing a background from which the reader may the more intelligently proceed to the poems. The brief biographies of the authors accompanying the selections and the Bibliographical and Critical Notes at the end add much to the value and completeness of the volume. James Hardy Dillard. Charlottesville, Va. xi INTRODUCTION I I N THE days of Uncle Remus and Marse Chan the American Negro became such excellent clay for literary potters that his descendants win a too reluctant recognition when they set up as potters themselves. One or two Negro poets, like Paul Laurence Dunbar, have won general recognition, but the question of the Negro’s total accomplishment in poetry has been too often answered by Negroes with a citation of names whose value is vague to most of the Negroes them¬ selves, and by white people with a dogmatic assertion that the Negro had better confine himself to more utili¬ tarian labor. These white people are perfectly willing to recognize the value of Negro music, both because it is already familiar and because it seems typically Negro, but, rightly or wrongly, they want the Negro to keep definitely within channels already marked out for him, and poetry does not seem to them to lie within these channels. Hence a willingness to ignore the possibility of any significant Negro contribution to American poetry. But nothing is more certain than the fact that the twelve million Negroes in this country have already produced a small leisure class, unless it be the fact that this class will increase with time, if the past economic progress of the Negro is any criterion, and will turn its attention more and more to higher education and the cultural pursuits. We are dealing with a question, not of proper policy, but of fact. Already a number of Negroes have produced poetry good enough to induce reputable publishers to assume the financial risk of publication. It is therefore no longer to be doubted that the Negro will make his contribution to American poetry, if there is any poetry in him to contribute. And whether there is any poetry in him may be partly 2 INTRODUCTION judged from the quality of what has hitherto been pro¬ duced. It is therefore decidedly pertinent to raise sev¬ eral questions about the existing body of Negro poetry. How much poetry has been written by Negroes? What is its intrinsic worth as literature? Has the race pro¬ duced any really worth-while poets except Dunbar? Does this poetry add any new element to American poetry or bid fair to do so ? What are its themes, and what is its spirit? Is it as typically Negro as the Negro folk-song? Is its attitude toward the rape question sensitive and resentful or, like that of the folk-songs, oblivious and careless? Some idea of the volume of verse already produced by American Negroes may be obtained from an ex¬ amination of Arthur A. Schomburg’s Bibliographical Checklist of American Negro Poetry, published in 1916. Omitting the considerable number of volumes published in French and Spanish, there are 173 titles published in English. Some of these, however, are single poems published in various periodicals; some are translations or anthologies, as for instance, James Weldon Johnson’s translation of Goyescas, and Wil¬ liam Stanley Braithwaite’s annual anthologies of maga¬ zine verse; and some are volumes that contain both prose aind poetry, e.g., J. Mord Allen’s Rhymes, Tales, and Rhymed Tales and Otis M. Shakelford’s Seeking tl\e Best. The total volume is also reduced by the rather common practice, for which Poe has set a dis¬ tinguished precedent, of padding out new volumes with poems from volumes previously printed. Even after Mr. Schomburg’s list has been thus scaled down, and without allowing for titles overlooked by Mr. Schom- burg or for the numerous books published since 1916, the total volume is rather surprising to the average person who has taken it for granted that the Negro is not interested in poetry. INTRODUCTION 3 The fugitive character of a great many of these volumes may be judged from the fact that not more than three-fourths of them can be located in the com¬ bined resources of the three largest libraries in Amer¬ ica. Those that can be located would present a curi¬ ously heterogeneous appearance if examined together. They include broadsides, thin pamphlets on rough paper, quarto and folio pamphlets de luxe, evidently for presentation purposes, thick volumes coarsely printed and ill arranged, and a small sprinkling of volumes in the best taste of contemporary printers. The .shabby appearance of many of the volumes is mute evidence of the financial and educational handi¬ caps against which the authors had to struggle. Taken altogether they afford a fairly good index both to the faults and merits of Negro poetry and provide a his¬ torical view of its development. II BEGINNINGS OF AMERICAN NEGRO POETRY Negro poetry in America begins with an illiterate slave, voicing inchoate religious sentiment in a crude broadside entitled An Evening Thought—Salvation by Christ, with Penetential Cries. Jupiter Hammon, the author, composed and published this poem nine years before Phillis Wheatley, generally considered the first Negro to write poetry in America, produced her first poem. Hammon was a slave owned by Mr. Joseph Lloyd, of Queen’s Village, Long Island. A few of his subsequent poems, including An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley (1778) and A Winter Piece: being a serious Exhortation, with a call to the Unconverted (1782), have been preserved. 1 They are all doggerel, 1 Oscar Wegelin’s Jupiter Hammond, American Negro Poet, New York, 1905, contains all his extant poems and all that is known of the poet. 4 INTRODUCTION simple and crude in rhyme and verse form, extremely limited in vocabulary, incoherent in thought, and with¬ out any of the subtler qualities that distinguish poetry from prose; but they are respectable in motive and sentiment and are as good verses as could be expected from anyone in like circumstances. Hammond loved his master, by whom he was well-treated. He thought slavery wrong, but he did not desire freedom for him¬ self and exhorted the slaves of New York to obedience. Hammon’s contemporary, Phillis Wheatley, is much better known to the members of her race. She was a native African, brought to New England and sold to Mrs. Wheatley, a Boston lady, while still a child. She was treated as a member of the family. She learned early how to read and write and soon became well ac¬ quainted with the Bible and the poetry of Milton and Pope. She was formally freed (she had never been a slave in much more than name) and accompanied Na¬ thaniel Wheatley to England, where, as in Boston, she received considerable attention, being presented with a volume of Milton by the Lord Mayor of London and patronized by the Countess of Huntingdon. On her return to America she sank into obscurity, chiefly on account of her unfortunate marriage following the death of her former mistress. Not all of her poems are extant. She began writing poetry when not over sixteen years old, and at nineteen addressed a poem To the University at Cambridge in New England, in which she advised the Harvard students to cultivate piety and improve their opportunities—desperate advice for un¬ dergraduates, but a sound testimony to the earnest¬ ness of the counsellor. Biblical paraphrases, poetical addresses, and elegies compose the majority of her forty-four extant poems. There is an address To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty (1768) showing grati¬ tude for the repeal of the Stamp Act, an address to a young Negro sculptor, and one To His Excellency, INTRODUCTION 5 General Washington (1775). Her best and most ambi¬ tious poem is On Imagination, which, like most of her other poems, presents many of the typical faults of second-class Eighteenth Century poetry—pseudo-lofti¬ ness, roundabout expressions, and personifications that are somewhat too frequent and unnatural for modern taste. The thought, however, is clear and the quantity and accent as sure as that of any of the eighteenth century imitators of Pope. The great body of con¬ temporary poetry was turgid in the style of debased Popianism, and it would be too much to expect any poet of Phillis Wheatley’s rather_xonventional person¬ ality to rise above this influence. A Boston mother, recently bereaved, 2 is implored to “dry the fountain of your tears,” for In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain, Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain. But the more limpid stream of poetry, best represented by Collins in the eighteenth century, is at least worthily suggested in such lines as those describing freedom in her poem, To His Excellency, General Washington: She moves divinely fair, Olive and laurel bind her golden hair. Phillis Wheatley’s poetry, like her character, is marked by a sincere and earnest religious sentiment. Her piety may seem a little conventional, but no one can deny its genuineness. Thomas Jefferson, who praised her character, was obviously too harsh when he dismissed her poems as “beneath criticism.” Their claim to literary merit is certainly a very modest one, but the great respect with which she has been ad¬ dressed and referred to by subsequent Negro poets is by no means misplaced. 3 To a Gentleman and Lady on the Death of the Lady’s Brother and Sister and a Child of the name Avis, aged One Year. 6 INTRODUCTION III POST-REVOLUTIONARY DEVELOPMENT There were probably a number of volumes of verse published by Negroes between the time of Phillis Wheatley and the period immediately preceding the Civil War, but the verses of only two or three of these writers are now extant . ) Ann Plato, a young Negro girl of Hartford, Connecticut, published twenty poems in 1841. There is an introduction by her Congrega¬ tional minister, who says that she should be encour¬ aged on account of her youth and because such efforts help dignify the Negro race, but her verses are so ab¬ solutely jejune and devoid of intellectual and imagina¬ tive life that their service to her race is doubtful. The most interesting character in this period is George M. Horton, whose poems were published in several volumes from 1829-1865. If Phillis Wheatley stands among Negro poets for fine Christian character developed under favorable circumstances, George Hor¬ ton should stand forth with equal prominence for dogged persistence in the face of difficulties. His auto¬ biographical sketch, prefixed to The Poetical Works of George M. Horton, published at Hillsboro, N. C., in 1845, has a humble and amusing pomposity that should not be allowed to obscure the admirable traits of char¬ acter that it reveals. He educated himself in spite of difficulties and in the face of discouragements. “And by close application to my book at night,” he says, “my visage became considerably emaciated by extreme per¬ spiration, having no lucubratory apparatus, no candle, no lamp, not even lightwood, being chiefly raised in oaky woods.” A reading of Wesley’s hymns made him so fond of poetry that he used to pick up scraps of paper in the hope of finding poetry printed on them. When in 1815 his master moved to the vicinity of the University of North Carolina, Horton began to com- INTRODUCTION 7 pose verses before he had learned to write. The stu¬ dents gladly acted as amanuenses. “I have composed love pieces in verse,” he says, “for courtiers from all parts of the State, and acrostics on the names of many of the tip-top belles of Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia.” The students gave him a number of books, and that he profited by them is shown by his longest poem, On the Pleasures of College Life, a nine-page poem after the manners of Pope and Johnson, in which he characterizes and discusses the different fields of knowledge as intelligently as many a graduate could do, emerging with the conclusion that theology is the greatest study of all. He has a strong sense of jingle and almost never goes wrong on metre. His poems show the influence of hymns and of the eighteenth century poets, principally Pope. The sense, which is generally moral or religious, seldom rises above the commonplace, but is always clear. Several titles worthy of mention are: Meditations on a Cold, Dark, and Dreary Night, The Creditor to His Proud Debtor, the rather frank Troubled With the Itch, and a somewhat Addisonian hymn, Praise of Creation, that is fully as good as some hymns still included in hymn books. Horton’s first volume. Poems by a Slave, was brought out in 1829, before he had learned to write out his own poems as he composed them. It was pub¬ lished in the hope of securing enough money to pur¬ chase the author’s freedom, and the list of subscribers includes a number of well-known North Carolina fam¬ ily names, but the publisher’s note to a second edition, in 1837, states that the proceeds of the first volume were insufficient for the object. IV THE GROWTH OF RACE CONSCIOUSNESS With the development of the emancipation agita¬ tion in the North the character of Negro verse changed 8 INTRODUCTION and entered upon an era of protest. Hitherto the slavery question had been but lightly touched upon by Negro verse writers. Their verses had been chiefly dominated by religious sentiment. From the forties, however, until the close of the Civil War, Negro poetry was predominantly occupied with freedom, and a good part of this same element continued to exist thereafter, down to the present, in the form of protest against racial discrimination. About eighteen of the titles listed in Mr. Schom- burg’s checklist fall within this period. Undoubtedly there were a good many more that have been lost. The class of free Negroes in the North was growing in number and in racial assertiveness. Abolitionists nat¬ urally encouraged them to write about their race and constituted a sympathetic reading public. William Lloyd Garrison, for instance, furnished an encouraging preface for Frances Ellen Watkins’ Poems on Miscel¬ laneous Subjects, published in 1857, which reached a circulation of 10,000. Unique among these volumes, and yet rather typical of the propagandist spirit, which is more likely to pro¬ duce social reform than good poetry, is The Emanci¬ pation Car, published by Dr. J. M. Simpson in 1874. Most of the songs were written before 1842 and were intended “exclusively for the Underground Railway.” Their purpose seems to have been to keep up the spirits of fleeing slaves en route to Canada and to stimulate others to run away. They are composed to popular tunes of the day, such as Alice Ben Bolt, The Low- Backed Car, There is a Happy Land, and Dandy Jim. Frequently they are parodies. Thus America is “the land of the free and the home of the slave.” An es¬ caped slave listens to his master’s cajolery in a vision, but refuses to revisit ‘My Old Kentucky Home, Far INTRODUCTION 9 Away.” The Slave-Holders’ Rest, to the tune of Uncle Ned, has for refrain Hang up the shovel and the hoe Don’t care whether I work or no, Old Master has gone to the slaveholders’ rest, He’s gone where they all ought to go. The two poets of this period whose works are most mentioned “By Negroes today are James Madison Bell and Frances Ellen Watkins, afterward Harper. The works of the former Have been collected and published, with a biographical sketch, by Bishop B. W. Arnett. 3 Bell was born a free Negro in Ohio in 1826. He went to Cincinnati as a youth and took up the plasterer’s trade, working by day and studying at night. Later he entered a school and became imbued with the anti¬ slavery feeling of the Cincinnati agitators. He was a personal friend of John Brown, for whom he recruited in Canada. In California, where he lived during the Civil War, he was an active opponent of Negro dis¬ abilities, and after his return to Ohio he was a leader in Negro political and religious life. Like Dunbar later, he gave many public readings of his poems. There are but twenty-seven poems in his collected works, most of them rather long. They are clear and vigorous in thought but are sometimes crude and violent and are without any real poetic graces. The lack of background is evident and fatal. Suggestive titles are The Black Man’s Wrong, The Dawn of Free¬ dom, The Progress of Liberty, and The Triumph of the Free. The poems of Frances Ellen Watkins Harper are more numerous and less meritorious than those of Bell. Her four volumes were published from 1857 to 1872 and achieved considerable circulation. Her Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects reached a “second series” after 10,000 had already been sold, and her Moses, a Story 8 The Poetical Works of James Madison Bell, Lansing, Mich., 1901. 10 INTRODUCTION of the Nile, reached a third edition. Her poems as a whole fall into three classes: anti-slavery verse, re¬ ligious verse, and sentimentally moralistic verse. One must follow Garrison’s advice in the preface and judge these volumes by lower standards than those applied to white poets if he is to find much in them worthy of praise. Some of her poems on slavery, like The Slave Mother (1857) and Bury Me in a Free Land (1871), have genuine feeling. Her best poem is Moses, a Story of the Nile (1870), a heroic narrative somewhat resembling drama in its speeches and characterization. Probably the best ante-bellum Negro poem extant is Charles L. Reason’s Freedom (1847), a poem of 168 lines that is free from rant and has both dignity and depth. It traces the development of freedom through various historic struggles and concludes with a prayer for freedom in America. Whittier wrote worse anti¬ slavery stanzas than some of Reason’s. The poetry of the period has some value to the historian and sociologist, perhaps, as showing the atti¬ tude of the Negro writers toward the race question, but from a literary point of view it is practically worthless. With the exception of Reason, there is scarcely a writer whose work will stand comparison with that of Phillis Wheatley, not to mention the Negro poets of the pres¬ ent generation. In the evolution of literary conscious¬ ness among the Negroes is to be found the principal significance of this period. The tangible results were negligible, but the desire to seek poetic expression was plainly becoming more general. V THE MORE RECENT WRITERS Negro poetry that can be praised without abasing critical standards does not really begin until after 1870. This fact, rightly understood, is no discredit to the Negro. Before that date Negro poetry was in the hands INTRODUCTION 11 of the illiterate or semi-literate; there were practically no Negroes with the cultural background generally nec¬ essary for the writing of good poetry. Since the Negro has acquired liberty and property he has shown in¬ creased activity and ability in all the arts. The major¬ ity of the many books of poetry published by Negroes since 1870 (Schomburg lists 128 titles) are still of lit¬ tle individual merit, but the same statement is true of the bulk of the hundreds of volumes of verse published last year by white Americans, and is likewise true of even the most distinguished periods of literary pro¬ duction. Foremost among the later writers is Pa ul La urence Dunb ar. He is perhaps the only Negro poet whose name is generally known to students of American literature. The son of a mother who had acquired a love of poetry through hearing it read in the home of her former master, he began writing verse in his boy¬ hood and continued it through his high school career. As an elevator boy in a Dayton office building, he first attracted attention to his poetry by a poetic address of welcome to the Western Association of Writers, which was meeting in Dayton. Thereafter, first through the financial aid of friends in Dayton and Toledo, and then through the encouragement and assistance of writers and public men like James Whitcomb Riley, James Lane Allen, Robert G. Ingersoll, and William Dean Howells, he reached and held the ear of the public. A review by Howells brought him into national notice, and “Bob” Ingersoll gave him an opportunity to broaden his knowledge of literature by securing him a position in the Library of Congress. His concert read¬ ings were popular, and his stories and poems were sought by the magazines. In his thirty-fourth year, however, before he had had time to reach his fullest development, he died of tuberculosis, the disease against which he had for some time been waging a hopeless fight. 12 INTRODUCTION His poems were published originally in fourteen dif¬ ferent volumes, but nine of these are special editions of material included in the five earlier volumes. They are now accessible in two collected editions. 4 In bulk as well as quality they are the most impressive body of poetry yet produced by an American Negro. Dunbar was the first Negro poet to have the advantage of literary associations and friendships, and it may be that this largely compensated for the fact that his formal education ended with the high school. His poems do not reveal any great depths of knowledge, but they are free from the crudities characteristic of uneducated or half-educated writers of verse. He is far above habitual technical errors; his expression is uniformly adequate to the thought and often superior to it. If after all he falls short of the perfect fitness of diction that is called the “inevitable phrase” and gives some particular shade of thought its final adequate ex¬ pression for all time, where else in American poetry, except for a few lines from Poe and still fewer from Emerson, is “the inevitable phrase” to be found? The pathos of some of his poetry is genuine, but hardly ex¬ traordinary ; the humor, however, is a real contribu¬ tion to American poetry. This is the racial humor of the Negro which it was the ironical lot of the Negro race to see attain its first expression through the writ¬ ings of white interpreters, such as Irwin Russell and Joel Chandler Harris. Dunbar felt a kind of pathetic irony in the fact that his dialect humor made a stronger appeal to readers than his serious poems in standard English, but William Dean Howells voiced the opinion of later criticism when he praised the dialect poems above the others. It is the quiet and sure humor of racial character sympathetically and accurately ob¬ served. Among the best of these are poems such as * The Life and Works of Paul Laurence Dunbar, by Lida Keck Wiggins, 1907, and The Complete Poems of Paul Lawrende Dunbar, New York, 1916. INTRODUCTION 13 Possum, Drizzle, Expectation, and How Lucy Back¬ slid. Humor of this sort is too pervasive to be repre¬ sented by a stanza or two. Perhaps it can be sug¬ gested, however, by the keen racial reaction to ’possum as represented in Possum and Expectation. In the latter a ’possum has just been located: Now I’se whettin’ up my hongry, An’ I’s laffin’ fit to kill, Fu’ de fros done turned de simmons An’ de ’possum’s eat his fill. He done go’ged his self owdacious, An’ he stayin’ by de tree! Don’t you know, ol’ Mistah ’Possum Dat you gittin’ fat fu’ me? And in Possum, “If dey’s anything dat riles me,” he says, Hit’s to see some ign’ant white man ’Mittin’ dat owdacious sin W’en he want to cook a ’possum Tekin’ off de ’possum’s skin. Dunbar’s religion, as expressed in Religion, Philoso¬ phy, and other poems has a somewhat broad and ques¬ tioning nature that may perhaps owe something to his patron, Colonel Ingersoll. Although this is by no means his constant attitude toward religion (the Hymn Writ¬ ten After Hearing Lead Kindly Light is a fine ex- , ample to the contrary), there is an undernote of disil¬ lusion and pessimism in some of his poems that seems characteristic of much of his serious thought. ( But it’s easy ’nough to titter when de stew is smokin’ hot, But it’s mighty ha’d to giggle when dey’s nuffin in de pot, he observes somewhat sarcastically in Philosophy, and he looks with disfavor on breakin’ up ouah faces in a sickly sort o’ grin, When we knows dat in ouah innards we is p’intedly mad ez sin. 14 INTRODUCTION In Religion he scornfully bids the priest think less of heaven and more of this earth. Mortality begins and ends with the fatalistic “Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust.” Shall he be tried again? Shall he go free? Who shall the court convene? Where shall it be? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did we must: You with your theories, you with your trust,— Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust 1 There are few poems on the race question. Mostly they deal with Dunbar’s confidence in the progress of his race. The Ode to Ethiopia is the best example of this. The note of reproach and resentment is repre¬ sented ; To The South, on the New Slavery is the near¬ est approach to racial bitterness found in his works, and that can hardly be called intolerant. We Wear the -Mask , which has a somewhat bitter tone, is also proba¬ bly intended to represent the feelings of his race. Dun¬ bar was a sensitive character and was keenly aware of racial discrimination, but he very seldom gave utter¬ ance to this feeling in his published poems. 'William Stanley Braithwaite is the Negro poet, who unquestionably stands neic'fTo’ Dunbar. Dunbar found entrance into Stedman’s American anthology; Braith¬ waite, who came upon the stage a little too late for this, is represented in Jessie B. Rittenhouse’s Little Book of Modern Verse. Braithwaite is even better known for his critical work than for his poetry. In ad¬ dition to editing anthologies of Elizabethan verse, Georgian verse, and Restoration verse, he has, since 1913, collected and edited yearly anthologies of maga¬ zine verse that have been of great service to all people interested in contemporary poetry. These books, to¬ gether with his yearly reviews of contemporary poetry, have undoubtedly helped create a larger and more ap¬ preciative audience for contemporary American poets. His own poems have appeared in a number of the best INTRODUCTION 15 magazines and have been collected in two volumes, Lyrics of Love and Life (1904), and The House of Falling Leaves (1908). A highly sensitive estheticism <— is the keynote of his poetry. In this sense, as well as in lyric ability, he suggests Sidney Lanier. In finish and grace his poems are superior to those of Dunbar; they are superior also in another and less important respect —literary allusiveness. Braithwaite has a superior savoir faire in handling literary background that is probably due to his longer and more intimate associ¬ ations with books and writers. His poems have grace, but he is too idealistic for humor. He has a sense of human fate and the seriousness of life, but he falls far short of the knowledge of life and the sympathetic interest in human types that Dunbar possessed. Like Shelley (his principal master, along with Keats), he is idealistic to a fault. His poetry is too much “out of time and out of space”—there is too much seclusion from the problems and men of his own day. His genuine and obvious refinement affords a pleasant con¬ trast to much that is crude and raw in the more con¬ troversial writers but does not fully compensate for a deficiency in definite, tangible substance. His poems, some of which have been set to music, have a fine lyric quality, and the idealism of such poems as Nymph- olepsy, A Song of Living, and The Eternal Self is both sincere and inspiring. The poems, especially in the first volume, are often slight, and of no particrdar indi¬ vidual weight or ethical value, but his second volume shows a considerably greater depth of feeling and widening of interest. In a Grave Yard, A Little Song, By an Inland Lake, and It’s a Long Way are lyrics from the first volume that would be no discredit to the best contemporary poets. Among the best poems in the second volume are From the Croivd, which de¬ scribes a poignant lyric impression, A Song of Living and The Eternal Self. His later poems show a still 16 INTRODUCTION higher technical finish and a mystical tendency that sometimes oversteps the bounds of rational compre¬ hension, as in SandySlaz-amL Willie Gee: Sandy Star and Willie Gee, Count ’em two, you make ’em three: Pluck the man and boy apart And you’ll see into my heart. Whether Mr. Braithwaite derives this tendency from his reading of Blake or from certain obscure strains in recent British and American poetry, it is one of the factors that sharply differentiates him from most of the other poets represented in this book. He himself objects, justly, to having his poems classed indiscriminately as “Negro” poetry. Just as the Cau¬ casian really predominates in the poet’s racial inherit¬ ance, so the non-racial is the striking characteristic of his verse. His poems have no more of the Negro race in them than the poems of Longfellow or Bryant; in fact, paradoxically, they have less, by reason of their remoter connection with the substantial realities of ordinary life. There is very little real passion in Braithwaite’s poetry; on the contrary there is an exquisite restraint which seems rather to avoid vigor¬ ous emotional expression and prefers instead a fine lyric suggestiveness. That this produces poetry of a high order may be seen from In a Graveyard: In calm fellowship they sleep Where the graves are dark and deep Where nor hate nor fraud, nor feud Mar their perfect brotherhood. After all was done they went Into dreamless sleep, content That the years would pass them by, Sightless, soundless, where they lie. Wines and roses, song and dance, Have no portion in their trance— The four seasons are as one, Dark of night and light of sun. INTRODUCTION 17 There are a number of other living Negro poets whose verse is superior to any extant poetry written by Negroes before the Civil War. None of these has quite attained the excellence of Dunbar or Braithwaite, but several of them have written poems that would be pronounced decidedly good in any yearly anthology of American poetry. One of the foremost of these is James Wel don loh nson. His original verse (he is also thelmtHor~of a metrical translation) is comprised in a volume called Fifty Years and Other Poems, published in 1917. The title poem, the best in the volume, is a dignified review of the progress of the Negro since slavery. The volume shows some touches of humor, as in Answer to Prayer, where “Lawd send to me a turkey” goes unanswered until re-phrased “Lawd send- me to a turkey,” when it obtains immediate results. The philosophy of laziness is somewhat whimsically expressed in “Lazy,” which concludes: Let others fume and sweat and boil And scratch and dig for golden spoil, And live the life of worth and toil Their lives to labor giving. But what is gold when life is sped, And life is short, as has been said, And we are such a long time dead, I’ll spend my life in living. Some of the poems, such as Fifty Years and Mother Night, have real weight and impressiveness. The work of J. Mord Allen is of perhaps greater worth, though somewhat slight as to volume. There are only eighteen poems in all in his Rhymes, Tales, and Rhymed Tales, but they are of an excellent quality. Still comes the Perfect Thing to man As came the olden gods, in dreams, is his view of the conditions of life in The Psalm of the Uplift, but the future is given to the God of Things 18 INTRODUCTION as They Should Be, and it is for the present generation to contribute to the consummation— To enter where is no retreat; To win one stride from sheer defeat; To die, but gain an inch. His final poem, in which he compares life to the child¬ ish game of “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo,” has dignity and is superior both to the thoughtlessness characteristic of one type of Negro and the bitter pessimism into which other Negro writers have fallen. There is a central and sober sanity in his poetry that reveals an intel¬ lectual poise equalled by very few other Negro writers. He is not too race-sensitive to expose and laugh at the professional agitator. His poems show a humorous and tolerant observance of human nature and a narra¬ tive ability hardly inferior to the same traits in Dunbar. The Test, a humorous account of a checker game, and The Devil and Sis Viney, portraying the defeat of a Negro minister, though backed by Saint Paul, when he “rastles” with the woman problem, are excellent narra¬ tives. When the Fish Begin to Bite and Shine On, Mr. Sun, contain the authentic Negro humor to a de¬ gree seldom found in dialect verse; It seems a pity that there was no William Dean Howells to place this author before a larger public. His technique, though not inadequate, is not equal to that of Braithwaite or Dunbar, nor is he the equal of either in purely lyrical qualities, but he equals Dunbar in intellectual poise and shows a more sympathetic knowledge of ordinary ,humanity than Braithwaite. One of the most promising of the contemporary group of Negro poets, Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr., died almost in youth, at the very beginning of his career as a poet. One slender volume, The Band of Gideon, contains all his published work. A cycle of unpub¬ lish sonnets is said to represent his highest achieve¬ ment, but there are several poems in The Band of INTRODUCTION 19 Gideon that will stand comparison with the best poems of Dunbar and Braithwaite. His poems have a sensi¬ tive delicacy and a really noble spirit. Fire, perhaps, he lacked, but tranquillity of soul, innate good taste, and intellectual background he possessed to a degree unusual among the poets his race has so far produced. His thirteen-line poem, And What Shall Yon Say, has more potency than reams of denunciation. No con¬ scientious white man can read it unsympathetically or unashamed. Much of what this young poet achieved he probably owes to the sympathetic aid of his father, a Negro Educator in Louisville, whose sterling character and sane thinking on racial questions have won him the respect of his fellow citizens, and who has himself written verses of a very respectable quality. (/Claude McKay is another poet who may take rank witfCthe two or three really noteworthy poets of the Negro race. Claude McKay is a young Jamaican Negro who came to the United States as a student and re¬ mains as a poet—a poet who has earned his livelihood by miscellaneous labor as pullman porter, restaurant helper, etc. Max Eastman, in the preface to Harlem Shadozvs, McKay’s only American volume as yet, de¬ clares (somewhat rashly) that McKay’s poems are “the first significant expression” of the Negro race in poetry and ranks McKay above Dunbar as a poet. James Wel¬ don Johnson has expressed a similar opinion. McKay unquestionably strikes a new note in Negro poetry. It is not merely that his poems are untainted with conven¬ tional imitation and are tinged with the local color of the tropics and the somewhat bitter realism of Harlem. These traits alone would give his poetry a freshness of interest lacking in most of the Negro poets, but he unites with them an unusual justness of phrase and faithfulness of poetic memory. He has an intensity of passion which partially justifies Max Eastman’s com¬ parison of him with Catullus. Some of his poems are 20 INTRODUCTION r too erotic for good taste or conventional morality. He lacks the restraint of Braithwaite and the humor of Dunbar, butTthere is a genuine beauty in his lines of reminiscence and description that more than compen¬ sates for occasional notes of jaded bitterness and gives him a position among the best poets of his race. The publication of The Wings of Oppression in 1921 by Leslie Pinckney Hill marked the appearance of one of the most promising poets the Negro race has yet produced in this country. It cannot be claimed that this volume meets Milton’s test by being “simple, sensuous and passionate.” It is only moderately sensu¬ ous, and it is not passionate at all. In the justness of its phrasal power, however, and in its clearness of thought and calm truth of observation and reflection, it is simple in the best sense of the word. Its sixty- eight poems are grouped under the heads of “Poems of My People,” “Poems of the Times,” “Poems of Appreciation,” “Songs,” and “Poems of the Spirit.” Such titles from the Poems of Appreciation as Lines Written in the Alps Above Chamonix, To William James, The Actress, The Borglnm Statue of Lincoln, and The Symphony suggest an at-homeness in the region of ideas and esthetic impressions that few poets of his race have yet attained, and a reading of the poems themselves dispels at once any suspicion that here is only another hasty parade of superficial cul¬ ture. The cultural background of the volume is as sure and genuine, at any rate, as was that of Keats when he wrote Sleep and Poetry. The basic idea of his title poem, while nothing new (except, perhaps, as applied to the race question) is still as noble and as subtly simple as it was when Christ made it a cardinal principle nineteen centuries ago. Nor do I think Edwin Arlington Robinson’s Captain Craig or even Wordsworth’s Happy Warrior could have found any more genuinely wise a solvent for life than the two INTRODUCTION 21 lines from Self-Determination in which Hill makes his race determine To mix a grain of philosophic mirth With all the crass injustices of earth. Among other Negroes of the present generation who have published poems of acceptable magazine quality are James David Corrothers, represented by two vol¬ umes, Selected Poems (1907) and The Dream and the Song (1914) ; Fenton Johnson, author of A Little Dreaming (1913), Visions of the Dusk (1915), and Songs of the Soil (1916) ; and George Marion Mc¬ Clellan, author of Poems (1895), and The Path of Dreams (1916). Corrothers’ work has been accepted by The Century and has appeared on the same page ^with that of Dunbar; his best poem, The Dream and the Song, is not unworthy of The Century’s high tradi¬ tion. Fenton Johnson’s best poems are of a decidedly lyrical nature. With him the thought is clear, but of secondary importance; it is the song quality of such poems as Love’s Good Night, In The Evening, and When I Die that constitutes his chief merit. In Songs of the Soil, where he attempts dialect of his own and attempts to free the negro spiritual from dialect, he is rather flat. The Vision of Lazarus, a long poem with an epic manner, is his most ambitious attempt, and, thongh“Ttis Tineven, has a good fable and passages of real strength. McClellan’s volume, The Path of Dreams, written in odd moments during his work as financial agent for Fiske University, contains poems of more than average quality on several themes, nota¬ bly religion, race, and nature, but reaches its highest quality in such poems of nature as The Path of Dreams and To Hollyhocks. . The number of other Negro poets since the Civil War whose verse, compared with the poems preceding the war, show a great improvement in quality, is too con¬ siderable to admit of detailed individual criticism 22 INTRODUCTION within the present limits. Among these are H. Cor¬ delia Ray, whose poems, otherwise good, are often marred by sentimentalism and a flimsy, over-evident culture; Benjamin Griffith Brawley, a minister and college professor better known for his Short His¬ tory of the Negro Race, who has privately printed several sonnets and ballads of good literary quality; 5 D. W. Davis, a well-known negro educator, whose “Well Down Souf,” contains some good humorous dialect verse; and R. E. Ford, whose Brown Chapel (1905), a rhymed novel, presents some interesting and obviously sincere and accurate pictures of parish life in a decent and respectable Negro community on the East¬ ern Shore of Maryland. Worthy of mention, but gen¬ erally below the standard of the poems previously dis¬ cussed, are some of the poems of Charles R. Dinkins, Walter Everette Hawkins, George Reginald Margetson, and Alberry A. Whitman. The poetry of Whitman serves as a convenient measure for estimating the im¬ provement of Negro poetry. His best-known vol¬ ume, Not a Man and Yet a Man (1877) is a melodra¬ matic verse-novel of the heroism, love, trials, escape, and triumph of a nearly white slave. It has some fairly good descriptive passages, but in spite of thrilling inci¬ dents, seldom rises above a respectable poetic pedes- trianism. Yet before Dunbar’s poems were published Whitman was regarded as the poetic spokesman of his race, and his works received high praise from Long- fellowr and Whittier. Since 1877 probably half a score of Negro poets have surpassed him in the quality of their verse, but to many Negroes Whitman still ranks only a little behind Dunbar. It is still true that most of the volumes published since the Civil War have only a slight value as litera¬ ture. Rightly considered, this is a perfectly natural 6 He has also written the best survey of the Negro’s achievement in art and literature, The Negro in Literature and Art, New York, 1921. INTRODUCTION 23 state of affairs; it is always the exceptional volume that counts. A less auspicious fact is that so many of the poorer volumes have been launched with flattering introductions by men like Booker T. Washington, Paul Laurence Dunbar, and William Stanley Braithwaite. In a volume edited by a Negro minister occurs a poem beginning: How sad to my thoughts are the scenes of my childhood, As recalled to my mind now at three-score and five, No father to direct the steps of my boyhood, No certainty whether he were dead or alive. y. This is obviously poor stuff, yet the editor asserts that “A greater poem has not been produced in our cen¬ tury.” The example is extreme, but it is nevertheless , true that the Negroes themselves have damaged the standing of Negro poetry by incautious introductions and extravagant praise. Such hothouse methods of culture were never wise, but now that at least a few Negroes have demonstrated undeniable ability in poetry, they are undoubtedly mischievous. The subject matter of the Negro poetry written since the Civil War is too various for enumeration. Re¬ ligion is still an important theme. A considerable num¬ ber of the writers are ministers, and even the poetry of laymen shows a more decided preference for religious themes than is seen in the writings of contemporary poets of the white race. This tendency has also made itself felt in the verses of the more mediocre writers in an inclination toward the use of hymn meters. Racial consciousness also plays a large part, particularly in the less finished writers. Most of the poetry of this type is of a crude nature and, however interesting it may be sociologically, is of no literary value. It is a noteworthy fact that poets like Dunbar, Braithwaite, and Allen write very little upon this topic and express themselves without the rancor of many of the smaller fry. Dialect poems, also, are rather more fre- 24 INTRODUCTION quent than with the poets of the white race. Aside from these differences the range of ideas among the better poets is not noticeably different from that of white poets. The more restricted number of themes among the poorer writers is no doubt largely attributa¬ ble to a personal lack of intellectual range due to de¬ fective education. This same lack of education per¬ haps accounts for the almost total absence of free verse from the mass of Negro poems. The two largest and most constant themes, religion and race, contribute lit¬ tle that is new, and scarcely anything that is worth while, to the sum of American poetry. / There is, how¬ ever, a kind of Negro humor that deals in a distinctively racial manner with the Negro’s love of music, talk, ani¬ mals, meetings, dancing, loafing and fishing, and is best exemplified in the poems of Dunbar, Allen, and Davis. In this direction the Negro is perhaps likely to make a purely racial contribution to American poetry. Other¬ wise his contribution is apt to be individual and not_ racial in character. VI GENERAL CONCLUSIONS A general review of the history of Negro poetry makes two conclusions immediately obvious. One is that there has been decided and unmistakable progress, both in volume and quality. From Jupiter Hammond to William Stanley Braithwaite and Leslie Pinckney Hill is a far cry, as far as from the first anonymous slave to the colleges, insurance companies, banks, and business enterprises now operated by-and for Negroes. (The second conclusion is that the quality of the poetry lias generally depended upon the cultural opportunities 'of the poet. Dunbar derived his love of poetry from a mother who had acquired it from a more cultivated white mistress. He developed his poetry largely through the encouragement of cultivated men—men of INTRODUCTION 25 another race, because his own race had few men capa¬ ble of giving him the sympathetic assistance he needed. Braithwaite developed his poetry by similar contacts. Joseph Seaman Cotter had not a day of schooling before he was twenty; he wrote verses that naturally have their limitations but indicate that better verses would have resulted from a better opportunity. He gave his son, Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr., some of the advantages he himself had missed, and before his early death the young man produced a volume of decided promise. A third conclusion might be added, namely, that Negro poets have not yet, as a class, risen to the levels of poetry attained by many white poets far more richly endowed with leisure and cultural background. No Negro, justly proud of what the poets of his race have already achieved, should consider this fact a humiliation. New England produced no poetry supe¬ rior to the poems of the best Negro poets of to-day until she had spent a century and a half in overcoming the wilderness and building up a community life in which there was leisure for indulging in poetry and capacity for appreciating it. England took three centuries after the Norman Conquest to produce her first great poet; the Negro has been hardly that long out of Africa. Nor need the Negro or the friend of the Negro feel unduly .disturbed by the circumstance that so much Negro poetry is given over to defiance and protest. Socially this fact is worthy of serious consideration, but from the artistic side it is no more a permanent symptom than the era 'of bumptious national assertiveness that once characterized a section of American literature. It is simply a growing-pain. Braithwaite has already passed beyond it, and a wider cultural horizon for other Negroes will have the same results that it had for American literature. This wider horizon is coming in¬ evitably. Already there are communities where the Negro is developing a real social system of his own. 26 INTRODUCTION He is acquiring, more and more rapidly, both property and education. A race, unquestionably endowed with humor and music, that has made a marked advance in poetry within the scant sixty years of its freedom, will unquestionably produce finer poetry when condi¬ tions have followed their present tendency for a gen¬ eration or two. In the light of these facts the present period is, from the larger point of view, likely to witness the real dawn of Negro poetry. Phillis Wheatley 27 PHILLIS WHEATLEY P HILLIS Wheatley was born in Africa about 1753. She was brought to America in 1761 and was pur¬ chased in the slave market in Boston by John Wheat- ley. She became a servant in the Wheatley home and soon showed evidence of unusual talent. Mrs. Wheat- ley and her daughters became interested in her and began to teach her. She made unusual progress, be¬ ing able to read any portion of the Bible within sixteen months. She became a proficient Latin student and was interested in English literature, Pope being her particular delight. At an early age she began the making of rhymes, and in 1770 there appeared A Poem, By Phillis, a Negro Girl, in Boston, on the Death of the Reverend George Whitefield. In 1771 she became a member of the Old South Meeting House. In 1773 her health began to fail, and her physician recommended a sea voyage. It was decided that she should be sent to England. Her poem on the death of Whitfield had made her well known in England, and she was cordially received upon her arrival and was shown much consideration. In the same year that she visited England there was published her best-known collection of verses, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. In 1775, while Washington was in command of the American forces around Boston, she wrote an Ode to George Washington, which was cordially appreciated by Washington and resulted in her presentation to the General. Following the break-up of the Wheatley home in 1778 upon the death of Mr. Wheatley, Mrs. Wheatley having died several years earlier, Phillis married John Peters. Peters was worthless, and the remainder of Phillis’s life was spent in poverty, ill-health, and 28 Phillis Wheatley wretchedness. After her marriage she wrote only two poems worthy of mention: Liberty and Peace, and An Elegy Sacred to the Memory of Dr. Samuel Cooper. She died in Boston December 5, 1784. The selections, are taken from Phillis Wheatley’s Poems and Letters, edited by Charles F. Heartman, (1915). On Imagination HY various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms! how decked with pomp by thee! Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand. From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song. Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind. Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul. Phillis Wheatley 29 Through Winter’s frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honors round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d: Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose. Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou : At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart. Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high; From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dyes, While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tip’t with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me to aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay. 30 Phillis Wheatley To a Gentleman and Lady on the Death of the Lady’s Brother and Sister, and a Child of the Name of Avis, Aged One Year O N Death’s domain intent I fix my eyes, Where human nature in vast ruin lies: With pensive mind I search the drear abode, Where the great conqu’ror has his spoils bestow’d; There, there the offspring of six thousand years In endless numbers to my view appears; Whole kingdoms in his gloomy den are thrust, And nations mix with their primeval dust: Insatiate still he gluts the ample tomb; His is the present, his the age to come. See here a brother, here a sister spread, And a sweet daughter mingled with the dead. But, Madam, let your grief be laid aside, And let the fountain of your tears be dry’d; In vain they flow to wet the dusty plain, Your sighs are wafted to the skies in vain, Your pains they witness, but they can no more, While Death reigns tryant o’er this mortal shore. The glowing stars and silver queen of light At last must perish in the gloom of night: Resign thy friends to that Almighty hand, Which gave them life, and bow to his command; Thine Avis give without a murm’ring heart, Though half thy soul be fated to depart. To shining guards consign thine infant care To waft triumphant through the seas of air; Her soul enlarg’d to heav’nly pleasure springs, She feeds on truth and uncreated things. Phillis Wheatley 31 Methinks I hear her in the realms above, And leaning forward with a filial love, Invite you there to share immortal bliss Unknown, untasted in a state like this. With tow’ring hopes, and growing grace arise, And seek beautitude beyond the skies. Liberty and Peace ( 1784 ) L O freedom comes. Th’ prescient muse foretold, All eyes th’ accomplish’d prophecy behold : Her port describ’d, “She moves divinely fair, Olive and laurel bind her golden hair .” 6 She, the bright progeny of Heaven, descends, And every grace her sovereign step attends; For now kind Heaven, indulgent to our prayer, In smiling peace resolves the din of war. Fix’d in Columbia her illustrious line, And bids in thee her future council shine. To every realm her portals open’d wide, Receives from each the full commercial tide. Each art and science now with rising charms, Th’ expanding heart with emulation warms. E’en great Britannia sees with dread surprise, And from the dazzling splendors turns her eyes. Britain, whose navies swept th’ Atlantic o’er, And thunder sent to every distant shore; E’en thou, in manners cruel as thou art, The sword resign’d, resume the friendly part. * Quoted from her own poem, His Excellency, General Washington. [Heartman’s Note]. 32 Phillis Wheatley For Gallia’s power espous’d Columbia’s cause, And new-born Rome shall give Britannia laws, Nor unremember’d in the grateful strain, Shall princely Louis’ friendly deeds remain; The generous prince th’ impending vengeance eyes, Sees the fierce wrong and to the rescue flies. Perish that thirst of boundless power, that drew On Albion’s head the curse to tyrants due. But thou appeas’d submit to Heaven’s decree, That bids this realm of freedom rival thee. Now sheathe the sword that bade the brave atone With guiltless blood for madness not their own, Sent from th’ enjoyment of their native shore, Ill-fated—never to behold her more. From every kingdom on Europa’s coast Throng’d various troops, their glory, strength, and boast. With heart-felt pity fair Hibernia saw Columbia menac’d by the Tyrant’s law: On hostile fields fraternal arms engage, And mutual deaths, all dealt with mutual rage: The muse’s ear hears mother earth deplore Her ample surface smoke with kindred gore: The hostile field destroys the social ties, And everlasting slumber seals their eyes. Columbia mourns, the haughty foes deride Her treasures plunder’d and her towns destroy’d: Witness how Charlestown’s curling smokes arise, In sable columns to the clouded skies. The ample dome, high-wrought with curious toil, In one sad hour the savage troops despoil. Phillis Wheatley 33 Descending peace the power of war confounds; From every tongue celestial peace resounds: As from the east th’ illustrious king of day, With rising radiance drives the shades away, So freedom comes array’d with charms divine, And in her train commerce and plenty shine. Britannia owns her independent reign, Hibernia, Scotia and the realms of Spain; And great Germania’s ample coast admires The generous spirit that Columbia fires. Auspicious Heaven shall fill with fav’ring gales, Where e’er Columbia spreads her swelling sails: To every realm shall peace her charms display, And heavenly freedom spread her golden ray. GEORGE MOSES HORTON George Moses Horton was born a slave in Chatham County, North Carolina, in 1797. He was not a good farm worker on account of devoting too much time to fishing, hunting, and attending religious meetings. He was consequently permitted by his owner to hire his time out. He was fond of the old melodies and the campmeeting hymns and finally began making rhymes himself. He learned to read by himself. He first learned the Methodist Hymnal by heart. Then he se¬ cured a speller, and by matching the words he knew in the Hymnal with those in the spelling-book he man¬ aged to learn to read. About 1830 he moved to Chapel Hill, North Caro¬ lina, the seat of the University of North Carolina. Here he secured work as janitor; he further added to his income by composing verses for the boys, who paid him twenty-five cents each—fifty cents for an extra 34 George Moses Horton fervid one—for acrostics, love poems, and the like. The president of the University and other persons of influence became interested in him and aided him. In 1829 some of Horton’s friends, in an attempt to raise the money with which to buy his freedom in order that he might go to Liberia as he desired, brought out a little volume of his poems, entitled The Hope of Liberty, published by Gales & Sons, of Ral¬ eigh, North Carolina. The returns from the sale of this volume were very small. In 1838 there was a re¬ print of this volume together with an edition of Phillis Wheatley’s poems. The Poetical Works of George M. Horton, the Colored Bard of North Carolina, to Which is Prefixed The Life of the Author Written by him¬ self appeared in 1845, printed at Hillsboro, North Carolina. Horton lived in Chapel Hill until 1865, when he ac¬ companied the Federal troops, who had been quartered in the town, to Philadelphia. He continued to write both poetry and prose in Philadelphia, though in his later years he produced nothing worthy of mention. He died in 1880 or, as other accounts have it, in 1883. The selections are taken from the edition of his works published in 1845. Meditation on a Cold, Dark, and Rainy Night S WEET on the house top falls the gentle shower, When jet black darkness crowns the silent hour, When shrill the owlet pours her hollow tone, Like some lost child' sequester’d and alone, When Will’s bewildering wisp begins to flare, And Philomela breathes her dulcet air, ’Tis sweet to listen to her nightly tune, Deprived of star-light or the smiling moon, When deadly winds sweep round the rural shed, George Moses Horton 35 And tell of strangers lost, without a bed, Fond sympathy invokes her dol’rous lay, And pleasure steals in sorrow’s gloom away, Till fost’ring Somnus bids my eyes to close. And smiling visions open to repose; Still on my soothing couch I lie at ease, Still round my chamber flows the whistling breeze. Still in the chain of sleep I lie confined, To all the threat’ning ills of life resign’d, Regardless of the wand’ring elfe of night, While phantoms break on my immortal sight, The trump of morning bids my slumbers end, While from a flood of rest I straight ascend, When on a busy world I cast my eyes, And think of nightly slumbers with surprise. Praise of Creation /CREATION fires my tongue ! Nature thy anthems raise; And spread the universal song Of thy Creator’s praise! Heaven’s chief delight was Man Before Creation’s birth— Ordained with joy to lead the van, And reign the lord of earth. When Sin was quite unknown, And all the woes it brought, He hailed the morn without a groan Or one corroding thought. 36 George Moses Horton When each revolving wheel Assumed its sphere sublime, Submissive Earth then heard the peal, And struck the march of time. The march in Heaven begun, And splendor filled the skies, When Wisdom bade the morning Sun With joy from chaos rise. The angels heard the tune Throughout creation ring; They seized their golden harps as soon And touched on every string. When time and space were young. And music rolled along— The morning stars together sung, And Heaven was drown’d in song. Ye towering eagles soar, And fan Creation’s blaze, And ye terriffic lions roar. To your Creator’s praise. Responsive thunders roll, Loud acclamations sound, And show your Maker’s vast control O’er all the worlds around. Stupendous mountains smoke, And lift your summits high, To him who all your terrors woke, Dark’ning the sapphire sky. George Moses Horton 37 Now let my muse descend, To view the march below— Ye subterraneous worlds attend And bid your chorus flow. Ye vast volcanoes yell, Whence fiery cliffs are hurled; And all ye liquid oceans swell Beneath the solid world. Ye cataracts combine, Nor let the paean cease— The universal concert join, Thou dismal precipice. But halt my feeble tongue, My weary muse delays: But, oh my soul, still float along Upon the flood of praise! JAMES MADISON BELL James Madison Bell was born at Gallipolis, Ohio, in 1826. In 1842 he removed to Cincinnati where he learned the plasterer’s trade. He worked at his trade by day and studied at night and finally attended school for a short time. He became intensely interested in the anti-slavery movement while living in Cincinnati. He removed to Canada in 1854 and resided there until 1860, when he returned to the United States. He was a personal friend of John Brown, aiding him in his work in Canada. He removed to California in 1860, where he entered vigorously into the controversy over the Negro’s disabilities in that state. In 1865 he removed to Toledo, Ohio. 38 James Madison Bell Bell was a speaker and reader of ability, giving fre¬ quent readings of his own poems. He was an ardent and effective worker in the cause of abolition and con¬ tinued his work in behalf of the Negro after the Civil War. He was active in church work and in politics, serving as a delegate to the National Republican Con¬ vention that nominated Grant for the Presidency and later stumping the State in the interest of Grant. In 1901 Wynkoop, Hallenbeck, Crawford Company, of Lansing, Michigan, published The Poetical Works of James Madison Bell, containing all of his important work, twenty-seven poems in all, among them such titles as Emancipation, Lincoln, The Dawn of Free¬ dom, Valedictory on Leaving San Francisco, and The Future of America in the Unity of the Races. The date of his death is unknown. The selection is taken from The Poetical Works. Song for the First of August W ITH cheerful hearts we’ve come From many a happy home, Our friends to greet; And pass a social hour Beneath this leafy bower, Where many a shrub and flower In fragrance meet. We come to joy with those Whose gloomy night of woes Have past away. And render worthy meeds To men whose noble deeds First cast the genial seeds Of Liberty. James Madison Bell 39 Then let our hearts’ best song In acclamations strong, Reach heaven’s height, In honor of that hour When Slavery’s massive tower Crumble beneath the power Of truth and right. This is proud Freedom’s day! Swell, swell the gladsome day, Till earth and sea Shall echo with the strain, Through Britain’s vast domain; No bondman clanks his chain, All men are free. God hasten on the time When Slavery’s blighting crime And curse shall end; When man may widely roam Beneath the arching dome. And find with man a home, In man a friend. FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was born of free parents at Baltimore, Maryland, in 1825. She was educated by her uncle, the Reverend William Watkins, who taught a school for free colored children in Bal¬ timore. In 1851 she moved to Ohio and began teach¬ ing. Later she removed to Little York, Pennsylvania. While residing there she became acquainted with the 40 Frances Ellen Watkins Harper working of the Underground Railroad. A particularly aggravated case of a free Negro being sold into slav¬ ery, which came under her direct observation, seems to have determined her to devote her life to the anti¬ slavery cause. She later moved to Philadelphia, where she had further opportunity to see the workings of the Underground Railroad. In 1854 she began her career as a public lecturer against slavery. For six years she traveled throughout the New England States, and in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, and Ohio, and also visited Canada, speaking against slavery. In 1860 she was married to Fenton Harper of Cincinnati. She gave up her public work until the death of her husband May 23, 1864. Meantime, she had written frequently in both prose and verse on the anti-slavery cause. After the war she came South for some time, working among the colored people of North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi. Later she returned to Philadelphia and devoted her time to writing and lecturing for the cause of temper¬ ance. For a time she had charge of the W. C. T. U. work among colored people. She was a voluminous writer of both prose and poetry. Her best known prose work is lola Leroy, or the Shadows Uplifted. Her first volume of poems, Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects, appeared in 1854. Her best known poems include Elisa Harris, The Slave Mother, Bible Defense of Slavery, The Freedom Bell, and Bury Me in a Free Land. She had a strong personality, was an excellent reader of her own verse, and was a gifted speaker. She attained a very unusual popularity in her day. She died February 22, 1911. The first selection is from Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects (1857) ; the second from Poems (1871). Francis Ellen Watkins Harper 41 The Slave Mother H EARD you that shriek? It rose So wildly on the air, It seemed as if a burden’d heart Was breaking in despair. Saw you those hands so sadly clasped— The bowed and feeble head— The shuddering of that fragile form— That look of grief and dread? Saw you the sad, imploring eye? Its every glance was plain, As if a storm of agony Were sweeping through the brain. She is a mother, pale with fear, Her boy clings to her side, And in her kirtle vainly tries His trembling form to hide. He is not hers, although she bore For him a mother’s pains; He is not hers, although her blood Is coursing through his veins! He is not hers, for cruel hands May rudely tear apart The only wreath of household love That binds her breaking heart. His love has been a joyous light That o’er her pathway smiled, A fountain gushing ever new, Amid life’s desert wild. 42 Francis Ellen Watkins Harper His lightest word has been a tone Of music round her heart, Their lives a streamlet blent in one— Oh, Father! must they part? They tear him from her circling arms, Her last and fond embrace. Oh! never more may her sad eyes Gaze on his mournful face. No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks Disturb the listening air: She is a mother, and her heart Is breaking in despair. Bury Me in a Free Land M AKE me a grave where’er you will, In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill, Make it among earth’s humblest graves, But not in a land where men are slaves. I could not rest if around my grave I heard the steps of a trembling slave: His shadow above my silent tomb Would make it a place of fearful gloom. I could not rest if I herd the tread Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, And the mother’s shriek of wild despair Rise like a curse on the trembling air. I could not sleep if I saw the lash Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, And I saw her babes torn from her breast, Like trembling doves from their parent nest. Frances Ellen Watkins Harper 43 I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay Of blood-hounds seizing their human prey, And I heard the captive plead in vain As they bound afresh his galling chain. If I saw young girls from their mothers’ arms Bartered and sold for their youthful charms, My eye would flash with a mournful flame, My death-paled cheek grow red with shame. I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might Can rob no man of his dearest right; My rest shall be calm in any grave Where none can call his brother a slave. I ask no monument, proud and high, To arrest the gaze of the passers by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves. CHARLES L. REASON Available information about Reason is inadequate. He attended the well known African Free School of New York City. In 1852 he was made Principal of the “Institute for Colored Youth,” originally estab¬ lished in 1837 upon a benefaction of Richard Humph¬ ries, and located in Philadelphia County. The School was removed to Lombard Street, Philadelphia, in 1852. This institution was later removed to Cheyney, ■Pennsylvania, and is now a standard Normal School, with Leslie Pickney Hill as Principal. The selection is quoted from Alexander Crummell’s Eulogium on Thomas Clarkson, New York (1847). 44 Charles L. Reason Freedom "Sans Toi Vuniverse est un temple Qui n’a plus ni parfums, ni chants.” Lamartine. O Freedom! Freedom ! O ! how oft Thy loving children call on Thee! In wailings loud, and breathings soft, Beseeching God, Thy face to see. With agonizing hearts we kneel, While ’round us howls the oppressor’s cry,— And suppliant pray, that we may feel The ennob’ling glances of Thine eye. We think of Thee as once we saw Thee, jewel’d by Thy Father’s hand. Afar beside dark Egypt’s shore, Exulting with Thy ransom’d band. We hear, as then, the thrilling song, That hail’d Thy passage through the sea,— While distant echoes still prolong The cymbal’d anthem, sung to Thee. And wafted yet, upon the gales Borne pure and fresh from sunny skies, Come startling words ; that ’long the vales Where Pelion and Ossa rise, Were shouted by Thine own clear voice! And Grecian hearts leap’d at the call: E’en as now Patriot souls rejoice, To see invading tyrants fall. Charles L. Reason 45 We view Thy stately form loom o’er The topmost of the seven hills! Around Thee glittering eagles soar— The symbol’d rise of freeborn wills. Down in the plains, we still behold The circled forums built to Thee;— Hear Tully’s strains, and Brutus bold, Call on his country to be free. When from those groves of citron bloom, And classic Helle’s vine clad shore,— Through countries hung in castled gloom, Attending winds Thy chariot bore,— We followed Thee o’er all the fields Of Europe, crimson-dyed with blood; Where broken spears, and buried shields, Now mark the spots where Thou hast stood. At Morgarten, through drifting snows, That seem’d to guard the Switzer’s home!— And where the walls of Sempach rose, We saw the mail-clad Austrians come. Three times we saw Thee bear the shock Of stalwart knight, and plunging steed;— And crush their front, as does the rock The waves, that ’gainst its bosom speed. Yet, vainly striving, Thou, to part That brist’ling sea of pikes had’st tried. Till Unterwalden’s patriot heart Bore down the foe, and glorious died. 46 Charles L. Reason Yes! Victory, as Arnold fell, Her white plume waved from every peak,— And ringing loud, the voice of Tell Still greater triumphs bade Thee seek. With trophies from Thy conflicts deck’d, (Allied by God to injured men,) We saw Thy struggle as Utrecht, At Zealand, Brabant, and Lutzen. Where e’er the sunbeams flash’d, Thy shield Lit up oppression’s funeral pile; And though o’erwhelm’d on Calsgrave field, And banished from Thy Shamrock isle; Yet cheering on Thy gallant Poles, From Slavon bondage to be free, We see Thy hurried pace, as rolls The alarm of danger o’er the sea. Above the heaving mountain crest, As to the isles of thought and song Thou bad’st adieu,—from out the west, Were heard deep mutterings of wrong. On many a frozen battle ground, Opposing swords were gleaming bright; While ’long the skies, the thundering sound Of cannon woke the silent night. Exulting in their mission high, Columbia’s sons had pledged Thy cause— Thy first endeavor,—“to untie The cords of caste and slavish laws.” Charles L. Reason 47 Long years roll’d by, and still went on The strife of man, ’gainst regal power : Till, bravely, in Thy strength, was won, Thy since polluted, blood-stained dower. We mourn for this! yet joyfully O Freedom! we loud praises give, That on Thine altar in the sea, For us Thy hallowed fires live. O! grant! unto our parent home, Thy constant presence and Thy shield! That when again rude hirelings come, Though starr’d from every battle field, The spirit of the patriot true, Toussaint, the “man of men,” may ring The shrill war cry the welkin through, And mount to plain the echo sing. But not ’mid trick’ling blood and smoke, The wailings of the dying foe, The bayonet thrust—the sabre stroke,— Canst Thou alone great victories show. Along Thy pathway, glory shines : And grateful wreaths before Thee fall:— More worth than all Golconda’s mines, Or power, that twines in Coronal. Thine is the mission, to subdue The soul, encased in triple steel; And so the world with love imbue, That tyrants shall before Thee kneel. 48 Charles L. Reason When from the slave’s crush’d, aching heart, The cry went up to Saboath’s God,— And man, with his immortal part, Was pressed e’en down unto the sod. We saw Thee wield conviction’s strength, And heard Thy blows fall thick and fast; While loud and clear through all the length Of Britain, blew Thy trumpet blast. Thou wast the answer! CLARKSON! thou The mighty soul that led the strife! Taking a consecrated vow, To conquer or to yield thy life. Well hast thou fought, great pioneer! The snows of age upon thy head, Were Freedom’s wreaths; by far more dear Than finest sculpture o’er the dead. We leave thee to thy long repose! Offering the blessings of the slave: Assured that at the world’s dread close, Thou’lt rise enfranchised from the grave. What more can we O! Freedom! speak In praise of Thee? our hearts grow faint! Where else shall we Thy triumphs seek? What fairer pictures can we paint ? We stand upon the shaking ground Of tryanny! we call it home: The earth is strewn with Christians bound,— We’ve cried to Thee—Thou dost not come. Charles L. Reason 49 We know Thou hast Thy chosen few,— The men of heart, who live by right,— Who steadily their way pursue, Though round them pall the shades of night. We hold them dear: defamed, beset, They fight the civil war of man: The fiercest struggle, that has yet Been waged against oppression’s ban. We give them thanks : the bondman’s prayer As holy incense soars on high, That nought to Thee their love impair, ’Till shall be gained the victory. But, O! Great Spirit! see’st Thou Thy spotless ermine men defile? God’s civil rulers cringing bow To hate, and fraud, and customs vile! The CHURCH, to her great charge untrue, Keeps pious guard, o’er slavery’s den! While guilty laymen wrong pursue, Her recreant priesthood say—amen. O ! purify each holy court! The ministry of law and light! That man, no longer, may be bought To trample down his brother’s right. We life imploring hands to Thee! We cry for those in prison bound! O! in Thy strength, come! Liberty! And ’stablish right the wide world round. 50 Charles L. Reason We pray to see Thee, face to face: To feel our souls grow strong and wide : So ever shall our injured race, By Thy firm principles abide. ALBERRY A. WHITMAN Alberry A. Whitman was born a slave in Kentucky shortly before the Civil War. He graduated from Wilberforce University and later became its financial agent. He was a Methodist minister. In 1877 he published, at Springfield, Ohio, a collec¬ tion of poems entitled Not a Man and Yet a Man. In 1884 he published his longest and most ambitious poem, Twasinta’s Seminoles, or The Rape of Florida. In 1890 his collection, Not a Man and Yet a Man was reissued, with an added collection of poems entitled Drifted Leaves. In 1901 he published An Idyl of the South. The selections given are from the 1877 edition of Not a Man and Yet a Man. To the Student W HO flees the regions of the lower mind, Where these distempers breathe on every wind: Infectious dogmatisms, noxious hate, Old snarly spleen, and troublesome debate, Dull bigotry, and stupid ignorance, Proud egotism, empty arrogance, And famous hollowness, and brilliant woe— And would to knowledge’s high places go, Must first in humble prayer approach the Throne Of the Almighty Mind, and there make known Alberry A. Whitman The purposes that swell an honest heart; Then on the path before him, meekly start: Asking of others who have been that way, What of the country, and what of the day? Being certain ever to give earnest heed To where the steps of hoar experience lead. Mark him who ventures these means to despise, And tho’ his works in gloomy grandeur rise, Awe strike all earth, and threaten e’en the skies, Yea “tho’ he flourish like a green bay tree,” His life will a stupendous failure be. ’Tis vain to soar aloft on borrowed wings, Or drink success from favor’s flowing spring. Let him who journeys upward, learn the way, By toiling step by step, and day by day. Each hardship mounted, easier makes the next, And leaves his pathway by one less perplext. Lo’ where yon dreamer looks on glory’s hill, Hopes to ascend without the manly will, Bends round and round some open pass to try With easy access, and ascend on high; Waits for some helper till the day is past, And night o’ertakes a sycophant at last. But honest courage, see with manful strides, Walks on and enters at the steepest sides, Climbs long and slowly up his rugged path, Awaits no aid, relies on what he hath, Grows independent as his way proceeds, As progress roughens, less the distance heeds, Till lo’ the utmost heights his footsteps meet, With fames and fortunes lying at his feet. 52 Alberry A. Whitman Then Kings delight to honor Glory’s son, And loud applauses in his footsteps run. Then mankind crave the favor of his eyes, And heap his lasting tributes to the skies. Ye Bards of England E NGLAND, cannot thy shores boast bards as great, And hearts as good as ever blest a State? When arts were rude and literature was young, And language faltered with an uncouth tongue; When science trembled on her little height, And poor religion blundered on in night; When song on Rome’s vast tomb, or carved in Greek, Like epitaphs with marble lips did speak. Thy Chaucer singing with the Nightingales, Poured forth his heart in Canterbury tales, With rude shell scooped from English pure, and led The age that raised the muses from the dead. And gentle Thompson, to thy mem’ry dear, Awoke his lyre and sang the rolling year. The dropping shower, the wild flower scented mead, The sober herds that in the moonshade feed, The fragrant field, the green and shady wood, The winding glen, and rocky solitude, The smiles of Spring, and frowns of Winter gray. Alike employed his pure and gentle lay. The wrath of gods, and dread suspense, Celestial shouts and shock of arms immense, In all his song ne’er move us to alarm, But earth’s pure sounds and sights allure and charm. Alberry A. Whitman 53 To Missolonghi’s chief of singers too, Unhappy Byron is a tribute due. A wounded spirit, mournful and yet mad, A genius proud, defiant, gentle, sad. ’Twas he whose Harold won his Nation’s heart, And whose Reviewers made her fair cheeks smart; Whose uncurbed Juan hung her head for shame, And whose Mazzeppa won unrivaled fame. Earth had no bound for him. Where’er he strode His restless genius found no fit abode. The wing’d storm and the lightning tongued Jungfrau, Unfathomable Ocean, and the awe Of Alpine shades, the avalanche’s groan, The war-rocked empire and the falling throne, Were toys his genius played with. Britain, then Urn Byron’s dust—a prodigy of men. But Shakespeare, the inimitable boast Of everybody and of every coast; The man, whose universal fitness meets Response in every heart of flesh that beats, No tongue can tell him. One must feel his hand And see him in his plays, to understand. All thought to him intuitively’s known, The prate of clowns, and wisdoms of the throne, The sophist’s puzzles and the doctor’s rules, The skill of warriors and the cant of fools. When Shakespeare wrote, the tragic muse saw heights. Before nor since ne’er tempted in her flights. 54 Paul Laurence Dunbar PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Paul Laurence Dunbar, son of Joshua and Matilda Dunbar, was born in Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Both his parents were full blooded Negroes. His fa¬ ther escaped from slavery, lived for a time in Canada, and returned to the United States to fight in a Massa¬ chusetts regiment in the Civil War. His mother had the advantage, while a slave, of hearing her master read a great deal and thus undoubtedly acquired some¬ thing of the taste for literature with which she so richly endowed her son. Dunbar attended the public schools of Dayton and graduated from the high school in 1891. While a stu¬ dent in high school he was editor of the school paper. After graduation he secured a position as elevator boy. His first introduction to the public occurred in 1892, when he delivered in verse the address of welcome at the Dayton meeting of the “Western Association of Writers.” In the same year he published a small volume of poems, Oak and Ivy. Aided by Dr. H. A. Tobey and other influential friends, he published Ma¬ jors and Minors in 1896. This volume was flatteringly reviewed by William Dean Howells, and Dunbar was thus assured of a wide reading. In 1897 he visited England. In the same year he published another volume, Lyrics of Lowly Life. Upon his return, through the influence of Robert G. Ingersoll, he secured a position in the Library of Con¬ gress. Soon afterwards, March 6, 1898, he was mar¬ ried to Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans. He was attached to the Library of Congress for about two years during which he devoted himself assiduously to writing, his duties in the Library being negligible. About this time he developed pulmonary tuberculosis, and the rest of his life was devoted to a vain search, for a restoration to health. He visited the Adirondacks, Paul Laurence Dunbar 55 Florida, Colorado, and other places. All the while he was hard at work, publishing a number of short stories and novels in addition to other volumes of poems. His many successful readings of his poems were a source of income and popularity for him. Among his miscellaneous publications were, The Uncalled, The Love of Landry, Lyrics of the Hearthside, Lyrics of Love and Laughter, Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow, and collections of short stories entitled, Folks from Dixie, The Strength of Gideon, In Old Plantation Days, and The Heart of Happy Hollow. The Life and Works of Paul Lawrence Dunbar, by Lyda Keck Wiggins, was published in 1907 by J. L. Nichols & Company, Naperville, Illinois. The Complete Poems of Paul Lawrence Dunbar was published by Dodd, Mead and Co. in 1916. Dunbar died in Dayton, Ohio, February 9, 1906. The selections, with the accompanying notes, are taken from The Life and Works. The Crisis A MAN of low degree was sore oppressed, Fate held him under iron-handed sway, And ever, those who saw him thus distressed Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray. But he, strong in himself and obdurate, Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate. Friends gave his proffered hand their coldest clasp, Or took it not at all; and Poverty, That bruised his body with relentless grasp, Grinned, taunting, when he struggled to be free. But though with helpless hands he beat the air, His need extreme yet found no voice in prayer. 56 Paul Laurence Dunbar Then he prevailed; and forthwith snobbish Fate, Like some whipped cur, came fawning at his feet; Those who had scorned forgave and called him great— His friends found out that friendship still was sweet. But he, once obdurate, now bowed his head In prayer, and trembling with its import, said: “Mere human strength may stand ill-fortune’s frown; So I prevailed, for human strength was mine; But from the killing pow’r of great renown, Naught may protect me save a strength divine. Help me, O Lord, in this my trembling cause; I scorn men’s curses, but I dread applause!” Dreams D REAM on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream, on and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken. Who likeneth the youth Of life to mourning? ’Tis like the night in truth, Rose-colored dreams adorning. The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber! In Lethe’s soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; ’tis sweet to dream. Oh. weep when thou awakest! Paul Laurence Dunbar 57 Dreams T X T HAT dreams we have and how they fly ^ * Like rosy clouds across the sky; Of wealth, of fame, of sure success, Of love that comes to cheer and bless; And how they wither, how they fade, The waning wealth, the jilting jade— The fame that for a moment gleams, Then flies forever,—dreams, ah—dreams ! O burning doubt and long regret, O tears with which our eyes are wet. Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain, The sombre cloud, the bitter rain, You were not of those dreams—ah! well, Your full fruition who can tell? Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams Upon our souls, all dreams—ah! dreams. The End of the Chapter 1 * * * * * 7 A H, yes, the chapter ends to-day; We even lay the book away; But oh, how sweet the moments sped Before the final page was read! 1 So prone is humanity to “jump at conclusions” that when the news¬ paper chroniclers set about finding things to say about Paul Laurence Dunbar at the time of his death, they unanimously concluded that this poem referred to the end of the poet’s married life and so stated with¬ out reservation. A careful study of his work reveals the fact that these stanzas were written long before his marriage and were no doubt sug¬ gested by the unhappy termination of some other man’s connubial happiness. That they proved startlingly prophetic in his own case can¬ not be denied, for, as he said for another, he might well have said for himself—- —so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this! No one will deny that while he had, like many poets, hundreds of “passing fancies” for fair women, he was a man of one great passion, and that was for his estranged wife. 58 Paul Laurence Dunbar We tried to read between the lines The Author’s deep-concealed designs; But scant reward such search secures; You saw my heart and I saw yours. The Master,—he who penned the page And bade us read it,—he is sage: And when he orders, you and I Can but obey, nor question why. We read together and forgot The world about us. Time was not. Unheeded and unfelt, it fled, We read and hardly knew we read. Until beneath a sadder sun, We came to know the book was done. Then, as our minds were but new lit, It dawned upon us what was writ; And we were startled. In our eyes, Looked forth the light of great surprise. Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls, A voice spoke forth: “Behold your souls!” I do, I do. I cannot look Into your eyes: so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this! Paul Laurence Dunbar 59 Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes 8 E RE sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought The magic gold which from the seeker flies; Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought, And make the waking world a world of lies,— Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn, That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,— Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, How all the griefs and heartaches we have known Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone, To work some potent spell, her magic plies. The past which held its share of bitter pain, Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise, Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room; What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom. What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries, And pangs of vague inexplicable pain 8 This poem is one of the most profound that Mr. Dunbar ever wrote, though it is one of his early productions. It attracted the attention of many learned persons before the poet became widely known. Among those who spoke of it especially were the playright James A. Herne. 60 Paul Laurence Dunbar That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise, Come thronging through the chambers of the brain. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Where ranges forth the spirit far and free? Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies Tends her far course to lands of mystery? To lands unspeakable—'beyond surmise, Where shapes unknowable to being spring. Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, How questioneth the soul that other soul,— The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies, But self exposes unto self, a scroll Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise, In characters indelible and known; So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise, The soul doth view its awful self alone, Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes, The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm, And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize For kissing all our passions into calm. Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries, Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery, Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies, At glooms through which our visions cannot see When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes. Paul Laurence Dunbar 61 A Hymn (After reading “Lead, Kindly Light”) L EAD gently, Lord, and slow, For oh, my steps are weak, And ever as I go, Some soothing sentence speak; That I may turn my face Through doubt’s obscurity Toward thine abiding-place, E’en tho’ I cannot see. For lo, the way is dark; Through mist and cloud I grope, Save for that fitful spark, The little flame of hope. Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall; I know not where I go Unless I hear thy call. My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar ; So let Thy mercy burn— My great, guiding star ! Love Despoiled A S lone I sat one summer’s day, With mien dejected, Love came by; His face distraught, his locks astray, So slow his gait, so sad his eye, I hailed him with a pitying cry: 62 Paul Laurence Dunbar “Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so ?” Said I, amazed. “Thou seem’st bereft; And see thy quiver hanging low,— What, not a single arrow left? Pray, who is guilty of this theft?” Poor Love looked in my face and cried: “No thief were ever yet so bold To rob my quiver at my side. But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold, And all my goodly shafts are sold.” Love’s Phases OVE hath the wings of the butterfly, ' Oh, clasp him but gently, Pausing and dipping and fluttering by Inconsequently. Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh; Love hath the wings of the butterfly. Love hath the wings of the eagle bold, Cling to him strongly— What if the look of the world be cold, And life go wrongly? Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold; Love hath the wings of the eagle bold. Love hath the voice of the nightingale, Hearken his trilling— List to his song when the moonlight is pale,— Passionate, thrilling. Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail; Love hath the voice of the nightingale. Paul Laurence Dunbar 63 Love hath the voice of the storm at night, Wildly defiant. Hear him and yield up your soul to his might, Tenderly pliant. None shall regret him who heed him aright; Love hath the voice of the storm at night. The Warrior’s Prayer T ONG since, in sore distress, I heard one pray, ■*—' “Lord, who prevailest with resistless might, Ever from war and strife keep me away. My battles fight!” I know not if I play the Pharisee, And if my brother after all be right; But mine shall be the warrior’s plea to thee— Strength for the fight. I do not ask that Thou shalt front the fray, And drive the warring foeman from my sight; I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day, Strength for the fight! Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe, Still let mine armor case me strong and bright; And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow, Strength for the fight! And when, at eventide, the fray is done, My soul to Death’s bedchamber do thou light, And give me, be the field or lost or -won, Rest from the fight! 64 Paul Laurence Dunbar Night S ILENCE, and whirling worlds afar Through all encircling skies. What floods come o’er the spirit’s bar, What wondrous thoughts arise. The earth, a mantle, falls away, And, winged, we leave the sod; Where shines in its eternal sway The majesty of God. Ode to Ethiopia O MOTHER RACE! to thee I bring This pledge of faith unwavering, This tribute to thy glory. I know the pangs which thou didst feel, When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory. Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed! But through the land the fruitful seed Of better times was growing. The plant of freedom upward sprung, And spread its leaves so fresh and young— Its blossoms now are blowing. On every hand in this fair land, Proud Ethiope’s swarthy children stand Beside their fairer neighbor; The forests flee before their stroke, Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,— They stir in honest labour. Paul Laurence Dunbar 65 They tread the fields where honor calls; Their voices sound through senate halls In majesty and power. To right they cling; the hymns they sing Up to the skies in beauty ring, And bolder grow each hour. Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul, Thy name is writ on Glory’s scroll In characters of fire. High ’mid the clouds of Fame’s bright sky Thy banner’s blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher. Thou hast the right to noble pride, Whose spotless robes were purified By blood’s severe baptism. Upon thy brow the cross was laid, And labor’s painful sweat-beads made A consecrating chrism. No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving; No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving. Go on and up! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise ; Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring, And proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia’s glory. 66 Paul Laurence Dunbar Slow Through the Dark S LOW moves the pageant of a climbing race; Their footsteps drag far, far below the height. And, unprevailing by their utmost might, Seem faltering downward from each hard won place. No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace A devious way thro’ dim, uncertain light,— Our hope, through the long-vistaed years, a sight Of that our Captain’s soul sees face to face. Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep, Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry? Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky? Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep; The clouds grow thickest when the summit’s nigh. By Rugged Ways TJT rugged ways and thro’ the night We struggle blindly towards the light; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out. “Deliver us, oh Lord,” we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder’s peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. “Oh, give us now Thy guiding light;” Paul Laurence Dunbar Our sole reply, the lightning’s blight. “Vain, vain,” cries one, “in vain we call But faith serene is over all. Beside our way the streams are dried. And famine mates us side by side. Discouraged and reproachful eyes Seek once again the frowning skies. Yet shall there come, spite storm and shock, A Moses who shall smite the rock, Call manna from the Giver’s hand, And lead us to the promised land! The way is dark and cold and steep, And shapes of horror murder sleep, And hard the unrelenting years; But ’twixt our sighs and moans and tears. We still can smile, we still can sing, Despite the arduous journeying. For faith and hope their courage lend, And rest and light are at the end. Drizzle H IT’S been drizzlin’ an’ been sprinklin'. Kin’ o’ techy all day long. I ain’t wet enough fu’ toddy, I’s too damp to raise a song, An’ de case have set me t’inkin’, Dat dey’s folk des lak de rain, Dat goes drizzlin’ w’en dey’s talkin’, An won’t speak out flat an’ plain. 68 Paul Laurence Dunbar Ain’t you nevah set an’ listened At a body ’splain his min’ ? W’en de t’oughts dey keep on drappin’ Wasn’t big enough to fin’ ? Dem’s whut I call drizzlin’ people, Othahs call ’em mealy mouf, • But de fust name hits me bettah, Case dey nevah tech a drouf. Dey kin talk from hyeah to yandah, An’ f’om yandah hyeah ergain, An’ dey don’ mek no mo’ ’pression, Den dis powd’ry kin’ o’ rain. En yo’ min’ is dry ez cindahs, Er a piece o’ kindlin’ wood, ’Tain’t no use a-talkin’ to ’em, Fu’ dey drizzle ain’t no good. Gimme folks dat speak out nachul, Whut’ll say des whut dey mean, Whut don’t set dey wo’ds so skimpy Dat you got to guess between. I want talk des’ lak de showahs Whut kin wash de dust erway, Not dat sprinklin’ convusation, Dat des drizzle all de day. A Banjo Song O H, dere’s lots o’ keer an’ trouble In dis world to swallow down; An’ ol’ Sorrer’s purty lively In her way o’ gittin’ roun’. Paul Laurence Dunbar 69 Yet dere’s times when I furgit ’em,— Aches an’ pains an’ troubles all,— An’ it’s when I tek at ebenin’ My ol’ banjo f’om de wall. ’Bout de time dat night is failin’ An’ my daily wu’k is done, An’ above de shady hilltops I kin see de settin’ sun; When de quiet, restful shadders Is beginnin’ jes’ to fall,— Den I take de little banjo F’om its place upon de wall. Den my fam’ly gadders roun’ me In de fadin’ o’ de light Ez I strike de strings to try ’em Ef dey all is tuned er-right. An’ it seems we’re so nigh heaben We kin hyeah de angels sing When de music o’ dat banjo Sets my cabin all er-ring. An’ my wife an’ all de othahs,— Male an’ female, small an’ big,— Even up to gray-haired granny, Seem jes’ boun’ to do a jig; ’Twell I change de style o’ music, Change de movements an’ de time, An’ de ringin’ little banjo Plays an ol’ hea’t-feelin’ hime. 70 Paul Laurence Dunbar An’ somehow my th’oat gits choky, An’ a lump keeps tryin’ to rise Lak it wan’ed to ketch de water Dat was flowin’ to my eyes; An’ I feel dat I could sorter Knock de socks clean off o’ sin Ez I hyeah my po’ ol’ granny Wif huh tremblin’ voice jine in. Den we all th’ow in our voices Fu’ to he’p de chune out too, Lak a big camp-meetin’ choiry Tryin’ to sing a mou’nah th’oo. An’ our th’oats let out de music, Sweet an’ solemn, loud an’ free, ’Twell de raftahs o’ my cabin Echo wif de melody. Oh, de music o’ de banjo, Quick an’ deb’lish, solemn, slow, Is de greates’ joy an’ solace Dat a weary slave kin know! So jes’ let me hyeah it ringin’, Dough de chune be po’ an’ rough. It’s a pleasure; an’ de. pleasures O’ dis life is few enough. Now, de blessed little angels Up in heaben, we are told, Don’t do nothin’ all dere lifetime ’Ceptin’ play on ha’ps o’ gold. Paul Laurence Dunbar 71 Now I think heaben’d be mo’ home-like Ef we’d hyeah some music fall F’om a real ol’-fashioned banjo, Like dat one upon de wall. The Deserted Plantation O H, de grubbin’-hoe’s a-rustin’ in de co’nah, An’ de plow’s a-tumblin’ down in de fiel’, While de whippo’will’s a-wailin’ lak a mou’nah When his stubbo’n hea’t is tryin’ ha’d to yiel’. In de furrers whah de co’n was alius wavin’, Now de weeds is growin’ green an’ rank an’ tall; An de swallers roun’ de whole place is a-bravin’ Lake dey thought deir folks had alius owned it all. An’ de big house stan’s all quiet lak an’ solemn, Not a blessed soul in pa’lor, po’ch, er lawn; Not a guest, ner not a ca’iage lef’ to haul ’em, Fu’ de ones dat tu’ned de latch-string out air gone. An’ de banjo’s voice is silent in de qua’ters, D’ain’t a hymn ner co’n-song ringin’ in de air ; But de murmur of a branch’s passin’ waters Is de only soun’ dat breks de stillness dere. Whah’s de da’kies, dem dat used to be a dancin’ Evry night befo’ de ole cabin do’? Whah’s de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin’ Er a-rollin’ in de san’ er on de flo’ ? Whah’s ole Uncle Mordecai an’ Uncle Aaron ? Whah’s Aunt Doshy, Sam, an’ Kit, an’ all de res’ ? Whah’s ole Tom de da’ky fiddlah, how’s he farin’? Whah’s de gals dat used to sing an’ dance de bes’? 72 Paul Laurence Dunbar Gone! Not one o’ dem is lef’ to tell de story; Dey have lef’ de deah ole place to fall away. Couldn’t one o’ dem dat seed it in its glory Stay to watch it in de hour of decay? Dey have lef’ de ole plantation to de swallers, But it hoi’s in me a lover till de las’; Fu’ I fin’ hyeah in de memory dat follers All dat loved me an’ dat I loved in de pas’. So I’ll stay an’ watch de deah ole place an’ tend it Ez I used to in de happy days gone by. ’Twell de othah Mastah thinks it’s time to end it, An’ calls me to my qua’ters in de sky. Angelina HEN de fiddle gits to singin’ out a ol’ Vahginny reel; An’ you ’mence to feel a ticklin’ in yo’ toe an’ in yo’ heel; Ef you t’ink you got ’uligion an’ you wants to keep it, too, You jes’ bettah tek a hint an’ git yo’self clean out o’ view. Case de time is mighty temptin’ when de chune is in de swing, Fu’ a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing. An’ you couldn’t help f’om dancin’ ef yo’ feet was boun’ wif twine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line. Paul Laurence Dunbar 73 Don’t you know Miss Angelina ? She’s de da’lin’ of de place. W’y, dey ain’t no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs an’ sich grace. She kin move across the cabin, wif its planks all rough an’ wo’; Jes’ de sam’s ef she was dancin’ on ol’ mistus’ ball¬ room flo’. Fact is, you do’ see no cabin—evaht’ing you see look grand, An’ dat one ol’ squeaky fiddle soun’ to you jes’ lak a ban’; Cotton britches look lak broadclof an’ a linsey dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line. Some folks say dat dancin’s sinful, an’ de blessed Lawd, dey say, Gwine to purnish us fu’ steppin’ w’en we hyeah de music play. But I tell you I don’ b’lieve it, fu’ de Lawd is wise and good. And he made de banjo’s metal an’ he made de fiddle wood, An’ he made de music in dem, so I don’ quite t’ink he’ll keer Ef our feet keeps time a little to de melodies we hyeah. W’y, dey’s somep’n’ downright holy in de way our faces shine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line. 74 Paul Laurence Dunbar Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low, An’ she lif’ huh sku’t so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show; An’ dem teef o’ huh’n a-shinin,’ ez she tek you by de han’— Go ’way, people, d’ain’t anothah sich a lady in de lan’! When she’s movin’ thoo de Aggers er a-dancin’ by huhse’f, Folks jes’ stan’ stock-still a-sta’in’, an’ dey mos’ nigh hoi’s dey bref; An’ de young mens, dey’s a-saying’, “I’s gwine mek dat damsel mine,” When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin’ down de line. Expectation Y OU’LL be wonderin’ whut’s de reason I’s a grinnin’ all de time, An’ I guess you t’ink my sperits Mus’ be feelin’ mighty prime. Well, I ’fess up, I is tickled As a puppy at his paws. But you needn’t think I’s crazy, I ain’t laffin’ ’dout a cause. You’s a wonderin’ too, I reckon, Why I doesn’t seem to eat, An’ I notice you a lookin’ Lak you felt completely beat When I ’fuse to tek de bacon, An’ don’ settle on de ham. Don’ you feel no feah erbout me, Jes’ keep eatin’, an.’ be ca’m. Paul Laurence Dunbar 75 Fu’ I’s waitin’ an’ I’s watchin’ ’Bout a little t’ing I see— D’ othah night I’s out a walkin’ An’ I passed a ’simmon tree. Now I’s whettin’ up my hongry, An’ I’s laffin’ fit to kill, Fu’ de fros’ done turned de 'simmons, An’ de possum’s eat his fill. He done go’ged hisse’f owdacious, An’ he stayin’ by de tree! Don’ you know, ol’ Mistah Possum Dat you gittin’ fat fu’ me ? ’Tain’t no use to try to ’spute it, ’Cause I knows you’s gittin’ sweet Wif dat ’simmon flavoh thoo you. So I’s waitin’ fu yo’ meat. An’ some ebenin’ me an Towsah Gwine to come an’ mek a call, We jes’ drap in onexpected Fu’ to shek yo’ han’, dat’s all. Oh, I knows dat you’ll be tickled, Seem lak I kin see you smile, So pu’haps I mought pu’suade you Fu’ to visit us a while. A Frolic S WING yo’ lady roun’ an’ roun’, Do de bes’ you know; Mek yo’ bow an’ p’omenade Up an’ down de flo’; 76 Paul Laurence Dunbar Mek dat banjo hump huhse’f, Listen at huh talk: Mastah gone to town to-night; ’Tain’t no time to walk. Lif’ yo’ feet an’ flutter thoo, Run, Miss Lucy, run; Reckon you’ll be cotched an’ kissed ’Fo’ de night is done. You don’t need to be so proud— I’s a-watchin’ you, An’ I’s layin’ lots o’ plans Fu’ to git you, too. Moonlight on de cotton-fiel’ Shinin’ sof’ an’ white, Whippo’will a-tellin’ tales Out thaih in de night; An’ yo’ cabin’s ’crost de lot: Run, Miss Lucy, run; Reckon you’ll be cotched an’ kissed ’Fo’ de night is done. How Lucy Backslid T^\ E times is mighty stirrin’ ’mong de people up ouah way, Dey ’sputin’ an’ dey argyin’ an’ fussin’ night an’ day; An’ all dis monst’ous trouble dat hit meks me tiahed to tell Is ’bout dat Lucy Jackson dat was sich a mighty belle. Paul Laurence Dunbar 77 She was de preacheh’s favored, an’ he tol’ de chu’ch one night Dat she traveled thoo de cloud o’ sin a-bearin’ of a light; But, now, I ’low he t’inkin’ dat she mus’ ’a’ los’ huh lamp, Case Lucy done backslided an’ dey trouble in de camp. Huh daddy wants to beat huh, but huh mammy daihs him to, Fu’ she lookin’ at de question f’om a ooman’s pint o’ view; An’ she say dat now she wouldn’t have it diff’ent ef she could; Dat huh darter only acted jes’ lak any othah would. Cose you know w’en women argy, dey is mighty easy led By dey hea’ts an’ don’t go foolin’ ’bout de reasons of de haid. So huh mammy laid de law down (she ain’t recker- nizing wrong), But you got to mek erlowance fu’ de cause dat go along. Now de cause dat made Miss Lucy fu’ to th’ow huh grace away I’s afeard won’t baih no ’spection w’en hit comes to jedgement day; Do’ de same t’ing been a-workin’ evah sence de work began,— De ooman disobeyin’ fu’ to ’tice along a man. 78 Paul Laurence Dunbar Ef you ’tended de revivals which we held de wintah pas’, You kin reckolec’ dat convuts was a-comin’ thick an’ fas’; But dey ain’t no use in talkin’, de was all lef’ in de lu’ch When ol’ Mis’ Jackson’s dartah foun’ huh peace an’ tuk de chu’ch. W’y, she shouted ovah evah inch of Ebenezah’s flo’; Up into de preachah’s pulpit an’ f’om dah down to de do’; Den she hugged an’ squeezed huh mammy, an’ she hugged an’ kissed huh dad, An’ she struck out at huh sistah, people said, lak she was mad. I has ’tended some revivals dat was lively in my day, An’ I’s seed folks git ’uligion in mos’ evah kin’ o’ way; But I tell you, an’ you b’lieve me dat I’s speakin’ true indeed, Dat gal tuk huh ’ligion ha’dah dan de ha’dest yit I’s seed. Well, f’om dat, ’twas “Sistah Jackson, won’t you please do dis er dat?” She mus’ alius sta’t de singin’ w’en dey’d pass eroun’ de hat, An’ hit seemed dey wasn’t nuffin’ in dat chu’ch dat could go by ’Dout sistah Lucy Jackson had a finger in de pie. Paul Laurence Dunbar 79 But de sayin’ mighty trufeful dat hit easiah to sail W’en de sea is ca’m an’ gentle dan to weathah out a gale. Dat’s whut made dis ooman’s trouble; ef de sto’m had kep’ away, She’d ’a’ had enough ’uligion fu’ to lasted out huh day. Lucy went wid ’Lishy Davis, but w’en she jined chu’ch, you know Dah was lots o’ little places dat, of cose, she couldn’t go; An’ she had to gin up dancin’ an’ huh singin’ an’ huh play.— Now hit’s nachul dat sich goin’s-on ’u’d drive a man away. So w’en Lucy got so solemn, Ike he sta’ted fu’ to go Wid a gal who was a sinnah an’ could mek a bettah show. Lucy jes’ went on to meetin’ lak she didn’t keer a rap, But my ’sperunce kep’ me t’inkin’ dah was somep’n gwine to drap. Fu’ a gal won’t let ’uligion er no othah so’t o’ t’ing Stop huh w’en she teks a notion dat she wants a wed- din’ ring. You kin p’omise huh de blessin’s of a happy aftah life (An’ hit’s nice to be a angel), but she’d ravah be a wife. So w’en Christmas come an’ mastah gin a frolic on de lawn, 80 Paul Laurence Dunbar Didn’t ’sprise me not de littlest seein’ Lucy lookin’ on. An’ I seed a wa’nin’ lightnin’ go a-flashin’ f’om huh eye Jes ez ’Lishy an’ his new gal went a-gallivantin’ by. An’ dat Tildy, umph! she giggled, an’ she gin huh dress a flirt Lak de people she was passin’ was ez common ez de dirt; An’ de minit she was dancin’, w’y dat gal put on mo’ aihs Dan a cat a-tekin’ kittens up a paih o’ windin’ staihs. She could ’fo’d to show huh sma’tness, fu’ she couldn’t he’p but know Dat wid jes’ de present dancahs she was ownah of de flo’; But I t’ink she’d kin’ o’ cooled down ef she happened on de sly Fu’ to noticed dat ’ere lightnin’ dat I seed in Lucy’s eye. An’ she wouldn’t been so ’stonished w’en de people gin a shout, An’ Lucy th’owed huh mantle back an’ come a-glidin’ out. Some ahms was dah to tek huh an’ she fluttahed down de flo’ Lak a feddali f’om a bedtick w’en de win’ commence to blow. Soon as Tildy see de trouble, she jes’ tu’n an’ toss huh haid, But seem lak she los’ huh sperrit, all huh dari’ness was daid. Paul Laurence Dunbar 81 Didn’t cut anothah capah nary time de blessid night; But de othah one, hit looked lak couldn’t git enough delight. W’en you keeps a colt a-stan’in’ in de stable all along, W’en he do git out hit’s nachul he’ll be pullin’ mighty strong. Ef you will tie up yo’ feelin’s, hyeah’s de bes’ advice to tek, Look out fu’ an awful loosin’ w’en de string dat hoi’s ’em brek. Lucy’s mammy groaned to see huh, an’ huh pappy sto’med an’ to’, But she kep’ right on a-hol’n’ to de centah of de flo’. So dey went an’ ast de pastah ef he couldn’t mek her quit, But de tellin’ of de sto’y th’owed de preachah in a fit. Tildy Taylor chewed huh hank’cher twell she’d chewed it in a hole,— All de sinnahs was rejoicin’ ’cause de lamb had lef’ de fol’, An’ de las’ I seed o’ Lucy, she an’ ’Lish was side an’ side: I don’t blame de gal fu’ dancin’, an’ I couldn’t ef I tried. Fu’ de men dat wants to ma’y ain’t a-growin’ ’roun’ on trees, An de gal dat wants to git one sholy has to try to please. 82 Paul Laurence Dunbar Hit’s a ha’d t’ing fu’ a ooman fu’ to pray an’ jes’ set down. An’ to sacafice a husban’ so’s to try to gain a crown. Now, I don’t say she was justified in followin’ huh plan; But aldough she los’ huh ’ligion, yit she sholy got de man. Latah on, w’en she is suttain dat de preachah’s made ’em fas’ She kin jes’ go back to chu’ch an’ ax fu’giveness fu’ de pas’! Possum T? F dey’s anyt’ing dat riles me ' An’ jes’ gits me out o’ hitch, Twell I want to tek my coat off, So’s to r’ar an’ t’ar an’ pitch, Hit’s to see some ign’ant white man ’Mittin’ dat owdacious sin— W’en he want to cook a possum Tekin’ off de possum’s skin. W’y, dey ain’t no use in talkin’, Hit jes’ hu’ts me to de hea’t Fu’ to see dem foolish people Th’owin’ ’way de fines’ pa’t. W’y, dat skin is jes’ ez tendah An’ ez juicy ez kin be; I knows all erbout de critter— Hide an’ haih—don’t talk to me! Paul Laurence Dunbar 83 Possum skin is jes’ lak shoat skin; Jes’ you swinge an’ scrope it down, Tek a good sh’ap knife an’ sco’ it, Den you bake it good an’ brown. Huh-uh! honey, you’s so happy Dat yo’ thoughts is ’mos’ a sin When you’s settin’ dah a-chawin’ On dat possum’s cracklin’ skin. White folks t’ink dey know ’bout eatin’. An’ I reckon dat dey do Sometimes git a little idee Of a middlin’ dish er two; But dey ain’t a t’ing dey knows of Dat I reckon cain’t be beat W’en we set down at de table To a unskun possum’s meat! Temptation I Done got ’uligion, honey, an’ I’s happy ez a king; Evahthing I see erbout me’s jes’ lak sunshine in de spring; An’ it seems lak I do’ want to do anothah blessid thing But jes’ run an’ tell de neighbors, an’ to shout an’ pray an’ sing. I done shuk my fis’ at Satan, an’ I’s gin de work my back; I do’ want no hendrin’ causes now a-both’rin’ in my track; Fu’ I’s on my way to glory, an’ I feels too sho’ to miss. W’y dey ain’t no use in sinnin’ when ’uligion’s sweet ez dis. 84 Paul Laurence Dunbar Talk erbout a man backslidin’ w’en he’s on de gospel way; No, suh, I done beat de debbil, an’ Temptation’s los’ de day. Gwine to keep my eyes right straight up, gwine to shet my eahs, an’ see Whut ole projick Mistah Satan’s gwine to try to wuk on me. Listen, whut dat soun’ I hyeah dah? ’tain’t no one commence to sing; It’s a fiddle; git erway dah! don’ you hyeah dat blessid thing ? W’y, dat’s sweet ez drippin’ honey, ’cause, you knows, I draws de bow, An’ when music’s sho’ ’nough music, I’s de one dat’s sho’ to know. W’y, I’s done de double shuffle, twell a body couldn’t res’, Jes’ a-hyeahin’ Sam de fiddlah play dat chune his level bes’; I could cut a mighty caper, I could gin a mighty fling Jes’ right now, I’s mo’ dan suttain I could cut de pigeon wing. Look hyeah, whut’s dis I’s been sayin’? whut on urf’s tuk holt o’ me? Dat ole music come nigh runnin’ my ’uligion up a tree! Cleah out wif dat dah ole fiddle, don’ you try dat trick again; Didn’t think I could be tempted, but you lak to made Paul Laurence Dunbar 85 When Malindy Sings 9 ’WAY an’ quit dat noise. Miss Lucy— Put dat music book away; What’s de use to keep on tryin’ ? Ef you practise twell you’re gray, You cain’t sta’t no notes a-flyin’ Lak de ones dat rants and rings From the kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. You ain’t got de nachel o’gans Fu’ to make de soun’ come right, You ain’t got de tu’ns an’ twistin’s Fu’ to make it sweet an’ light. Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An’ Pm tellin’ you fu’ true, When hit comes to raal right singin’, Tain’t no easy thing to do. Easy ’nough fu’ folks to hollah, Lookin’ at de lines an’ dots, When dey ain’t no one kin sence it, 9 This poem has been adjudged as the best of the poet’s dialect pieces. It has been set to music and sung in homes all over the land. It was dedicated to his mother whose name was Matilda and was slightly modi¬ fied to suit the rhythm and melody of the verses. Dunbar recited this poem before a critical audience in London, England, and it was given very complimentary mention in the London Daily News. While in New York in 1896, Dunbar was tendered a reception by the entire staff of the Century Magazine and was asked to read a few of his poems. This poem was among those recited that day. His hearers were loud in their applause and showered compliments and congratulations upon its author. Several of Dunbar’s poems had been published in the Century before that date, but, full of the spirit of mischief, the young black man turned to Mr. Gilder, the editor of the Century, and said: “That’s one you returned.’’ Mr. Gilder was a bit embarrassed, but gallantly responded: “We’ll take it yet.’’ “Sorry,” replied Dunbar laughingly, “but you’re too late. It has now been accepted by another magazine.” 86 Paul Laurence Dunbar An’ de chune comes in, in spots; But fu’ real melojous music, Dat jes’ strikes yo’ hea’t and clings, Jes’ you stan’ an listen wif me When Malindy sings. Ain’t you nevah hyeahd Malindy? Blessed soul, tek up de cross! Look hyeah, ain’t you jokin’, honey? Well, you don’t know whut you los’. Y’ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa’blin’, Robins, la’ks, an’ all dem things, Heish dey moufs an’ hides dey faces When Malindy sings. Fiddlin’ man jes’ stop his fiddlin’, Lay his fiddle on de she’f; Mockin’-bird quit tryin’ to whistle, ’Cause he jes’ so shamed hisse’f. Folks a-playin’ on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings— Bless yo’ soul—fu’gits to move ’em, When Malindy sings. She jes’ spreads huh mouf and hollahs, “Come to Jesus,” twell you hyeah Sinnahs’ tremblin’ steps and voices, Timid-lak a-drawin’ neah; Den she tu’ns to “Rock of Ages,” Simply to de cross she clings, An’ you fin’ yo’ teahs a-drappin When Malindy sings. Paul Laurence Dunbar 87 Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts? Heish yo’ mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an’ mounts— Floatin’ by de hills an’ valleys, Way above dis buryin’ sod, Ez hit makes its way in glory To de very gates of God! Oh, hit’s sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band ; An’ hit’s dearah dan de battle’s Song o’ triumph in de lan’. It seems holier than evenin’ When de solemn chu’ch bell rings, Ez I sit an’ ca’mly listen While Malindy sings. Towsah, stop dat ba’kin’, hyeah me! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; Don’t you hyeah de echoes callin’ F’om de valley to de hill ? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th’oo de bresh of angel’s wings, Sof’ an’ sweet, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” Ez Malindy sings. A Choice / I V HEY please me not—these solemn songs "*■ That hint of sermons covered up. ’Tis true the world should heed its wrongs, But in a poem let me sup, 88 Paul Laurence Dunbar Not simples brewed to cure or ease Humanity’s confessed disease, But the spirit wine of a singing line, Or a dew-drop in a honey cup! Mortality SHES to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lust ? What of his passion, what of his pain ? What of his poverty, what of his pride? Earth, the great mother has called him again: Deeply he sleeps, the world’s verdict defied. Shall he be tried again ? Shall he go free ? Who shall the court convene ? Where shall it be ? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did, we must: You with your theories, you with your trust, — Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust! The Sum LITTLE dreaming by the way, •L A little toiling day by day; A little pain, a little strife, A little joy,—and that is life. A little short-lived summer’s morn, When joy seems all so newly born, When one day’s sky is blue above, And one bird sings,—and that is love. A little sickening of the years, The tribute of a few hot tears, Paul Laurence Dunbar 89 Two folded hands, the failing breath, And peace at last,—and that is death. Just dreaming, loving, dying so, The actors in the drama go— A flitting picture on a wall, Love, Death, the themes; but is that all ? Life A CRUST of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double; And that is life ! A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us; And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter; And that is life! The Poet and the Baby H OW’S a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,— How’s he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,— When a-toddling on the floor Is the muse he must adore, And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well ? Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows, One must always be as quiet as a mouse; But to write one seems to me Quite superfluous to be, When you’ve got a little sonnet in the house. 90 Paul Laurence Dunbar Just a dainty little poem, true and fine, That is full of love and life in every line, Earnest, delicate, and sweet, Altogether so complete That I wonder what’s the use of writing mine. Life’s Tragedy I T may be misery not to sing at all And to go silent through the brimming day. It may be sorrow never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To have come near to sing the perfect song And only by a half-tone lost the key, There is the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of life’s tragedy. To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth— This, this it is to be accursed indeed; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing. Compensation God in his great compassion Gave me the gift of song. Paul Laurence Dunbar 91 Because I have loved so vainly, And sung with such faltering breath, The Master in infinite mercy Offers the boon of Death. A Death Song 10 L AY me down beneaf de willers in de grass, Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass. An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low, I kin hyeah it as it go Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.” Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool, Whah de little birds in spring' Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing, An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school. Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’ Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’ Ef I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s alius knowed. 10 At the time of Dunbar’s death, many persons were of the opinion that this poem was of very recent date. The truth is that it was writ¬ ten as far back as 1898, while the author was in Washington, and ap¬ peared in the Congrenationalist in September or October of that year. These stanzas were printed in almost every newspaper in the country when the poet passed away, and the request embodied in the lines was followed as nearly as possible in the selection of a burial site. 92 George Marion McClellan GEORGE MARION McCLELLAN George Marion McClellan, son of George Fielding) and Eliza (Leonard) McClellan, was born at Belfast, Tennessee, September 29, 1860. He was educated at Fisk University, graduating in 1885. In 1890 he re¬ ceived the M.A. degree from Fisk, and the following, year his B.D. from Hartford Theological Seminary. He was financial agent of Fisk University 1891-95 teacher and chaplain of the State Normal School, Nor-i mal, Alabama, 1895-97; pastor of the Congregational Church, Memphis, Tennessee, 1897-99; teacher of Latin and English in Central High School, Louisville, Kentucky, 1899-1911 ; Principal of Dunbar Public School, Louisville, 1911-1919. Since 1919 he has been engaged in the work of raising funds for the establish¬ ment of an anti-tubercular sanatorium for colored people. In 1895 he published a Book of Poems and Short Stories, through the A. M. E. Publishing House, Nashville, Tennessee. The next year he published Old Greenbottom Inn. In 1916 he published The Path of Dreams, through John P. Morton & Company, of Louisville, from which the selections given are taken. In 1888 he married Maria Augusta Rabb, of Colum¬ bus, Mississippi. His present address is 1669 East 50' Place, Los Angeles, California. The Path of Dreams O WEET-SCENTED winds move inward from the ^ shore, Blythe is the air of June with silken gleams, My roving fancy treads at will once more, The golden path of dreams. George Marion McClellan 93 Along the sloping uplands yellow wheat Is bending to the honied breath of June, While all the lowlands slumber at my feet This glorious afternoon. To balmy gusts from blue-girt breezy hills The clover blossoms nod with graceful art, And all the mystery of living thrills The ever pulsing heart. A boon to lovers still, the sweet wild rose Adds perfume to the languor in the air, And whispering Zephyr scatters as she goes Sweet attars everywhere. The wild birds restlessly from tree to tree, Flit ceaselessly beneath the sunlit skies, And give a sumptuous afternoon to me, In song and gladsome cries. Blue gauze the empty distances enfold; The stream-fed glens lie bare in lovliness, And waves of light along the paths of gold The glens and hills caress. In garish light the rustling, shimmering corn, The trembling leaves, the passing winds caress, And in the heart a subtle throb is born Of mighty tenderness. Vague yearnings, tenderness that prompt to tears And fills the heart with mingled pain and bliss Come down to men through many thousand years- On afternoons like this. 94 George Marion McClellan What is there in the vistas, sun, and flower, That prompts alike to happiness and tears, Unites life’s scattered visions in the hour Of past and present years? Is it the throb of life on soft hill slopes, A thousand passions burned to fever heat Spread out in shimmering glows that run to hopes For some fulfillment sweet? Some half fulfillment yet of vanished gleams, Of vanished promises when love’s wild glow Made fervid youth a tenement of dreams Back in the long ago. To Hollyhocks G AY hollyhocks with flaming bells And waving plumes, as gently swells The breeze upon the summer air; You blind me still with magic spells When to the wind, in grave farewells, You bow in all your graces fair. You bring me back the childhood view, Where arching skies and deepest blue Stretch on in endless lengths above; To see you so awakes anew Long past emotions, from which grew My wild and first heart-throbs of love. There is in all your brilliant dyes, Your gorgeousness and azure skies, A joy like soothing summer rain; George Marion McClellan 95 Yet in the scene there vaguely lies A something half akin to sighs. Along the 'borderland of pain. The Ephemera C REATURES of gauze and velvet wings, With life for one brief day, Dancing and flitting where the breezes fling The sweets of blooming May; Skimming the stream where the wild thyme grows. You dart with keen delight, Only to die when the sweet wild rose Gives perfume to the night. Weary at last, when the day is done, Of the breeze and clover’s breath, Folding your delicate wings with the sun, You gently drop to death; Glimmering wings and a few short hours Were yours in sweet delight, Living for a day in the world of flowers, And then—everlasting night. Creatures of gauze and velvet wings, With a day of gleams and flowers, Who knows—in the light of eternal things— Your life is less than ours? Weary at last, it is ours, like you, When our brief day is done, Folding our hands, to say adieu, And pass with the setting sun. 96 George Marion McClellan The Feet of Judas C HRIST washed the feet of Judas! The dark and evil passions of his soul, His secret plot and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, And still in love he stooped and washed his feet. Christ washed the feet of Judas! Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, His bargain with the priest, and more than this, In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss. Christ washed the feet of Judas! And so ineffable his love ’twas meet. That pity fill his great forgiving heart, And tenderly to wash the traitor’s feet, Who in his Lord had basely sold his part. Christ washed the feet of Judas! And thus a girded servant, self-abased, Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, And though unmasked, in spirit be forgiven. And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, What e’er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: Christ washed the feet of Judas. George Marion McClellan 97 A Belated Oriole G AY little songster of the Spring This is an evil hour, For one so light of heart and wing To face the storms that lower. December winds blow on the lea A chill that threatens harm, With not a leaf on bush or tree To shield thee from the storm. Why hast thou lingered here so late To face the storms that rise, When all thy kind, and yellow mate, Have sought for southern skies ? Hast thou, like me, some fortune ill To bind thee to this spot? Made to endure, against thy will, A melancholy lot? Chill is the air with windy sighs, A prophecy that blows, Of cold and inhospitable skies, Of bitter frost and snows. But there is One whose power it is To temper blast and storm. And love to give a bird is His, And keep it safe from harm. To Him thy helplessness will plead, To Him I lift a prayer, For we alike have common need Of His great love and care. 98 Daniel Webster Davis DANIEL WEBSTER DAVIS Daniel Webster Davis, son of Randall and Charlotte Davis, was born on a farm in North Carolina, March 25, 1862. After the war the family removed to Rich¬ mond, Virginia, where Webster entered the public schools. He was graduated from the Richmond High School and Normal in 1878, receiving at his graduation the Essayist Medal. In 1880 he began teaching in the public schools of Richmond, a work he continued for many years. He was married, in 1893, to one of the teachers in the Richmond schools. In 1895 he was or¬ dained a Baptist minister and began the same year the pastorate of a church in Manchester, Virginia. In 1898 Guadaloupe College, Seguin, Texas, conferred on him the degree of Master of Arts. In 1900 he went on the lecture platform under the management of the Central Lyceum Bureau. In 1896 he published Idle Moments and in 1898, Weh Down Souf and Other Poems, which include his best poetical work. He is joint author with Giles B. Jackson, of Richmond, Vir¬ ginia, of An Industrial History of the Negro Race in the United States. The selections are from Weh Down Souf. Night on the OF Plantashun U PON de ol’ plantashun, jes’ erbout de crack ub day, You could lis’en fur de oberseer’s horn; An’ by sunrise we wuz movin’, fur we had to git away, An’ do an hones’ day’s wuck shorze yo’ bo’n. But when de shadders gathered, an’ we had done our turn, Daniel Webster Davis 99 We’d put away de shuvel an’ de hoe, Fur ol’ marster never bothered, if he knowed our wuck wuz done, Ef we den injoyed de fiddle an’ de bow. Sumtimes our wives an’ chillun wuz on de ’jinin’ farm, Maybe ten or ’leben miles or mo’ away; We’d walk it ’doubt no trouble, nor did it don’ us harm, An’ be fresh an’ ready fur de wuck nex’ day. We could dodge de patterrollers ef we didn’t hab a pass— Dat kind ub thing wuz only fun fur us— An’ ’stid ub us kumplainin’, we ’joyed it to de las’, An’ wuz thankful to de Lord it won’t no wuss. Some would gether in de cabin, or in de cornhouse, whar, Wid tubs an’ pots an’ kittles settin’ roun’, Dey would rassle wid de Father in strong an’ earnes’ prayhr, Whil’ de water in de vessels ketched de soun’. ’Cause do’ we mout be sinnuz, an’ wander frum de fol’, Our ’zires wuz always right ez dey could be, An’ our ’pendunce in de Bible, whar ub de lan’ we’z tor, Whar servunts frum de marster is set free. Maybe ignunce made us happy when de marster treat us fair, An’ unkumplainin’ when we found him mean; An’ days ub toil an’ trouble cheered by nights so free from care, 100 Daniel Webster Davis On de ol’ plantashun, now jes’ like a dream. An’ when ol’ Death shall take us, whar night kin kum no mo’, An’ we meet in Heben above, to nebber roam, We’ll talk up dar togedder, wid loved ones gon’ befo’, Ub de nights in de ol’ plantashun horn’. Hog Meat D EZE eatin’ folks may tell me ub de gloriz ub spring lam’, An’ de toofsumnis ub tucky et wid cel’ry an’ wid jam; Ub beef-st’ak fried wid unyuns, an’ sezoned up so fin’— But yo’ jes’ kin gimme hog-meat, an’ I’m happy all de tim’. When de fros’ is on de pun’kin an’ de sno’-flakes in de ar’, I den begin rejoicin’—hog-killin’ time is near; An’ de vishuns ub de fucher den fill my nightly dreams, Fur de time is fas’ a-comin’ fur de ’lishus pork an’ beans. We folks dat’s frum de kuntry may be bellin’ de sun— We don’t lik’ city eatin’s, wid beef-st’aks dat ain’ don’— ’Dough muttun chops is splendid, an’ dem veal cutlits fin’, To me ’tain’t like a spahr-rib, or gret big chunk ob chine. Daniel Webster Davis 101 Jes’ talk to me ’bout hog-meat, ef yo’ want to see me pleased, Fur biled wid beans tiz gor’jus, or made in hog-head cheese; An’ I could jes’ be happy, ’dout money, cloze or house, Wid plenty yurz an’ pig feet made in ol’-fashun “souse.” I ’fess I’m only human, I hab my joys an’ cares— Sum days de clouds hang hebby, sum days de skies ar’ fair; But I forgib my in’miz, my heart is free frum hate, When my bread is filled with cracklins an’ dar’s chid- lins on my plate. ’Dough possum meat is glo’yus wid ’taters in de pan, But put ’longside pork sassage it takes a backward stan’; Ub all yer fancy eatin’s, jes gib to me fur min’ Sum souse or pork or chidlins’ sum spahr-ribs, or de chine. Stickin’ to de Hoe D AR’S mighty things a-gwine on, Sense de days when I wuz young, An’ folks don’t do ez dey did once. Sense dese new times is kum; De gals dey dresses pow’ful fin’, An’ all am fur a sho’, But de thing dat I’ze in favor ub Is stickin’ to de hoe. 102 Daniel Webster Davis Lamin’ is a blessed thing, An’ good cloze berry fin’, But I likes to see de cullud gal Dat’s been larnt how to ’ine’; Gimme de gal to wash an’ scrub, An’ keep things white an’ clean, An’ kin den go in de kitchin An’ cook de ham an’ greens. I ain’t got no edikashun, But dis I kno’ am true, Dat raisin’ gals too good to wuck Ain’t nebber gwine to do; Dese boys dat look good ’nuf to eat, But too good to saw de logs, Am kay’n us ez fas’ ez smoke, To lan ’us at de dogs. I ’spose dat I’m ol’ fashun’, But God made man to plow, An’ git his libbin’ by de sweat Dat trickles down his brow. While lamin’ an’ all dem things Am mighty good fur sho’, De bes’ way we kin make our pints Is—stickin’ to de hoe. To fill de hed wid lamin’ Dat de fingers kan’t express, To dis poor ig’nunt brudder Don’t seem to be de bes’; Daniel Webster Davis 103 To git de edikeshun An’ larn to work ez well, Seems to my ’umble judgment, De thing dat’s gwine to tell. Pomp’s Case Argued T)OMP stole dem breeches, an’ ’lowed ’twon’t sin, ’Cause he stole de breeches to be baptized in; But I doubts dat, brudders! le’s argify de case, Fur we can’t hab de young lams a-fallin’ frum grace. Ef er brudder is hongry, an’ er chickin on de roos’ Sets a-temptin’ ub de saints, why ‘twon’t no use Fur de callin’ ub er council; de case am plain, De chickin wuz de sinner an’ deserbs all de blam’. But breeches is diffunt, an’ stealin’s mighty ’rong, ’Cause, yo’ see, he moughter borro’d, sense his mem’ry ain’ long; An’ furgittin’ to return ’em, nobody could er say Dat he stole dem breeches,—’tiz clear ez de day. True, his moughter bin busted, an’ de seat to’ed out— Fur ’tiz kinder strainin’, dis leadin’ ub de shout; But, den, he could er patched ’um, an’ wid coat tails long Hab cut a lubly figger ’dout doin’ enny ’rong. Maybe pride wuz de kashun—dar de debbil tempts to sin,— An’ his bed-tick breeches won’t good ’nuf fur him; But I moves fur to ’sclude him, ’cause he nebber had to ought, Ef he stole dem breeches, go an’ git hisef caught. 104 George Hannibal Temple GEORGE HANNIBAL TEMPLE The selection is taken from The Epic of Columbus’ Bell and Other Poems, which was published in 1900, at Reading, Pennsylvania. No further biographical facts concerning Temple are available. Crispus Attucks * r I 'WAS evening, and the wintry white Glistened beneath the star-lit sky— Forth marched the British cohorts right Through Boston’s streets, there to defy The gathered sons of Freedom’s cause, And taunt them with Oppression’s laws. “Forward!’’—the captain waves his steel High circling wide; him to obey, Right onward into King street wheel, With steady step and close array, The alien red-coats, eager bent, To crush the freedom sentiment. Them Attucks views; beneath his breast The martial music beats and burns; His manly bosom with unrest Now rises, and now falls by turns; Ready he stands to strike a blow, To rid the colony of its foe. “Strike! Strike! this is the nest,” he cried, And rushed impetuous to the lead George Hannibal Temple 105 Of Liberty. On every side The patriots join with hasty speed, And follow him with purpose grand, Who durst for Freedom raise his hand. He shouts, he wields a knotted oak— It falls and sounds the battle note Fierce on their ranks. Redoubling stroke On stroke, his ample weapon smote Disorder’d ruin and dread discord, Full on the grim, advancing horde. Amazed they are, and rave with ire, Nor dare to brave where danger calls— They halt—now charge, and, charging, fire; And Attucks’ self, first martyr, falls, At Freedom’s shrine: transfixed he lies; He bleeds for Liberty, and dies. CHARLES R. DINKINS Of the subject of this sketch we have been able to learn only that he is a minister of the A. M. E. Zion Church and that he published a little volume of poems, Lyrics of Love, Sacred and Secular, at Columbia, South Carolina, in 1904, from which these selections are taken. His last ascertainable address was New Bern, North Carolina. Invocation L ORD of angelic nations, bright, God of the mighty seas and skies, Who shuts the mournful door of Night, 106 Charles R. Dinkins Who bids the gates of Day “Arise”— Remember, Lord, Thy people here, Our sins reprove; be not severe. Far as Thy mercies belt the skies, O’er arching nature’s varied breeds; Beneath, commingle weak and wise, Companions all in crimes or creeds ; So far Thy gracious wings extend, And shelter us, though we have sinned. Speak not with Sinai’s thunders, Lord, Nor whip with Egypt’s fiery thong, Nor lift Vesuvius’ flaming rod, Nor lash with Etna’s lava tongue. With milder grace our sins reprove; Remember Thy forgiving love. Though by the flames of hell pursued. Deliver, Lord, from threat’ning fate: Steer safely o’er the angry flood Thine own erected Ship of State. With Nineveh we now repent On knees in dust and ashes bent. Make not our fate like pagan Rome, Nor perished empires as of old; Nor let expected ages come, And tread upon our shattered mold. Make this Thy chosen nation, Lord, To love Thy Law and keep Thy Word. Charles R. Dinkins 107 On caravans of steel from far New nations travel o’er the seas; They come to hail each stripe and star; From chains they seek a moment’s ease. Make this, where pilgrim strangers rove, A land of liberty and love. Where floats our flag, whose emblems tell The story of a people free. Let choruses of freedom swell Beyond the summit and the sea, Till alien tribes Thy Law approve, And join our covenant of love. Not to the woven web of laws, Not to the scholar’s fancied dream; But to Thy love we trust our cause, And ponder on the sacred theme. When laws succumb and letters fail, Thy love, O God, shall still prevail. How vain the miser’s hoarded pile! Our wealth lies not in treasured gain, Nor hill where cities group and smile, Nor harvest field, nor prairie plain ; But may our wealth forever be True love and loyalty to Thee. Not in our floating isles of steel, Whose watchers guard our shores from harm— Whose every tow’ring mast and keel Defies the fury of the storm; But in Thy Law of Love, so just, Shall be this nation’s firmer trust. 108 Charles R. Dinkins Not grizzled batteries of stone. Whose monsters crouch with look austere, While seas majestic shout and moan, And heave their frothy tributes near; For none of these sufficient prove; Our fortress is the nation’s love. Vain is the deep-eyed rifle’s stare, And vain the muffled musket’s blast, Or silver swords that pierce or tear, Or bayonets by forgers cast: Unless Thy arm protection give, Death is the life the nations live. Shall we on savage arms improve To bid defiance to the seas? And trust the sword, but doubt Thy love, And with our flag pollute the breeze? Lord, may we, to Thy love resigned, Be unto heathen sinners kind. We chain the lightning fast to earth, And, harnessed well in steel and wire, It draws the trains of toil and mirth— A living messenger of fire. So rich and wise, still sins improve; When shall Thy people learn to love ! With peace abroad and war at home, We glory in our cherished shame: Our vessels manned, o’er seas we roam, Our foes we bless, our friends we blame! Forgive Thine erring people, Lord, Who lynch at home and love abroad! Charles R. Dinkins 109 With holy zeal to heathen lands, We run to kiss those far away; Then turn with frantic heart and hands On these at home, to burn and flay. Yet, Lord, forgive! remove the stain, Nor brand us with the curse of Cain. With skill we weave our crooked laws Which free the knave and lash the poor, With none to help or plead their cause, While Justice drives them from his door! Let Love prevail with Justice now, While at his shrine Thy people bow. O, teach us, Lord, in spite of strife, As one to live, as one to die; Bound by the higher law of life— With Jonathan and David’s tie: United, let our interest prove Divinest Brotherhood of Love! Bid strife depart and warring cease ; The bone of vile contention move; Let all our fortresses be peace, And all our bulwarks, Lord, be love— While harvests smile from plain and hill, And all our humble wants fulfill. Lord, make us one great nation, strong, Yet each his race distinction hold; But one in love, in toil, in song. With Christ the Shepherd of the fold: Our rulers bless, their hearts make wise To keep Thine earthly paradise. 110 Charles R. Dinkins Make peace Thy people’s lasting boon, And virtue, Lord, the nation’s pride; Then make our day an endless noon, Nor let its sun in darkness hide : Let Glory write on every brow, Divided once ! united now. With vice and anarchy destroyed, And the assassins turned to saints; With liberty by all enjoyed, Let happy song succeed complaints; With love to reign at Justice bar; Let peace disperse the gloom of war. Then call our weary warriors home— To nurse the dull camp-fire no more — Nor pace to notes of fife or drum, For peace prevails from shore to shore— To bivouac now with those they love, From mother, wife, no more to rove. Call home our wandering navies, too, • Weary of warfare and the waves; No more let brother sailors view Their brethren sink to watery graves; To home recall the lost marines, Where rage no more the stormy scenes. One country. East, or West, or North, Or South, or classes high or low; And one great army marching forth Who only one great union know! One people home, and one abroad, Whose God and Sovereign is the Lord! Charles R. Dinkins / We Are Black But We Are Men TX7"HAT’S the boasted creed of color? ' * ’Tis no standard for a race; Justice’ mansion has no cellar, All must fill an even place. We must share the rights of others. Dwelling here as kin with kin; We are black, but we are brothers; We are black, but we are men. Heaven smiles on all the dwellers Of creation’s varied breeds; Virtue beameth not in colors, But in kind and noble deeds. Though in humble contemplation, Driven here from den to den; We’re a part of this great nation; We are black, but we are men. South, the land we love so dearly, Wilt thou plunge us in despair ? Wilt thou hate a brother merely For the texture of his hair? Boast yourselves as our superiors, We allow your claim, but then, We are black, but not inferiors; We are black, but we are men. When our God His image gave thee, We received a mortal’s due; And when Jesus died to save thee, Died to save the Negro too. 112 Charles R. Dinkins Stabbed by death, by sorrows driven, Through one gate we enter when Passing into hell or heaven; We are black, but we are men. Hundreds crowding every college, What will ye to them impute? Climbing up the tree of knowledge, Reaching for the golden fruit. To this creed the world converting. There’s no virtue in the skin; Daily proving, still asserting, We are black, but we are men. Yet in spite of Death the Raider, And in spite of hellish strife; We must rise from this low nadir To the zenith of this life. Rising though they mob and seize us, Hound and chase o’er moor and fen; Rising by Thy grace, O Jesus! We are black, but we are men. Heaven hath your deed recorded, Vengeance is Jehovah’s own ! And though late, you’ll be rewarded, You must reap what you have sown! Trusting, Father, to Thy goodness, We shall in the conflict win ; Yet, forgive our brethren’s rudeness; Let us live like loving men. Charles R. Dinkins 113 “Thy Works Shall Praise Thee” A LL things a beam of glory shed, And all to God a hymn compose: In every leaf His love is read— His mercy smiles in every rose. The theme of Night’s ten thousand choirs, Affirms Thy love to sinners far; While Nature, with her million lyres, Sends back reply to every star. Loud from the smiling lips of Day, Come sweetest praises to Thy name : A song is sung by every ray— A cheering note to every beam. Black moving clouds o’er clouds prevail, Which by Jehovah’s breath are driven; And on their dark and stormy trail, The lightnings write His love in heaven. Dread thunders vie with thunders dread, And praise Him in their notes of wrath, Who hangs the rainbow o’er His head, And spans the storm’s well-beaten path. Deep rolling seas their billows heave, And chant a thousand solemn lays. And on the trackless oceans leave Their anthems of eternal praise. Wake, mortals! sing Love’s wondrous lay, While Nature all her powers engage— While singing Night and smiling Day Repeat the song from age to age! 114 Timothy Thomas Fortune TIMOTHY THOMAS FORTUNE Timothy Thomas Fortune, son of Emanuel and Sarah Jane Fortune, was born at Marianna, Florida, December 3, 1856. In 1866 the family moved to Jack¬ sonville, Florida. As a boy he served as a page in the Florida Senate, as printer’s devil in the Daily Union, and as office boy and later stamping clerk in the Jack¬ sonville postoffice. He attended Staunton Institute for a time. In 1875 he was in the railway postal service. In 1876 he was appointed special inspector of customs in the first district of Delaware. He later attended Harvard University for two years. In 1877 he was married to Caroline Smiley, of Jacksonville, Florida. He has had extended experience as a newspaper man, beginning his career as a compositor on the New York Witness. In 1879 he founded the New York Globe, which later changed its name to the New York Age, with which he was connected for many years. In 1914 he became editor and publisher of the Washington Sun. He recently established (1921) a new, weekly publication, the Negro Outlook, at Memphis, Tennes¬ see. He is also correspondent for the Washington Eagle and the New York Amsterdam News. He is author of the following: Black and White, (1884); The Negro in Politics, and Dreams of Life (Poems), (1905). His present address is 423 Beale Avenue, Memphis, Tennessee. The selections given are from Dreams of Life. Timothy Thomas Fortune 115 We Know No More T sometimes feel that life contains ■*- Nothing, in all its wealth, to pay For half the sorrows and the pains That haunt our day. Ambition lures us on and on, A dangerous and a treacherous guide! With every vict’ry that is won Goes humbled pride! And, still, we labor, love, and trust, And seek to conquer as we go ! We reap at last repose in dust— Naught else we know! We leave the gewgaws of our power, The hearts that hate us, and adore ! And after life’s distressing hour— We know no more! Lincoln HE waves dashed high! the thunders echoed far; The lightnings flashed into the dismal gloom The bolts by Vulcan forged in Nature’s womb, And earth was shaken by the furious war! The Ship of State was strained in every spar! And strong men felt that now had come their doom; And weak men scanned dark heavens for a star To save them from a fratricidal tomb. 116 Timothy Thomas Fortune But one, amid the strife—collected, calm, Patient and resolute—was firm, and trod The deck, defiant of the angry storm, Guiding the ship—like to some ancient god! And high upon the scroll of endless fame, In diamond letters, flashes Lincoln’s name. J. MORD ALLEN J. Mord Allen was born in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1875, second son of John W. and Sylvia Allen. When he was seven years old the family removed to Topeka, Kansas. Here he attended the public schools until he was seventeen years of age, when he was withdrawn from school to learn the trade of boiler-maker, a trade he has followed since, being now engaged at it in St. Louis. For a period of three years he left his trade and traveled with a theatrical company, whose manager encouraged him to write for the stage. The failure of the company sent him, in 1892, back to boiler making, at which he has since been engaged. He was married in 1910. In 1906 his Rhymes, Talcs and Rhymed Tales were published by Crane & Company, Topeka, Kansas; the selections are from this volume. His pres¬ ent address is 3129 Morgan Street, St. Louis, Missouri. The Psalm of the Uplift S TILL comes the Perfect Thing to man As came the olden gods, in dreams; And then the man—made artist—knows How real is the thing which seems. Then, tongue or brush or magic pen May win the world to loud acclaim, J. Mord Allen 117 But he who wrought knows in his soul That, like as tinsel is to gold, His work is, to-his aim. It’s there ahead to him—and you And me. I swear it isn’t far; Else, black Despair would cut us down In the land of hateful Things Which Are. But, just beyond our finger-tips, Things as They Should Be shame the weak. And hold the aching muscles tense Through the next moment of suspense Which triumph is to break. And shall we strive? The years to come, Till sunset of eternity, Are given to the fairest god, The God of Things As They Should Be. The ending? Nay, ’tis ours to do And dare and bear and not to flinch; To enter where is no retreat; To win one stride from sheer defeat; To die—but gain an inch. The Devil and Sis’ Viney D AR ain’t no use o’ talkin’: when er man lets loose o’ evil En sets out in de narrer path, he’s got ter whup de devil; Who knows jes how ter tempt er man—who knows jes’ whut’ll ketch yer— 118 J. Mord Allen Who knows jes’ whut ter ’proach yer wid, ef any¬ thing’ll fetch yer. Yer got to look out mighty sharp, wid er prayerful eye en humble, En step high wid de foot o’ faith; er else, yer gwine ter stumble. Dese thoughts come ter me years ergo, when I fell out wid sinnin’ En parted wid Ole Satan at de gospel path’s berginnin’. So, knowin’ dat Ole Satan wuz ergwine ter try ter git me, I watched de bricks he flung at me ter see which nighes’ hit me. I hadn’ been er dodgin’ long berfo de thought come to me Dat Satan had mah medger en wuz ergwine ter ondo me. Bekaze I looked inter mah heart—wid prayerfulness en meekness— En seen dat “lovely woman” wuz mah bigges’, stronges’ weakness. So, right dar, I made up mah min’ ter fight ergins’ de yiel’in In all things, tetchin’ woman-kin’, ter any tender feelin’. Likewise I ’termined after dat, when I fust started preachin’ Ter foller in de steps o’ Paul, en not live by his teachin', Wharin he seen dat man wuz weak. (Dat’s why he writ dat letter J. Mord Allen 119 Dat says dat women ain’t so bad—but shunnin’ ’em is better.) S' Yit, any preacher’ll tell yer, ef de sisters only backs ’em Dey’ll git erlong wid any church; en so, o’ co’se, dey laks ’em. En Providence has fixed things so—ter make ’em right and fittin’— Dat er elder draws de sisters lak er warm brick draws er kitten. Ole Satan seen how I wuz fixed. I bet he poked de fire Er heap o’ times right after church, when I wuz in de mire O’ yiel’en’; when some sister’d come en take mah han’ en tarry En joke wid me, en say she wondered why I didn’ marry. But now en den, bertwixt dey smiles, I seen Ole Satan grinnin’, En den Ed hyeah de ’Postle say, “Wid women, losin’s winnin’.” O’ co’se Pd take ernuther holt, when I hyeahed Paul er callin’, En so, by hol’in tight ter him, I barely kep’ f’um failin’. Me en Ole Satan kep’ it up fer years, suh; him er tryin’ Ter ketch me wid de women-folks ersmilin’ en ersighin’. But while de fight wuz sometimes close—‘kaze he knows how ter rassle— I kep’ mah foot right on his neck en helt on ter de ’Postle. 120 J. Mord Allen I flung him down so much, ontell at las’ I got ter feelin’ Dat he mout keep on tryin’, but he’d never ketch me yieldin’. One Ap’ul Sunday mawnin’, while de sun laffed at de showers Dat couldn’t eben stop de birds f’um singin’ ’mongst de flowers, I wuz settin’ in de pulpit, readin’ f’um mah favrit author, “So live, dat men may see yer works en glorify yer Father.” Er passel o’ folks wuz cornin’ in, en, happenin’ ter look up, I seen er sight dat took mah breath en made me shet de book up. Er pair o’ modes’ downcast eyes—er gown cut plain and simple— Er little han’—er little foot—er half-smile en er dimple— Shucks! I kain’t tell yer how she looked; but while I set erwaitin’ Fer time ter start de opnin hem I clear fergot Ole Satan— Fergot de sermon—en de tex’—almost fergot mah ’ligion, Er gazin’ at dat lady, settin’ lookin’ lak er pigeon. I drapped back down ter earth in time ter hyeah de las’ bell ringin’, Give out “Er charge ter keep I have” en set de flock ter singin’. But th’ough de hem, en after, th’ough de sermon en collection, J. Mord Allen 121 I couldn’t keep mah eyes f’um turnin’ ’roun in her derection. I meant ter preach ter sinners, too, ter talk erbout damnation; But, ’stid o’ dat, I tole erbout de joys o’ salvation. En Heab’m en Heab’m’s blessin’—never said er word o’ evil— Fergot de brimstone en de fire, de pitchfo’k en de devil. I said de benerdiction wid er kin’ o’ cu’is notion Dat, ef she wuz good ez whut she looked, she’d git er double po’tion. When church wuz out some sister come (it always is dey failin’ Ter shake han’s wide de elder en ter talk across de railin’) En stood er talkin’ ter me, when I see er deacon takin’ Her han’s en leadin’ her right up ter whar I stood er shakin’. En den I kin’ o’ ’member hyeahin’, “Dis is our preacher, Sis’ Viney”; en den, mighty sof’, “I’m r’aly glad ter meet yer.” En den, er pair o’ eyes met mine—en things wuz gittin’ hazy; En den, er sof’ han’ drapped in mine—en I wuz stone- blin’. crazy! I never hyeahed er single word o’ whut she wuz er sayin’; Jes’ stood en watched de dimples dat erroun’ her mouf wuz playin’, r 122 J. Mord Allen En hyeahed her laff—de sweetes’ laff!—en seen her eyes ergleamin’, En reck’ned dat ef I wuz sleep, I’d jes’ keep on er dreamin’. But oh, dat night! When I got home, mah conscience ’gin ter ’buke me ; Ole Satan flung right in mah face how fer temptation took me. I drapped down on mah knees en sez, “O Paul, yer know I’m human. I’m trustin’ you ter stan’ twix’ me en dis hyeah awful woman.” Him en de ’Postle had it den—er agernizin’ rassle; Sometimes he had de underholt, de other times, de ’Postle. Ole Satan helt Sis’ Viney up in all her temptin’ beauty: En Paul sez, “Goodness gracious! Ain’t I p’inted out yer duty?” Ole Satan sez, “Dem han’s o’ hern—dey’s mighty sof’ en givin’ De ’Postle sez, “I’d lak ter know how dat he’ps right¬ eous livin?” Ole Satan sez, “Yer know yer’d give de worl ’ter make her love yer.” De ’Postle sez, “But is yer gwine ter give de Heab’m erbove yer?” Ole Satan kinder laffed en sez, “De sweetes’ in cre¬ ation,” But Paul, he stomped his foot en sez, “Don’t yiel’ ter no temptation. J. Mord Allen 123 Dis hyeah’s de cross yer got ter tote whilst on dis earth yer tarry— Ter put in yo time fightin sin. Let other people marry.” En den I riz up in mah might, wid no mo’ hesitation’, En sez, “I’m gwine ter stick ter Paul. So, git berhin’ me Satan.” Proud in mah strength, I said mah prayers wid nary stop ner quiver; But, hadn’ mo’ en got in bed en settled ’neath de kivver En shet mah eyes, when Satan come en kotch me layin’, dreamin’, En fetches up Sis’ Viney wid her teeth en eyes er gleamin’. I dreamp erbout dat woman clean up ’tell de day wuz breakin’; En when I woke wid empty arms, mah heart wuz sho’ly achin’. Fer fo’ long weeks mah feelin’s nachully wuz in er riot: I never knowed er hour er er minute’s time o’quiet; ’Kaze when I seen mah heart wuz he’pin’ Satan in de rassle, Dar ain’t no use o’ talkin’, I almost give up de ‘Postle. En so it wuz. Mah ’termination kep’ er gittin’ thinner Ontell, one Sunday after church, she axed me ’round ter dinner On Chuesday. Den I knowed de ’en wuz cornin’ nigh en nigher, En ’magined I hyeahed Satan, jes’ er pokin’ up de fire. Dat night I fit ernuther fight erginst Ole Satan’s trappin’. 124 J. Mord Allen Ole Satan he slipped up on me en almos’ kotch me nappin’; ’Kaze I’d jes’ been erthinkin’, “She kain’t be so mighty harmful— De blessed Paul hisse’f sez so. En she’s er ’lishus armful.” But Paul, he kinder he’ped me out when things wuz gittin’ sort o’ Disheartenin’, by showing whut I might en whut I ought to. I argied en I argied ’tell I got sick o’ debatin,’ En at de las’ I ’termined I wuz gwine ter fool Ole Satan— Wuz gwine ter Sis’ Viney’s house, mah min’ sot on de ’Postle— Wuz gwine ter meet Ole Satan dar en give him one las’ rassle. Ef he thought I wuz skyered ’o him, dis wuz de time ter show him. I’d grab him fo’ Sis’ Viney’s face, en once fer all I’d th’ow him. En den I tried ter drap ter sleep; but dough I tried mah hardes’, I couldn’ think o’ nothin’ ’cep’n Viney, plump en modes’. De day come ’roun; en ’roun I went ter dinner wid Sis’ Viney, Dressed in mah new Prince Albert coat en plug hat, high en shiny. (I don’ know ez I told yer, but Sis’ Viney wuz er widder J. Mord Allen 125 Wid two small chillun, ez she said, ter work fer en consider.) O’ co’se er lump wuz in mah throat fo’ I’d been dar er minute. En ez fer talkin’—dar’d been none, ef she’d let me bergin it. But she—ez cool ez Chris’mas—gotter talkin’ ’bout mah preachin’; En how ’twuz strange ter hear dat all de sinners wuzn’t eachin Ter git inter de gospel road; dat she knowed she’d git nervous Ef she wuz boun’ de other way en hyeahed me hol’in service. Now dat wa’n’t hardly fightin’ fair—I felt I needed rightin’. Jes’ den, Paul whispered in mah year, “I’m hyeah. J’ine in de fightin’!” I felt mah strength er cornin’ back—en, ez de talk got warmer, De lump it went back down mah th’oat; en so, I got some ca’mer. Well, dinner-time it come at las’. But I ain’t no ways able Ter give yer de leas’ notion o’ whut all wuz on de table. I jes’ kin ’member chicken, baked, wid gravy, en mashed ’taters, En collards, en some col’ b’iled ham, en egg-bread, en termaters. Well, in dat kitchen, ev’thing, suh, ’minded me o’ Viney— 126 J. Mord Allen De clean, white flo—de table-cloth—de tin-pans en de chiny— De frush newspapers on de shelves—de chillun fat en smilin’— De dish-pan, hangin’ hime de stove—de big brass kittle, bi’lin’. Dey all looked jes’ lak home ter me de fus time dat I seen ’em; Dey showed dat Viney lakked things clean en wa’n’t erskeyered ter clean ’em. En right ercross de table, too, ersayin’ she wuz sorry De dinner wa’n’t no better, but dat she’s had so much worry, Whut wid de butcher en de stove en her two little sinners (Dem’s her two boys) she reck’n’d dis erbout de wust o’ dinners, Sis’ Viney set. It would er warmed er heart made out o’ leather Ter see Sis’ Viney en de grub er settin’ dar tergether. My heart wa’n’t leather. Ez I set, er eatin’ en er gazin’, I seen whar I wuz gwine ter feel de need o’ grace amazin’ Ter kep mahse’ff f’um gwine whar Ole Satan tried ter shove me— Ter keep f’um grabbin’ Viney’s han’ en beggin’ her ter love me. Er dozen times, ez I sot dar, Ole Satan fetched me to it Er dozen times I promussed Paul I wa’n’t ergwine ter do it. J. Mord Allen 127 I riz up f’um dat table jes’ erbeggin’ Paul ter save me Er strack me wid lockjaw ’fo’ I could ax her would she have me. Now, always, after dinner-time, I’m mighty fond o’smokin’; En I guess Sis’ Viney knowed it, kaze she said, half shy, half jokin’, “I’d offer yer er pipe, but I’m erskeyered I might offen’ yer. Mah husban’ uster smoke de one I’be be so proud ter len’ yer.” Now, her two boys wuz gone ter play (I hyeahed de lambs er Matin’) ; De room wuz empty, ’cep’n Paul, Sis’ Viney, me en Satan. So, when she brung dat pipe en sack en I seen her eyes glimmer, I knowed de ’Postle’s chances wuz er gittin’ slim en slimmer. I sadly filled de pipe. But when she lit er strip o’ paper Fer me ter light wid, den Ole Satin cut his cutes’ caper. When she bent down ter hoi’ de light, I felt her gentle breathin’ Right on mah neck; en lak er flash—mah blood wuz bilin’—seethin’! I grit mah teeth en tried ter puff ter start de pipe ter burnin’; But ter save mah soul, I couldn’t keep dem eyes o’ mine f’um turnin Ter whar hern shined. Our heads nigh tetched! Den I give up de rassle. 128 J. Mord Allen Right dar Ole Satan flung me down—en likewise flung de ’Postle. I jes’ had breath ernuff ter say, “Sis’ Viney, will yer have me?” En couldn’t er said ernuther word ef dat word wuz ter save me. Nex’ thing I knowed Sis’ Viney’s head wuz layin’ on mah collar, En de nex’ bes’ place ter Heab’m wuz right in Sis’ Viney’s parlor. When the Fish Begin to Bite T ITTLE kittens in de coal-house; 4 Little chickens in de lot; Greens er cornin’ in de medder; Sun er shinin’ nyelly hot; Gals, er wearin’ lawn en gingham— Lookin’ right down scan’lous good— Jes’ kain’t keep f’um actin’ frisky; Spring’s done hit de neighborhood. Yes, suh, Spring. Dat’s whut’s de matter— Spring’s erlaflrn’ in de sky, Hintin’ bout de time fer fishin’, Teasin’ at me on de sly. Catfish! M-m-m—nice channel-cat, Buffalo, trout en lak o’ dat. En I knows right whar dey’s at. All de winter I been thinkin’ How I gwine ter work dis spring; But, wid dis hyeah frushness ’roun me, J. Mord Allen 129 Why—well, dat’s er diff’unt thing. ’Kaze, when dat dar sun’s ershinin’ Down on bofe sides o’ de street En de path down ter de creek-bank— Ole erquaintance o’ mah feet— Is all speckled wid de sunshine En de grass, er peepin’ th’ough— Work? Why, shucks! Er man kin work when Dar ain’t nothin’ else ter do. Catfish! M-m-m. Dar’s plenty bait In de sof’ black dirt, by de back-yard gate; En somep’n tells me, “Don’t yer wait.” Gwine ter work, dough, sho—termorrer; Make up fer de time I los’ Since de work en fishin’, bofe, wuz Shut down by de ’proach o’ fros’. Gwine termorrer, kaze mah fam’ly’s Hard up fer er heap o’ things; En dey’s ’pendin’ on de money Dat mah pick en shovel brings. Gwine termorrer—but today I’ll Git dis fishin’ off mah min’. Channel-cats is heap too ’portant Ter go off en leave berhin’. Catfish ! M-m-m—fried brown en fine Ter ketch dis appertite o’ mine— Gracious ! Whar’s mah hook en line ? 130 J. Mord Allen Shine On, Mr. Sun J ES’ er settin’ by de fire; Jes’ er soakin’ up de heat; Jes’ er livin’ life easy; Jes’ er restin’ han’s en feet; Jes’ er lookin’ th’ough de winder At the snow-banks piled up high; Jes’ er thinkin’ ’bout de fool dat Lowed dat he thought Spring wuz nigh. En de sun ’pears lak it’s laffin’, Shinin’ out so mighty bright; Makin’ roof en road en tree-top Glitter lak er ’lectric light; En it ’pears lak it’s er ’vitin’ Me ter come out do’s en see— But yer kin shine on, Mister Sun, ’Kaze yar ain’t er foolin’ me. Pile o’ coal out in de coal-house, En er right smart chance o’ wood. Po’k-chops fryin’ in de kitchen— En dey sho’ is smellin’ good. Warm, inside hyeah, sence de ole ’oman Chinked mah spring pants in de cracks; En mah feet don’t have ter suffer Long ez I got gunny-sacks. Overcoat don’t mount ter nothin’ But whut does I kyer for clo’es, Settin’ right hyeah by dis fire? I got no biznuss'out o’ do’s. Leas’, not in dis kin’ o’ weather; / J. Mord Allen Me en col’, suh, kaint agree. So yer kin shine on, Mister Sun, But yer ain’t er foolin’ me. White folks trompin’ th’ough dis weather, Blowin’ steam er yard erhead. Wonder how mah mule’s erdoin’! Sho’ do hope dat he ain’t dead. Well, I know I couldn’ stan’ it Out dar whar de no’th win’ sings; But men en mules en ole buck niggers, All is p’intly diff’unt things. So, I’ll jes’ stay by dis fire Out o’ col’ en snow en win’s; Smokin’ mah rich long-green ’backer; Toastin’ mah rheumatic shins. I kin see, f’um whar I’m settin’, All outdo’s I want ter see. So yer kin shine on, Mister Sun, But yer ain’t er foolin’ me. Counting Out H rj' ENY, mecny miny mo.” -L' Ah, how the sad-sweet Long Ago Enyouths us, as by magic spell. With that old rhyme. You know it well; For time was, once, when e’en your eyes Saw Heaven plainly, in the skies. Past twilight, when a brave moon glowed Just o’er the treetops, and the road Was full of romping children—say, What was the game we used to play ? 131 132 J. Mord Allen Yes! Hide-and-seek. And at the base. Who first must go and hide his face? Remember—standing in a row— “Eeny meeny miny mo” ? “Eeny meeny miny mo.” How fare we children here below? Our moon is far from treetop now, And Heaven isn’t up, somehow. No more for sport play we “I spy;” Our “laying low” and “peeping high” Are now with consequences fraught; There’s black disgrace in being caught. But what’s to pay the pains we take? Let’s play the game for its own sake, And, ere ’tis time to homeward flit, Let’s get some pleasure out of it. For death will soon count down the row, “Eeny meeny miny mo.” CLARA ANN THOMPSON Clara Ann Thompson was born at Rossmoyne, Ohio, the daughter of John Henry and Clara Jane Thomp¬ son, both of whom were born slaves in Virginia. She attended the public schools of Rossmoyne and also studied under private tutors, preparing to teach. She taught for some time in the public schools. Her prin¬ cipal work, however, is that of a public reader. She has contributed numerous poems to newspapers, but her only collected work is Songs From the Way side, Clara Ann Thompson 133 published by the author at Rossmoyne, Ohio, in 1908, from which the following selections are taken. Her present address is Rossmoyne, Ohio. His Answer T T E prayed for patience; Care and Sorrow came, And dwelt with him, grim and unwelcome guests; He felt their galling presence night and day; And wondered if the Lord had heard him pray, And why his life was filled with weariness. He prayed again; and now he prayed for light; The darkness parted, and the light shone in; And lo! he saw the answer to his prayer— His heart had learned, through weariness and care, The patience, that he deemed he’d sought in vain. Mrs. Johnson Objects C OME right in this house, Will Johnson! Kin I teach you dignity? Chasin’ aft’ them po’ white children, Jest because you wan’ to play. Whut does po’ white trash keer fah you? Want you keep away fum them, Next, they’ll be a-doin’ meanness. An’ a-givin’ you the blame. Don’t come mumblin’ ’bout their playthings, Yourn is good enough fah you; ’Twas the best that I could git you, An’ you’ve got to make them do. 134 Clara Ann Thompson Go’n’ to break your fum that habit, Yes, I am! An’ mighty soon, Next, you’ll grow up like the white-folks, All time whinin’ fah the moon. Runnin’ with them po’ white children— Go’n’ to break it up, I say!— Pickin’ up their triflin’ habits, Soon, you’ll be as spilte as they. Come on here, an’ take the baby— Mind now! Don’t you let her fall— ’Fo’ I’ll have you runnin’ with them, I won’t let you play at all. Jest set there, an’ mind the baby Till I tell you—You may go; An’ jest let me ketch you chasin’ Aft’ them white trash any mo’. WILLIAM STANLEY BEAUMONT BRAITHWAITE William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite, son of Wil¬ liam Smith and Emma (De Wolfe) Braithwaite, was born in Boston, Massachusetts, December 6, 1878. He is mainly self-educated. In 1918 Atlanta University conferred the honorary degree of M.A. upon him, and in the same year Talladega College conferred the degree of Litt.D. In 1903 he married Emma Kelly, w of Montrose, Virginia. He is the author of the fol¬ lowing: Lyrics of Life and Love, (1904) ; The House of Falling Leaves, (1908) ; The Poetic Year for 1916 ; The Story of the Great War, (1919) ; The Five Wis- William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 135 doms of Graine, (1920) ; Going Over Tendal, (1920) ; Our Essayists and Critics of Today, (1920). In the preface of James Weldon Johnson’s The Book of American Negro Poetry, (1922), a new volume of poems, Sandy Star and Willie Gee, was announced as forthcoming. He is the editor or compiler of the fol¬ lowing: The Book of Elizabethan Verse, (1906) ; The Book of Georgian Verse, (1908) ; The Book of Restoration Verse, (1909) ; Anthology of Magazine Verse 1913-19; Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse, (1918) ; Book of Modern British Verse, (1919) ; Vic¬ tory! Celebrated by 38 American Poets. Three of his lyrics, Sea Lyric, By an Inland Lake, and Love is a Star, have been published by the Boston Music Com¬ pany, with music by George C. Vieh. He is a con¬ tributor of literary criticism to the Boston Transcript, and has contributed verse and essays to the Porum, Century, Lippincott’s, Scribner’s, Atlantic, etc. His present address is 243 Park Avenue, Arlington Heights, 75, Boston, Massachusetts. Of the selections here given, the first three are from Lyrics of Love and Life ; the nine following are from The House of Tailing Leaves; The Mystery is from Scribner’s Magazine; Sandy Star from the Atlantic Monthly, and To the Sea from The Century Magazine. A Little Song To T. E. S. A LITTLE song ill worth your while On which to waste more than a smile, Alas, I sing, for love is long— A little song. 136 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite Though life be brief and art outlive What joy or sorrow earth may give, Time, then, might let the years prolong A little song. And it may chance your face will turn Some day, the singer to discern— Yea, smile to see who sang so long, A little song. By an Inland Lake T ONG drawn, the cool, green shadows -L' Steal o’er the lake’s warm breast, And the ancient silence follows The burning sun to rest. The calm of a thousand summers, And dreams of countless Junes, Return when the lake-wind murmurs Thro’ golden, August noons. In a Grave-Yard T N calm fellowship they sleep Where the graves are dark and deep, Where nor hate nor fraud nor feud Mar their perfect brotherhood. After all was done they went Into dreamless sleep, content, That the years would pass them by, Sightless, soundless, where they lie. William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 137 Wines and roses, song and dance. Have no portion in their trance— The four seasons are as one, Dark of night, and light of sun. Song: To-day and To-morrow ' I v O-DAY and to-morrow, and the days that come ^ after, Springtime and summer and two seasons more; The night full of tears and the day full of laughter. And dreams that come in and go out of the door. O Time that is fleeing too fast for our capture, While the heart of our dreams beholds it pass by— The yearning and burning, the desire and the rapture, Till we home to the earth and we home to the sky. O harvest of dreams! when the sowing is over And fulfillment of growth gives over all plying— Ah, down the long sunset of life the heart-rover Turns twilight to weeping and darkness to sighing. We gather the harvest of dreams and we store them Deep down in our hearts for the hunger that craves When springtime and summer,—the laughter that bore them, Sails away like a ship that we watch on the waves. From the Crowd I was captive to a dream— And only vague forms went by; And the tumult was the sigh Of the sea at the end of a stream. 138 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite The clangor of cars in the street. Darkness and clouds overhead, And out of the lights that spread The crowds that part and meet. As the foam of a wave will mark The night with a shining track, A girl’s pale face turned back Crossing the street in the dark. It was only a second’s glance, But my soul leaped out to her: I felt my shaken memories stir The dreams of an ancient trance. Song of a Syrian Lace Seller To Edward F. Burns O N the sidewalk by the busy flow Of peoples passing to and fro— Where the wan winter sunlight falls Across the grey gates of St. Paul’s, A woman of an alien race Stands with a tray of fancy lace. Swarthy of skin with raven hair, A daughter of the Orient there, Wearing her native costume yet Of woven shawl and long head net— And the long Syrian sunrise Looking out from her curtained eyes. William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 139 The curious, intricate designs Of every lace in faultless lines Of ancient symbols she has made, Turning her country’s lore to trade: The Orient’s mystic sorcery, In this far land across the sea. Out of the Common sharp and fleet The cold winds blow across the street; And their shrill voices seem to say: Symbols and dreams have passed away— And our wise western world decries All their lost hidden mysteries. A Song of Living To Dr. Marcus F. Wheatland TT is so good to be alive : To have deep dreams: to greatly strive Through the day’s work: to dance and sing Between the times of sorrowing— To have a clear faith in the end That death is life’s best, truthful friend. To be alive: to hear and see This wonderful, strange pageantry Of earth, in which each hour’s session Brings forth a new unknown procession Of joys : stars, flowers, seas and grass In ever new guise before me pass. To have deep dreams: ah me, ah me! To bring far things close by to see; 140 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite To have my voyaging soul explore Beyond my body’s ponderous door. To make my love from a thousand graces. Seen in a thousand women’s faces. To greatly strive: perform my share Of work: for the world grows more fair To him who measures Time and Fate By what his laboring days create— For work is the voice that lifts to God The adoration of the sod. To dance and sing: my body’s praise For being fair in many ways. It hath no other voice than this To thank God for a moment’s bliss— When art and heaven together trust Joy to the perfection of the dust. Times of sorrowing: yea, to weep: To wash my soul with tears, and keep It clean from earth’s too constant gain, Even as a flower needs the rain To cool the passion of the sun, And take a fresh new glory on. To have clear faith:—through good or ill We but perform some conscious will Higher than man’s. The world at best In all things doth but manifest That God has set His eternal seal Upon the unsubstantial real. William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 141 The Eternal Self To Vere Goldth WAITE / I V HIS earth is but a semblance and a form— An apparition poised in boundless space; This life we live so sensible and warm, Is but a dreaming in a sleep that stays About us from the cradle to the grave. Things seen are as inconstant as a wave That must obey the impulse of the wind; So in this strange communicable being There is a higher consciousness confined— But separate and divine, and foreseeing. Our bodies are but garments made of clay That is a smothering weight upon the soul— But as the sun, conquering a cloudy day, Our spirits penetrate to Source and Goal. That intimate and hidden quickening Bestowing sense and color with the Spring, Is felt and known and seen in the design By unsubstantial Self within the portal Of this household of flesh, that doth confine Part of the universally immortal. Beyond the prison of our hopes and fears, Beyond the undertow of passion’s sea— And stronger than the strength earth holds in years, Lives man’s subconscious personality. O world withheld! seen through the hazy drift Of this twilight of flesh, when sleep shall lift I shall go forth my own true self at last, 142 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite And glory in the triumph of my winning The road that joins the Future and the Past, Where I can reach the Ending and Beginning! Golden Moonrise W HEN your eyes gaze seaward Piercing through the dim Slow descending nightfall, On the outer rim Where the deep blue silence Touches sky and sea, Hast thou seen the golden Moon, rise silently? Seen the great battalions Of the stars grow pale— Melting in the magic Of her silver veil? I have seen the wonder, I have felt the balm Of the golden moonrise Turn to silver calm. Sic Vita T T EART free, hand free, Blue above, brown under, All the world to me Is a place of wonder. Sun shine, moon shine, Stars, and winds a-blowing, William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 143 All into this heart of mine Flowing, flowing, flowing! Mind free, step free, Days to follow after, Joys of life sold to me For the price of laughter. Girl’s love, man’s love, Love of work and duty, Just a will of God’s to prove Beauty, beauty, beauty! This Is My Life O feed my soul with beauty till I die; A To give my hands a pleasant task to do; To keep my heart forever filled anew With dreams and wonders which the days supply; To love all conscious living, and thereby Respect the brute who renders up its due, And know the world as planned is good and true— And thus—because there chanced to be an I! This is my life since things are as they are: One half akin to flowers and the grass: The rest a law unto the changeless star. And I believe when I shall come to pass Within the Door His hand shall hold ajar I’ll leave no echoing whisper of Alas! 144 William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite The Mystery H E could not tell the way he came Because his chart was lost: Yet all his way was paved with flame From .the bourne he crossed. He did not know the way to go, Because he had no map: He followed where the winds blow,— And the April sap. He never knew upon his brow The secret that he bore,— And laughs away the mystery now The dark’s at his door. Sandy Star \ N O more from out the sunset, No more across the foam, No more across the windy hills Will Sandy Star come home. He went away to search it. With a curse upon his tongue, And in his hands the stafif of life Made music as it swung. I wonder if he found it, And knows the mystery now ; Our Sandy Star who went away With the secret on his brow. William Stanley Beaumont Braithwaite 145 i To the Sea T HE earth is our mother, but thou—thou are father of us and of time; For all things now were not when thou wert strong in thy prime. There was silence first and then darkness, and under the garment of these Was the body of thee in thy might, with its infinite mysteries. And God alone was aware of thy presence and power and form; And out of His knowledge foresaw His will in thy calm and storm. Answering unto His will, He gave thee lordship and crown, And bade the kingdoms of man to worship thee and bow down. For earth He made out of dust, for change and defeat in the blast; But thee He made eternal, through aeons and aeons to last, Unmarked by sun or wind, and supreme where thy waves are tossed; Not an inch of thy beauty to perish, not an ounce of thy might to be lost. 146 Joseph Seaman Cotter, Sr. JOSEPH SEAMAN COTTER, SR. Joseph Seaman Cotter, son of Michael Cotter, a Scotch Irishman, and Martha Vaughn Cotter, of mixed Indian, English and Negro blood, was born in Nelson County, Kentucky, February 2, 1861. He attended the elementary schools for a short time only, leaving to begin work. He worked at various forms of manual labor until he was twenty-four years old, when he re-entered school. After a period of study, he began teaching and has continued in that profes¬ sion all his life. He taught in Cloverport, 1885-7; con¬ ducted a private school, 1887-9; and was a teacher in the Western Colored School, Louisville, 1889-93. He became founder and principal of the Paul L. Dunbar School, 1893-1911 ; and has been principal of Coleridge- Taylor School, which he founded, since 1911. He has been active in the business, professional and social life of the colored people of Louisville and of the country, being a Director of the Louisville Colored Orphan’s Home Society, and of a number of various state and national organizations, such as the Kentucky Negro Educational Association, the National Associ¬ ation for the Advancement of the Colored People the Story Tellers League, the Authors’ League of America, etc. He is the author of: A Rhyming, (1895) ; Links of Friendship, (1898) ; Caleb, the De¬ generate, (1903); A White Song and a Black One, (1909) ; Negro Tales, (1912) ; Life’s Dawn and Dusk, (in press). He married Maria F. Cox, of Louisville, July 22, 1891. Their son, Joseph Seaman Cotter Junior, was also in his brief life the author of credit¬ able verse. Cotter’s present address is 2306 Magazine Street, Louisville, Kentucky. The first selection is from A White Song and a Black One; the others from a Louisville newspaper article supplied by the author. Joseph Seaman Cotter, Sr. 147 The Negro’s Educational Creed f I V HE negro simply asks the chance to think, -*■ To wed his thinking unto willing hands. And thereby prove himself a steadfast link In the sure chain of progress through the lands. He does not ask to loiter and complain While others turn their life blood into worth; He holds that this would be the one foul stain On the escutcheon of this brave old earth. He does not ask to clog the wheels of state And write his color on the nation’s creed. He asks an humble freedman’s estimate, And time to grow ere he essays to lead. On a Proud Man H ERE lies a man whoes soul was so Puffed up with pride it could not grow. Yet maybe, in the life to be The fates will give it liberty And let it reach, through steps severe The size it fancied it had here. Destiny (To the Memory of Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr.) O my way and thy way And life’s joy and wonder, And thy day and my day Are cloven asunder. 148 Joseph Seaman Cotter, Sr. O my trust and thy trust, And fair April weather. And thy dust and my dust Shall mingle together. WALTER EVERETTE HAWKINS Walter Everette Hawkins, son of Ossian and Chris¬ tiana (Eaton) Hawkins, was born at Warrenton, North Carolina, November 17, 1883. He had a hard life as a boy, though he found time to attend the pub¬ lic schools of the town. In 1901 he was graduated from Kittrell College. He married Lucile Butler of Wilmington, Delaware, in 1909. He has been in the railway mail service since 1912. In 1909 he published in Washington, D. C. a volume of poems, Chords and Discords. R. G. Badger, of Boston published an en¬ larged edition of this volume in 1920. He is also au¬ thor of The Child of the Night; The Black Soldiers; Where Air of Freedom Is; Guardian; Love’s Un- changeahlencss; and Too Much Religion. His present address is 1322 W. St., N.W., Washington, D. C. The selections are from Chords and Discords. Wrong’s Reward T T is writ in truth eternal, And the stars of heaven tell, That he who dares to do the wrong Has pitched his tent toward hell; And his steps shall lead him downward, And his tottering limbs shall fall, And the wrath of the Avenger Shall surround him like a pall. Walter Everette Hawkins 149 It was sung at earth’s awakening, ’Twill be sung when earth is past, That the cup of worldly pleasure Is embittered at the last. ’Tis more deeply still recorded, Dread injunction ’gainst the strong, Men like autumn leaves shall tremble When they dare to do the wrong. Decked with thorns the right may suffer. Wrong may triumph with his crown; At the stake the truth may falter, Justice see her throne pulled down; And the retribution tarries. And the debt may linger long; But the dread recoil is coming To the man who does the wrong. A Spade is Just a Spade A S I talk with learned people, I have heard a strange remark, Quite beyond my comprehension, And I’m stumbling in the dark. They advise : Don’t be too modest, Whatsoever thing is said, Give to every thing its color, Always call a spade a spade. Now I am not versed in Logic, Nor these high-flown classic things, And am no adept in solving Flighty aphoristic flings; 150 Walter Everette Hawkins So this proverb seems to baffle All the efforts I have made,— Now what else is there to call it, When a spade is just a spade? The Death of Justice HESE the dread days which the seers have fore- told, These the fell years which the prophets have dreamed; Visions they saw in those full days of old. The fathers have sinned and the children blasphemed. Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed, Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield. We have come to the travail of troublous times, Justice must bow before Moloch and Baal; Blasphemous prayers for the triumph of crimes, High sounds the cry of the children who wail. Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed, Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield. In the brute strength of the sword men rely, They count not to Justice in reckoning things; Whom their lips worship their hearts crucify, This the oblation the votary brings. Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed, Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield. Locked in death-struggle humanity’s host, Seeking revenge with the dagger and sword; This is the pride which the Pharisees boast, Man damns his brother in the name of his Lord. Walter Everette Hawkins 151 Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed, Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield. Time dims the glare of the pomp and applause, Vain-glorious monarchs and proud princes fall; Until the death of Time revokes his laws, His awful mandate shall reign over all. Hurt is the world, and its heart is unhealed, Wrong sways the sceptre and Justice must yield. HENRIETTA CORDELIA RAY Henrietta Cordelia Ray was born in New York City, the daughter of the Reverend Charles Bennett Ray, an early worker in the anti-slavery movement. She re¬ ceived her early training in the public schools of New York City. She then attended the Normal College and in 1891 received a degree from New York Univer¬ sity in Pedagogy, being a member of the first class that was graduated from this department. She was also a graduate of the Sauveuer School of Languages. She taught for a number of years in the New York City public schools. She was the author of the Com¬ memoration Ode read at the dedication of Ball’s monu¬ ment of Lincoln, Washington, D. C., April 14, 1876. This poem was later published in booklet form. A complete edition of her poetical writings was published in 1910. In collaboration with her sister, Florence T. Ray, she published a life of her father. She died at her home on Long Island, January 5, 1916. The selec¬ tions are from the 1910 edition of her poems. 152 Henrietta Cordelia Ray Dawn’s Carol T7AIR Morn unbars her gates of gold; Night’s shadows lie, a thousand fold, Upon the hills, the purple mist By pure Aurora’s radiance kissed, Becomes a dream of color: now Uplift the heart and bare the brow. Such moments for us seem to weave Hope’s loveliest tissues; we perceive The soul’s illumination, caught From some fair mood of Nature fraught With harmony of sight and sound, In majesty diffused around. Our Task I F we could know the mystery Hid in the skylark’s wondrous song, If we could hear the dulcet psalms The shining stars have sung so long,— We yet must turn to other sounds, To human voices oft in pain; To dissonance which should be tuned To truest harmony again. We cannot know, O fluting lark, What lent thy song its ecstasy; We yearn, in meditative mood, To fathom all the mystery Of Nature’s tireless orchestra. Ay! but that joy we can forego, For there is need of list’ning ears Where other voices charm us. So, Henrietta Cordelia Ray 153 With vision clear and purpose pure, Humanity’s broad scheme we’ll trace ; A wrong to right, a sob to hush, To see a brother in each face That lifts itself toward God’s blue dome In suppliant hope,—thus life expands To sweet fruition, till the waves Of Time are lulled on golden sands. The Triple Benison C OME to guard us, come to bless us, Holy, mystic sisters three! On our bowed heads pour a chrism, Daughters of the Deity. Crown us with your triple chaplet, Roses red and lilies fair, Dark green leaves entwined around them, Fragrant with May’s tender air. We are waiting—suppliants needy— For your beauteous three-fold gift, That to heights of calm completeness Our beseeching souls can lift. How can we without your favor Make of life what it should be? Come then, guard us, aid and bless us, Daughters of the Deity. Be our souls as pure and stainless, Blending all the perfect hues, Sacred Faith, as is the color We shall ever for thee choose. 154 Henrietta Cordelia Ray Be our paths as green with verdure, Yearning Hope, as thine must be ; And our lives as flushed with radiance, As thine, O blessed Charity! EDWARD SMYTHE JONES Edward Smythe Jones was born at Natchez, Missis¬ sippi, about 1888. He later moved to Indianapolis, Indiana. In 1910, having heard of Harvard Univer¬ sity and being exceedingly anxious to secure an educa¬ tion, he set out on foot for the University and walked the entire distance to Cambridge. Upon his arrival on the campus of Harvard he was arrested as a tramp and was sent to jail. When arraigned in court, he ex¬ plained his presence in Cambridge and exhibited to the judge some poems of his own composition which he had in his pocket. His case was brought to the atten¬ tion of the University authorities, and he was em¬ ployed as a janitor at the University and given an op¬ portunity to study. In 1911 he published, in Boston, a small volume of poems entitled The Sylvan Cabin from which the following selection is taken. His present address is 3763 South Wabash Avenue, Chicago, Illinois. A Song of Thanks T70R the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, -*■ For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, For her coffers filled with their countless worth, For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, Edward Smythe Jones 155 For the rippling streams which turn the mills, For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, For the songs of gladness on the gale,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, For the bounty which the rich soil yields, For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, For the sun which ripens the golden grains, For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine, For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine, For the tubers large and cotton white, For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, For the swan which floats near the river-banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, For the plum and the peach and the apple red, For the dear old press where the wine is tread, For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, And the proud old “turk” of the farmer’s barn, For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks. For the game which hide in the shady nooks,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines. For the silver ores of a thousand fold, For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, For the river boat and the flying train, 156 Edward Smythe Jones For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, For the peace and plenty together share, For the Hand which guides us from above, For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, For the blessed home with its children gay, For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, We life up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,— From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,— Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks! BENJAMIN GRIFFITH BRAWLEY Benjamin Griffith Brawley was born at Columbia, South Carolina, April 22, 1882, the son of Dr. Edward McKnight Brawley and Margaret Dickerson Brawley. He attended the public schools of Nashville, Tennessee, and Petersburg, Virginia. He was graduated from Atlanta Baptist College, (now Morehouse College) with the A.B. degree in 1901, and was Instructor in English in this institution for several years. He took his A.B. degree at the University of Chicago in 1906 and his A.M. degree at Harvard in 1908. He later served as Professor of English in Morehouse College, and in Howard University, Washington, D. C. He be¬ came Dean of Morehouse College in 1912. In the same year he was married to Hilda Demoris Prowd, of Kingston, Jamaica. He was Instructor in the Summer Benjamin Griffith Brawley 157 School at Hampton for several summers, served as President of the Association of Colleges of Negro Youth, and has appeared on the lecture platform. He is author of the following: A Short History of the American Negro, (1919) ; The Negro in Literature and Art, (1921) ; Richard Le Gallienne: A Study of his Poetry; Africa and the War; Women of Achievement; History of Morehouse College ; A Social History of the American Negro, 1921. His poetical work includes, A Toast to Love and Death, (Atlanta, 1902) ; The Problem and Other Poems, (Atlanta, 1905) ; The Desire of the Moth for the Star, (Atlanta, 1906) ; The Dawn and Other Poems, (Washington, 1911) ; The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, (Atlanta, 1917). In 1923 he became a member of the faculty of Shaw University, Raleigh, N. C. The first selection is from The Prob¬ lem and Other Poems; the second and third from The Desire of the Moth for the Star; the fourth from The Dawn and Other Poems. The Plan T?AR above the strife and striving, And the hate of man for man, I can see the great contriving Of a more than human plan. And day by day more clearly Do we see the great design, And day by day more nearly Do we footsteps fall in line; For in spite of the winds repeating The rule of the lash and rod, The heart of the world is beating With the love that was born of God. 158 Benjamin Griffith Brawley Chaucer G ONE are the sensuous stars, and manifold Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; A thousand swords of azure and of gold Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; Across the night of ages strike the gleams; And leading on the gilded host appears An old man writing in a book of dreams, And telling tales of lovers for the years. Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay! In Nature’s garden what a mad rout sings! Let’s hear these motley pilgrims while away The tedious hours with stories of old things; Or might some shining golden eagle claim These lowly numbers for the House of Fame! The Bells of Notre Dame (Suggested by Book 6, Chapter 3, of Victor Hugo’s novel, Notre Dame). Far up in the cathedral, so they tell, There lived the lonely hunchback all day long, No thought but of the church bells great and strong, And deaf, but feeling full the chorus swell:— ’Tis holiday! O come, my Gabrielle ! And all the rest of you, pour out your song! Why stand ye idle, lagging there? Ding! dong! O Thibauld, sound your deep, reverberant cell! O Sparrows, yield the sweetness that ye bring! O Pasquier, forth your piping music hurl To the multitude below, and all earth fill! Benjamin Griffith Brawley 159 Awake ! awake ! awake to life and sing! But lo ! behold ! she comes, the dancing girl! The ringer’s heart leaps, but the bells are still. Ballade of One Who Died Before His Time To J.T.G. Obi it MCMVIII. O NE last deep breath to break the spell— Then folded hands, and a shroud to wear; A hush, where the voice of genius fell, And a thousand vanquished longings there; A crowd that comes to blink and stare, In garments clad of black or dun ; A grave, and a priest with bootless prayer— So fares it with many a gifted one. Keats was a brilliant poet, well— And quick to rhyme with an Attic air; Malibran yearned for Israfel, And sang like a seraph or angel rare; But Raphael, Mozart, or Moliere, Byron, or Philip of Macedon’s son— They all pass soon to the dim Nowhere— So fares it with many a gifted one. And this same soul whose tale we tell, This soul that fought in the dark fore’er, That one by one did smite and fell The fiends of fate and wrong and care— What portals doth it tempt or dare ? What pathless regions hath it won? Comes but a voice with answer sair, So fares it with many a gifted one. 160 Benjamin Griffith Bravvley Envoi Fain would I write a refrain more fair, Fain would I wait upon Mary’s son; But this is the word that all winds bear— So fares it with many a gifted one. FENTON JOHNSON Fenton Johnson, son of Elijah H. and Jessie (Tay¬ lor) Johnson, was born at Chicago, Illinois, May 7, 1888. He was educated at Northwestern University and at the University of Chicago. He was teacher of English at State University, Louisville, Kentucky, for a time. He was for a while special writer for the East¬ ern Press Association. Later he became acting dra¬ matic editor of the New York News. He has been a contributor to various periodicals. In 1912 he pub¬ lished A Little Dreaming and Visions of the Dusk; in 1916, Songs of the Soil was privately printed. Three of his Negro spirituals are included in Monroe and Henderson’s The New Poetry. His present address is 3518 South State Street, Chicago. The selections are from A Little Dreaming. Love’s Good-Night I G OOD-NIGHT ! Good-night! My love, good-night! We shall meet here again when bright The moon shines o’er the distant hill, And mocking-bird begins to trill. II What though a parent’s wrath should come? It cannot make my loving dumb; To-morrow night I shall await You here at our love’s trysting-gate. Fenton Johnson 161 III And in the days that shall be here, Your love my full soul shall revere; So, till the rounded moon comes bright, Good-night! My love, good-night! good-night! Death of Love I HERE sinks deep my love, dead love, That so warmly glowed awhile? Where the passion of my dreams And the kiss of afterwhile? In the City of Delight, In the palace built of air, In the smile of dying Day And the vision of Despair. II Not where Morning shakes the dew From the sunshine of her locks; Not where Evening breathes her flame And the moon so gently rocks; But where gleams the firefly’s wing In the swamp of dead desire; And a fairy shrinks amazed At the passing of the fire. In the Evening T X T N the evening, love returns, Like a wand’rer ’cross the sea; In the evening, love returns 162 Fenton Johnson With a violet for me; In the evening, life’s a song, And the fields are full of green; All the stars are golden crowns, And the eye of God is keen. II In the evening, sorrow dies With the setting of the sun; In the evening, joy begins, When the course of mirth is done; In the evening, kisses sweet Droop upon the passion vine; In the evening comes your voice: “I' am yours, and you are mine.” When I Die I TXT"HEN I die my song shall be, ’ * Crooning of the summer breeze; When I die my shroud shall be, Leaves plucked from the maple trees On a couch as green as moss And a bed as soft as down, I shall sleep and dream my dream Of a poet’s laurel crown. II When I die my star shall drop Singing like a nightingale; When I die my soul shall rise, Where the lyre strings never fail; Fenton Johnson 163 In the rose my blood shall lie, In the violet the smile, And the moonbeams thousand strong, Past my grave each night shall file. JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS James David Corrothers, son of James Richard and Maggie (Churchman) Corrothers, was born in the “Chain Lake Settlement,” near Cassapolis, Michigan, July 2, 1869. He was of Negro, Indian, Scotch-Irish, and French blood. He attended school at South Haven, Michigan, 1874-1883; worked in lumber camps, saw mills, hotels, sailed the lakes a season, was bootblack in a barber shop, coachman, teacher of box¬ ing, and janitor in a newspaper office. Encouraged by Henry D. Lloyd, the author, and Frances E. Willard, he attended Northwestern University, 1890-93, and was later a student at Bennett College, Greensboro, North Carolina. He engaged in newspaper work in Chicago, contributing special articles to the Chicago Record, Daily News, and Journal. About 1893 he be¬ came a minister of the Methodist church. He was later ordained a Baptist minister, and in 1914 he be¬ came a minister in the Presbyterian Church. He held pastorates in each of these denominations. He was twice married, first to Fannie Clemens, who died in 1894, then in 1906, to Rosina B. Harvey, of Washing¬ ton, D. C. He is author of The Black Cat Club, which first appeared as a series of newspaper sketches: Se¬ lected Poems ; The Dream and the Song; and In Spite of the Handicap, an autobiography. He has also contributed to the Century and to other magazines and periodicals. The selections are taken from the Century Magazine. He died February 12, 1917, at Chicago. 164 James David Corrothers An Indignation Dinner T^\EY was hard times jes ’fo’ Christmas round our ' neighborhood one year; So we held a secret meetin’, whah de white folks couldn’t hear, To ’scuss de situation, an’ to see whut could be done Towa’d a fust-class Christmas dinneh an’ a little Christmas fun. Rufus Green, who called de meetin’, ris’ an’ said: “In dis here town, An’ throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin’ to keep us down.” S’ ’e: “Dey ’s bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey ’buse us ’ca’se we’s free; But when dey tetch my stomach, dey ’s done gone too fur foh me! “Is I right?” “You sho is, Rufus!” roared a dozen hungry throats. “Ef you’d keep a mule a-wo’kin’, don’t you tamper wid his oats. Dat’s sense,” continued Rufus. “But dese white folks nowadays Has done got so close an’ stingy you can’t live on whut dey pays. “Here ’t is Christmas-time, an’ folkses, I’s indignant ’nough to choke. Whah’s our Christmas dinneh cornin’ when we’s ’mos’ completely broke ? James David Corrothers 165 I can’t hahdly ’fo’d a toothpick an’ a glass o’ water. Mad? Say, I ’m desp’ut! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!” Well, dey ’bused de white folks scan’lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris’, Leanin’ on his cane to spote him, on account his rheumatis’, An’ s’ ’e: “Chilun, whut ’s dat wintry wind a-sighin’ th’ough de street ’Bout yo’ wasted summeh wages ? But, no matteh, we mus’ eat. “Now, I seed a beau’ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun’s fahm. He’s a-growin’ fat an’ sassy, an’ a-struttin’ to a chahm. Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters—all de craps is fine dis year; All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here.” Well, we lit right in an’ voted dat it was a gran’ idee, An’ de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin’ miles to see ; An’ we eat a full an’ plenty, big an’ little, great an’ small, Not beca’se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat ’s all. The Negro Singer O ’ER all my song the image of a face Lieth, like shadow on the wild, sweet flowers. The dream, the ecstacy that prompts my powers ; 166 James David Corrothers The golden lyre’s delights bring little grace To bless the singer of a lowly race. Long hath this mocked me: aye, in marvelous hours, When Hera’s gardens gleamed, or Cynthia’s bowers. Or Hope’s red pylons, in their far, hushed place! But I shall dig me deeper to the gold; Fetch water dripping, over desert miles, From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold. So shall men know me, and remember long, Nor my dark face dishonor any song. Paul Laurence Dunbar T T E came, a dark youth, singing in the dawn Of a new freedom, glowing o’er his lyre, Refining as with great Apollo’s fire. His people’s gift of song. And, thereupon, This negro singer, come to Helicon, Constrained the masters, listening, to admire, And roused a race to wonder and aspire, Gazing which way their honest voice was gone, With ebon face uplift of glory’s crest. Men marveled at the singer, strong and sweet, Who brought the cabin’s birth, the tuneful night, But faced the morning, beautiful with light. To die while shadows yet fall toward the west, And leave his laurels at his people’s feet. Dunbar, no poet wears your laurels now; None rises, singing, from your race like you, Dark melodist, immortal, though the dew Fell early on the bays upon your brow, James David Corrothers 167 And tinged with pathos every halcyon vow And brave endeavor. Silence o’er you threw Flowers of love. Or, if an envious few Of your own people brought no garlands, how Could Malice smite him whom the gods had crowned? If, like the meadow-lark, your flight was low, Your flooded lyrics half the hilltops drowned; A wide world heard you, and it loved you so It stilled its heart to list the strains you sang, And o’er your happy songs its plaudits rang. The Dream and the Song S O oft our hearts, beloved lute, In blossomy haunts of songs are mute; So long we pore, ’mid murmurings dull, O’er loveliness unutterable. So vain is all our passion strong! The dream is lovelier than the song. The rose thought, touched by words, doth turn Wan ashes. Still, from memory’s urn, The lingering blossoms tenderly Refute our wilding minstrelsy. Alas! we work but beauty’s wrong! The dream is lovelier than the song. Yearned Shelley o’er the golden flame? Left Keats, for beauty’s lure, a name But “writ in water”? Woe is me! To grieve o’er flowerful faery. My phasian doves are flown so long— The dream is lovelier than the song! 168 James David Corrothers Ah, though we build a bower of dawn, The golden-winged bird is gone, And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves. Only the swallow-twittering eaves. What art may house of gold prolong A dream far lovelier than a song? The lilting witchery, the unrest Of winged dreams, is in our breast; But ever dear Fulfilment’s eyes Gaze otherward.. The long-sought prize, My lute, must to the gods belong. The dream is lovelier than the song. GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON George Reginald Margetson was born at St. Kitts, British West Indies, in 1877. He was educated at the Bethel Moravian School, graduating with honors in 1895. He came to the United States in 1897 and worked at various kinds of labor, finally becoming a stationary engineer, an occupation which he now follows. Most of his poems were written during spare moments. He is the author of four volumes of poetry: England in the West Indies, (1906); Ethi¬ opia’s Flight, (1907) ; Songs of Life, (1910) ; The Fledgeling Bard and the Poetry Society, (1916). He is at present engaged on another volume which will shortly go to press. He married Elizabeth Matthews of Cambridge, Massachusetts, November 1, 1905, and is the father of a large family. His present address is Cambridge, Massachusetts. The first selection is from The Fledgeling Bard and the Poetry Society; the others are from newspaper clippings supplied by the author. George Reginald Margetson 169 A Prayer OD the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, all one, Unto Thee I lift my voice Let me in Thy faith rejoice, All my doubts and fears displace With the counsel of Thy Grace; Charge my soul with sacred fire, To consume each low desire, Let my raptured spirit rise, In sweet cadence to the skies, Day by day, oh make me strong To endure the bustling throng. And when this frail life is o’er To Thy bosom let me soar And retain me clasped to Thee Ever through Eternity. Time To the Recent Graduates : «TX7E have no time”—Yet time is all we have— " * A glorious heritage which all men own. The fawning beggar and the cringing slave Share it with him whose power shakes a throne. Time is the genius of creative art Whereby all things are fashioned and destroyed; All progress stops without the magic chart By which life’s teeming myriads are employed. What vital opportunities await While time with gavel knocks at every door; Go forth, brave sons of men, new spheres create, 170 George Reginald Margetson Use time and make your destiny secure! Art, gems and wealth we yield to earth’s dark cave With time, and rise triumphant o’er the grave. Resurrection On the Discovery of Pharaoh’s Tomb. February, 1923 W RENCHED from the hold of a deep delved tomb, Where slept the ancient king Tut-Ankh-Amen, Raised from the dust of earth’s secreting womb Egypt’s long vanished glory lives again. Art’s matchless treasures hid in ages past Yield to the march of Science and of Time Which brings to light new spoils and trophies vast And bares a craft both startling and sublime. From out the Nile’s rich bed and sleeping sand Within the slumbering Valley of the Kings,— Beneath the stroke of an enchanter’s wand The fount of immemorial culture springs, The while a gasping world in wonder stares To view the greatest marvel of the years. JAMES WELDON JOHNSON James Weldon Johnson, son of James and Helen Johnson, was born in Jacksonville, Florida, where he attended the public schools. In 1894 he graduated from Atlanta University with the degree of A.B., and he received the degree of A.M. from the same Univer¬ sity in 1904. He also spent three years in graduate work at Columbia University, in the City of New York. In 1917 the honorary degree of Litt.D., was James Weldon Johnson 171 conferred upon him by Talladega College, Talladega, Alabama. For several years he was principal of the colored high school at Jacksonville. He was admitted to the Florida bar in 1897 and practised law in Jack¬ sonville until 1901, when he removed to New York to collaborate with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the light opera stage. In 1906 he was ap¬ pointed United States Consul at Puerto Cabella, Vene¬ zuela, and transferred as Consul to Corinto, Nicara¬ gua, in 1909, and to the Azores in 1912. While in Corinto, he looked after the interests of his country during the stormy days of revolution which resulted in the downfall of Zelaya and through the abortive revo¬ lution against Diaz. He has translated a number of Spanish plays. His translation of the Spanish grand opera, Goyescas, was produced by the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915. He has also to his credit sev¬ eral translations from the French. He is Contributing Editor of the New York Age. He won a prize in an editorial contest conducted by the Philadelphia Public Ledger in 1916. He is contributor to various maga¬ zines and periodicals. His poems have appeared in the Century, the Independent, the Crisis and other publi¬ cations. He is author of a novel, The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, and of a volume of poems, Fifty YearJ and Other Poems. In 1922 he published an anthology, The Book of American Negro Poetry, with biographical notes and an essay on The Creative Genius of the Negro. In March, 1920, he was sent by the National Association for the Advancement of the Colored People, to investigate conditions in Haiti. Upon his return he published a series of arti¬ cles in The Nation, dealing with conditions in the island. In the same year, 1920, he was elected Secre¬ tary of the National Association for the Advancement of the Colored People. He is a member of the Ameri¬ can Society of Authors and Composers, the American 172 James Weldon Johnson Sociological Society, and of the Civil Club of New York. His present address is 75 Fifth Avenue, New York City. The selections are from Fifty Years and Other Poems. Fifty Years 1863-1913 /''V BROTHERS mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since God, through Lincoln’s ready hand, Struck off our bonds and made us men. Just fifty years—a winter’s day— As runs the history of a race ; Yet, as we look back o’er the way, How distant seems our starting place! Look farther back! Three centuries! To where a naked, shivering score, Snatched from their haunts across the seas, Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia’s shore. Far, far the way that we have trod From heathen kraals and jungle dens, To freedmen, freemen, sons of God, Americans and Citizens. A part of His unknown design, We lived within a mighty age; And we have helped to write a line On history’s most wondrous page. A few black bondmen strewn along The borders of our eastern coast. Now grown a race, ten million strong, An upward, onward marching host. James Weldon Johnson 173 Then let us here erect a stone, To mark the place, to mark the time; A witness to God’s mercies shown, A pledge to hold this day sublime. And let that stone an altar be Whereon thanksgivings we may lay, Where we, in deep humility, For faith and strength renewed may pray. With open hearts ask from above New zeal, new courage and new pow’rs, That we may grow more worthy of This country and this land of ours. For never let the thought arise That we are here on sufferance bare; Outcasts, asylumed ’neath these skies, And aliens without part or share. This land is ours by right of birth, This land is ours by right of toil; We helped to turn its virgin earth, Our sweat is in its fruitful soil. Where once the tangled forest stood,— Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,— Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, The cotton white, the yellow corn. To gain these fruits that have been earned, To hold these fields that have been won, Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun. 174 James Weldon Johnson That Banner which is now the type Of victory on field and flood— Remember, its first crimson stripe Was dyed by Attucks’ willing blood. And never yet has come the cry— When that fair flag has been assailed— For men to do, for men to die, That we have faltered or have failed. We’ve helped to bear it, rent and torn, Through many a hot-breath’d battle breeze; Held in our hands, it has been borne And planted far across the seas. And never yet—O haughty Land, Let us, at least, for this be praised— Has one black, treason-guided hand Ever against that flag been raised. Then should we speak but servile words, Or shall we hang our heads in shame? Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, And fear our heritage to claim? No! stand erect and without fear, And for our foes let this suffice— We’ve bought a rightful sonship here, And we have more than paid the price. And yet, my brothers, well I know The tethered feet, the pinioned wings, The spirit bowed beneath the blow, The heart grown faint from wounds and stings; James Weldon Johnson 175 The staggering force of brutish might, That strikes and leaves us stunned and dazed; The long, vain waiting through the night To hear some voice for justice raised. Full well I know the hour when hope Sinks dead, and ’round us everywhere Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope With hands uplifted in despair. Courage! Look out, beyond, and see The far horizon’s beckoning span! Faith in your God-known destiny! We are a part of some great plan. Because the tongues of Garrison And Phillips now are cold in death, Think you their work can be undone? Or quenched the fires lit by their breath ? Think you that John Brown’s spirit stops? That Lovejoy was but idly slain? Or do you think those precious drops From Lincoln’t heart were shed in vain? That for which millions prayed and sighed, That for which tens of thousands fought, For which so many freely died, God cannot let it come to naught. O Black and Unknown Bards /^\ BLACK and unknown bards of long ago, How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? How, in your darkness, did you come to know The power and beauty of the minstrel’s lyre ? 176 James Weldon Johnson Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes? Who first from out the still watch, lone and long, Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song? Heart of what slave poured out such melody As “Steal away to Jesus”? On its strains His spirit must have nightly floated free, Though still about his hands he felt his chains. Who heard great “Jordan roll” ? Whose star-ward eye Saw chariot “swing low” ? And who was he That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, “Nobody knows de trouble I see?” What merely living clod, what captive thing, Could up toward God through all its darkness grope, And find within its deadened heart to sing These songs of sorrow, love, and faith, and hope ? How did it catch that subtle undertone, That note in music heard not with the ears ? How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown, Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears ? Not that great German master in his dream Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars At the creation, ever heard a theme Nobler than “Go down, Moses.” Mark its bars, How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were That helped make history when Time was young. James Weldon Johnson 177 There is a wide, wide wonder in it all, That from degraded rest and servile toil The fiery spirit of the seer should call These simple children of the sun and soil. O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed, You—you, alone, of all the long, long line Of those who’ve sung untaught, unknown, unnamed, Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine. You sang not deeds of heroes, or of kings; No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings You touched in chord with music empyrean. You sang far better than you knew; the songs That for your listeners’ hungry hearts sufficed Still live,—but more than this to you belongs: You sang a race from wood and Christ. “Lazy” S OME men enjoy the constant strife Of days with work and worry rife, But that is not my dream of life: I think such men are crazy. For me, a life with worries few, A job of nothing much to do, Just pelf enough to see me through: I fear that I am lazy. On winter mornings cold and drear, When six o’clock alarms I hear, ’Tis then I love to shift my ear, And hug my downy pillows. 178 James Weldon Johnson When in the shade it’s ninety-three, No job in town looks good to me, I’d rather loaf down by the sea, And watch the foaming billows. Some people think the world’s a school, Where labor is the only rule; But I’ll not make myself a mule, And don’t you ever doubt it. I know that work may have its use, But still I feel that’s no excuse For turning it into abuse; What do you think about it ? Let others fume and sweat and boil, And scratch and dig for golden spoil, And live the life of work and toil, Their lives to labor giving. But what is gold when life is sped, And life is short, as has been said, And we are such a long time dead, I’ll spend my life in living. TA ER ain’t no use in sayin’ de Lawd won’t answer ^* prah; If you know how to ax Him, I knows He’s bound to heah. De trouble is some people don’t ax de proper way, Den w’en dey git’s no answer dey doubts de use to pray. You got to use egzac’ly de ’spressions an’ de words James Weldon Johnson 179 To show dat ’tween yo’ faith an’ works, you ’pends on works two-thirds. Now, one time I remember—jes how long I won’t say— I thought I’d like a turkey to eat on Chris’mus day. Fu’ weeks I dreamed ’bout turkeys, a-struttin’ in der pride; But seed no way to get one—widout de Lawd pervide. An’ so I went to prayin’, I pray’d wid all my might, “Lawd, sen’ to me a turkey.” I pray’d bofe day an’ night. “Lawd, sen’ to me a turkey, a big one if you please.” I ’clar to heaben I pray’d so much I mos’ wore out ma knees. I pray’d dat prah so often, I pray’d dat prah so long, Yet didn’t git no turkey, I know’d ’twas sump’n wrong. So on de night ’fore Chris’mus w’en I got down to pray, “Lawd, sen’ to me a turkey,” I had de sense to say, “Lawd, sen’ me to a turkey.” I know dat prah was right, An’ it was sholy answer’d; I got de bird dat night. - Mother Night E TERNITIES before the first-born day, Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, Calm night, the everlasting and the same, A brooding mother over chaos lay. And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, Shall run their fiery courses and then claim The haven of the darkness whence they came; 180 James Weldon Johnson Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way. So when my feeble sun of life burns out, And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, I shall, full weary of the feverish light, Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep Into the quiet bosom of the Night. JOSEPH SEAMAN COTTER, JR. Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr., was born in Louisville, Kentucky, September 2, 1895, the son'of Joseph Sea¬ man and Martha Vaughn Cotter. He was a preco¬ cious child, having read a number of books before he was six years of age. He attended the public schools of Louisville, graduating with second honor from the Central Colored High School. He then entered Fisk University, Nashville, Tennessee. During his second year at Fisk he developed tuberculosis and had to with¬ draw from college. From then until his death, Feb¬ ruary 3, 1919, he was an invalid. His sister Florence, who was his first teacher, who graduated with first honor in her class, and who attended Fisk also, died of tuberculosis before he did. His first verse was composed on her grave. Although an invalid, and with only a few brief years—he died at twenty-four— he was the author of The Band of Gideon, published by the Cornhill Company, Boston, 1918; Out of the Shadows, a volume of sonnets and lyrics; and The Ken of the Spirit, a one act prose play. He destroyed much of his work, including portions of a poetic drama entitled “Moses.” The selections are from The Band of Gideon. 181 Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr. The Goal THAVE found joy, Surcease from sorrow, From qualms for today And fears for tomorrow. I have found love Sifted of pain, Of Life’s harsh goading And worldly disdain. I have found peace Still-born from grief, From soul’s bitter mocking, And heart’s unbelief. Now may I rest, Soul-glad and free; For, Lord, in the travail I have found Thee. Rain Music O N the dusty earth-drum Beats the falling rain, Now a whispered murmur, Now a louder strain. Slender silvery drumsticks, On an ancient drum, Beat the mellow music Bidding life to come. Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr. Chords of earth awakened, Notes of greening spring, Rise and fall triumphant Over everything. Slender silvery drumsticks Beat the long tattoo— God, the great musician, Calling life anew. Sonnet to Negro Soldiers ' I ' HEY shall go down unto Life’s Borderland, Walk unafraid within that Living Hell, Nor heed the driving rain of shot and shell That round them falls; but with uplifted hand Be one with mighty hosts, an armed band Against man’s wrong to man—for such full well They know. And from their trembling lips shall swell A song of hope the world can understand. All this to them shall be a glorious sign, A glimmer of that resurrection morn When age-long faith, crowned with a grace benign, Shall rise and from their brows cast down the thorn Of prejudice. E’en though through blood it be, There breaks this day their dawn of liberty. And What Shall You Say? ROTHER, come! And let us go unto our God. And when we stand before Him Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr. 183 I shall say— “Lord, I do not hate, I am hated. I scourge no one, I am scourged. I covet no lands, My lands are coveted. I mock no peoples, My peoples are mocked.” —And, brother, what shall you say? JOHN WESLEY HOLLOWAY John Wesley Holloway was born near Flat Shoals, Merriweather County, Georgia, July 28, 1865, the son of Houston H. and Cordelia (Thrash) Holloway. His father, who was one of the first colored teachers in Georgia, became a preacher in the A.M.E. Church after the Civil War. At the age of eight, six years before he attended any school, John Wesley Holloway began to write verses. At the age of fourteen he entered Clark University, Atlanta, Georgia, where he spent two years, going then to Fisk University, Nashville, Tennessee, where he completed the literary course in 1891, returning later for the Seminary Course, which he completed in 1905. He was a member of the Fisk Jubilee Singers during the tour of 1889. He was Assistant Principal of the Guthrie (Oklahoma) High School 1900-4. He was ordained a minister of the Congregational Church in 1900. He was pastor at Guthrie for three years, at Newark, New Jersey, for four years, and in 1909 he became pastor at Thebes, Georgia. He is now pastor of the First Congregational Church of Anniston, Alabama. He has been moder- John Wesley Holloway 184 ator of the Georgia State Congregational Convention, and Associate Editor of The Georgia Co-ngregationalist, and is a well known platform lecturer. He is author of From the Desert and miscellaneous songs and poems. He married Henri E. Bransford of Springfield, Ten¬ nessee, September 24, 1906. His present address is 1514 Mulberry Ave., Anniston, Alabama. The selec¬ tions are from From the Desert. T ELL you’ what, mon, Ah’m discouraged! Been a man since forty-fo’; Nevah had de luck Ah’m havin’. Since Aun’ Katy barred de doo’. Rain a-fallin’ ever’ mornin’, Storm a-comin’ ever’ night; Nevah see sich nasty weathah, Since de Lawd gi’ me mah sight! Boll-worm eatin’ up de cotton; Mildew eatin’ up de co’n; ’Taters in de ground’ a-rottin’,— Wush ol’ Gabul blow ’is Ho’n! Colry killin’ off de cattle ; Rabbits eatin’ up mah peas; Some on’ stealin’ all mah mellins; Chickens dyin’ wid disease. Can’ stir round fo’ so much watah,— Settin’ roun’ bof night an’ mo’n,— Grass a-growin’ lak de dickuns, Woe is me dat Ah wuz bo’n! John Wesley Holloway Dar’s dat sto’ man actin’ funny, Othah’s pressin’ fo deir pay; If Ah had a little money, Fo’ de Lawd, Ah’d run away! Cross Ol’ ’oman, bawlin’ chil’en, To mah finish sholy p’ints; ’Sides, Ah feel mos’ lak Ah’m dyin’, Wid dis mis’ry in mah j’ints; ’Clar to goodness Ah’m discouraged! Dough Ah’m Christ’an thu an’ thu, Le’ me have a jug o’ licker, Ain’ no tellin’ what Ah’d do! Plowin’ Cane H OL’ up yo’ haid, ol’ mule, I say! I know you t’ink dis cane is hay, You’re trained to leave dat co’n alone, But dis ’ere cane’s anothah one: ’Twan’t made fo’ mules, hit’s made fo’ men; An’ don’t you bite dat stuff again! Hit’s strange to me dat you don’t know Hit’s bettah to let de green t’ings grow Till harves’ time; hit’s sweeter den, Besides, ’twill be as much again. But you’d bite down de growin’ grain, An’ starve w’en snowflakes sweep de plain. But I don’t know. Perhaps to God I’m bad as you. Hit’s mighty odd, But lots o’ t’ings I should leave alone 185 186 John Wesley Holloway Till harves’ time, I bite ’em down; And fruits He meant fo’ ’ternity, I t’ink are none too good fo’ me. I go to war an’ shoot His men; I kill His oaks an’ feel no sin: If I was wise an’ jes’ but knew, Dar’s worse’n dat I ’spec’ I do,— Lay rash han’s on His treasures rare, An’ de angels wonder how I dare. An’ I been taught temptation’s way, To watch an’ fight, an’ strive, an’ pray; But you ain’ had no teachin’ ’tall, An’ I’m yo’ God,—but dat ain’t all: You know yo’ right to a wisp o’ hay, An’ yo’ t’ink you’re robbed o’ your lawful prey W’en I mek yo’ leave dis sorghum be, An’ I know you t’ink it’s mean o’ me. Well, eat some mo’; we’ll soon be done; A mule deserves a little fun; An’ may my God look on me, too, Jes’ lak I’m lookin’ on to you! Calling the Doctor A H’M sick, doctor-man, Ah’m sick! Gi’ me some’n’ to he’p me quick, Don’t,—Ah’ll die! Tried mighty hard fo’ to cure mahse’f; Tried all dem t’ings on de pantry she’f; Couldn’ fin’ not’in’ a-tall would do, An’ so Ah sent fo’ you. John Wesley Holloway 187 “Wha’d Ah take ?” Well, le’ me see : Firs’,—horhound drops an’ catnip tea; Den rock candy soaked in rum, An’ a good sized chunk o’ camphor gum; Next Ah tried was castor oil, An’ snakeroot tea brought to a boil; Sassafras tea fo’ to clean mah blood; But none o’ dem t’ings didn’ do no good. Den when home remedies seem to shirk, Dem pantry bottles was put to work: Blue-mass, laud’num, liver pills, “Sixty-six, fo’ fever an’ chills,” Ready Relief, an’ A. B. C., An’ half a bottle of X. Y. Z. An’ sev’al mo’ Ah don’t recall, Dey nevah done no good at all. Mah appetite begun to fail; Ah fo’ced some clabber, about a pail, Fo’ mah ol’ gran’ma always said When yo’ can’t eat you’re almost dead. So Ah got scared an’ sent for you.— Now, doctor, see what you c’n do. Ah’m sick, doctor-man. Gawd knows Ah’m sick! Don’t,—Ah’ll die! The Corn Song J ES’ beyan a clump o’ pines,— Lis’n to ’im now !— Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin’, at his plow ! In de early mornin’, 188 John Wesley Holloway Thoo de hazy air. Loud an’ clear, sweet an’ strong Comes de music rare: “O mah dovee, Who-ah! Do you love me ? Who-ah! Who-ah!” An’ as ’e tu’ns de cotton row, Hyah ’im tell ’is ol’ mule so; “Whoa ! Har! Come ’ere!” Don’t yo’ love a co’n song? How it stirs yo’ blood! Ever’body list’nin’, In de neighborhood! Standin’ in yo’ front do’ In de misty mo’n, Hyah de jolly black boy, Singin’ in de co’n: “O Miss Julie, Who-ah! Love me truly, Who-ah! Who-ah!” Hyah ’im scol’ ’is mule so, W’en ’e try to mek ’im go: “Gee! Whoa! Come ’ere!” O you jolly black boy, Yod’lin’ in de co’n, Callin’ to yo’ dawlin’, In de dewy mo’n, John Wesley Holloway 189 Love ’er, boy, forevah, Yodel ever’ day; Only le’ me lis’n, As yo’ sing away : “O mah dawlin’! Who-ah! Hyah me callin’! Who-ah ! Who-ah!” Tu’n aroun’ anothah row, Holler to yo’ mule so : ‘Whoa Har ! Come ’ere!” CHARLES BERTRAM JOHNSON Charles Bertram Johnson was born in Callao, Macon County, Missouri, October 5, 1880, and was educated at Western College, Lincoln University, and the University of Chicago. He has taught for eight years in the English Preparatory Department of West¬ ern College and twelve years elsewhere. He is now a minister, the pastor of the Second Baptist Church of Moberly, Missouri. His present address is 412 North Fifth Street, Moberly, Missouri. He has published three volumes : Wind Whisperings, (1900), The Mantle of Dunbar and Other Po-ems, (1918), and Songs of My People, (1918), the first two of which were privately printed pamphlets. The first of the following selections is from Songs of My People, (1918) ; the second from the Crisis, (1923). ‘ A Rain Song C HILL the rain falls, chill! Dull gray the world; the vale Rain-swept; wind-swept the hill; “But gloom and doubt prevail,” My heart breaks forth to say. 190 Charles Bertram Johnson Ere thus its sorrow note, “Cheer up ! Cheer up! to-day! To-morrow is to be,” Babbled from a joyous throat, A robin’s in a mist-gray tree. Then off to keep a tryst— He preened his drabbled cloak— Doughty little optimist!— As if in answer, broke The sunlight through that oak. Old Things T LOVE old faces mellow wise, That smile; their young-old laughing eyes Undimmed, still view, in sheer pretense Of youth, their own sweet innocence. I love old hands that trembling bless Youth’s wild impetuous duress; That find in childhood’s tangled cares, Life’s answers to unuttered prayers. Old things to me are dear and best: Old faith—that after life is rest; That somehow, from above our will, God works His gracious marvels still. Ray G. Dandridge 191 RAY G. DANDRIDGE Ray G. Dandridge was born at Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1882. He was educated in the public schools of his native city. After leaving the High School he became a painter and decorator. In 1911 he was stricken with fever, which was followed a year later by a complete nervous breakdown. Since 1912 he has been an inva¬ lid, having lost the use of both legs and his right arm. He does his writing with his left hand, and while lying on his back. He has published two volumes, Penciled Poems, and The Poet and Other Poems. In addition to these, he has had several bits of verse published in magazines and newspapers. At the present time he is Literary Editor for the Cincinnati Journal. His pres¬ ent address is 814 Chateau Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio. The selections are from The Poet and Other Poems. Zalka Peetruza (Who Was Christened Lucy Jane) S HE danced, near nude, to tom-tom beat, With swaying arms and flying feet, ’Mid swirling spangles, gauze and lace, Her all was dancing—save her face. A conscience, dumb to brooding fears, Companioned hearing deaf to cheers; A body, marshalled by the will, Kept dancing while a heart stood still: And eyes obsessed with vacant stare, Looked over heads to empty air, As though they sought to find therein Redemption for a maiden sin. 192 Ray G. Dandridge Twas thus, amid force driven grace, We found the lost look on her face; And then, to us, did it occur That, though we saw—we saw not her. Days D O tell me, where is Yesterday? All-knowing Sage, I dare thee say Other than it has been cast Into the maelstrom of the past. And tell me of to-morrow, Sage, If thou canst read an unturned page, And, also, something of to-day That was to-morrow, yesterday. Tracin’ Tales "VJO doubt dat you lak to know jes whut wuz ailin' ^ us, Why me and Maffew Pleasen’view had dat tremendus fuss; So I’ll just splain, ez bes’ I kin, how it dun cum erbout, An’ leab de placin’ ob de blame fo’ you to figgah out. Furst, Maffew said Wash Dudley tole May Belle Hannah Lee Sum mighty, mighty ugly tales kincernin’ Nance an’ me. Den w’en I goes to Dudley an’ ast him wor it so, He sed he only ovah heared Jack tellin’ Ismah Lowe. Ray G. Dandridge 193 Den I goes straight to Ismah an’ Iss sen’s me to Jack, An’ Jack sed his wife got it frum Ann Marildah Black; Right on to Ann Marildah’s I ambles on mah way, To fine dat she had bin enformed by Belledonah Grey. Boun’ dat I’d hab de truf fo’ long, I tuk out once mo’; An’ soon I’se stan’in’, hat in han,’ et Belledonah’s do’; An’ w’en I broached her ’bout it, she sed ob co’se ’twas true, Case it cum confidensul frum Maffew Pleasen’view. JESSIE REDMOND FAUSET Jessie Redmond Fauset, daughter of the Reverend Redmond and Anna (Lehmann) Fauset, was born in Philadelphia and received her elementary education in the Philadelphia public schools. She took her A.B. de¬ gree at Cornell University, where she became a member of Phi Beta Kappa. After taking her A.M. degree at the University of Pennsylvania she was for a while instructor in French in the Dunbar High School. She has studied in Paris and has traveled in England, Scotland, France, Belgium, and Switzerland. Since September, 1919, she has been Literary Editor of The Crisis. She is the author of short stories and poems and of a novel, There Is Confusion, to be published by Boni and Liveright in January, 1924. Her address is 69 Fifth Avenue, New York. The following poem is taken from the Crisis, (1920). 194 Jessie Redmond Fauset Oriflamme “I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. .1 look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’ ’’—Sojourner Truth. J think I see her sitting bowed and black, Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars, Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet Still looking at the stars. Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars, Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, Still visioning the stars ! LESLIE PINCKNEY HILL Leslie Pinckney Hill, son of Samuel Henry and Sarah Elizabeth (Brown) Hill, was born at Lynch¬ burg, Virginia, May 14, 1880. He graduated from East Orange, New Jersey, High School in 1898. He afterwards attended Harvard University, where he took the A.B. degree in 1903, and the A.M. degree in 1904. Following his graduation from Harvard, he went to Tuskegee as teacher of English and Educa¬ tion. He taught at Tuskegee three years, 1904-7, leav¬ ing there to become principal of Manassas Industrial School, Manassas, Virginia. In 1913 he was chosen head of the Cheyney Training School for Teachers, Cheyney, Pennsylvania, a position which he still holds. Under his administration the school has changed from a private school to one of the standard Normal Schools Leslie Pinckney Hill 195 of Pennsylvania. He is President of the Board of Trustees of Manassas Industrial School; Secretary- Treasurer of the Association of Negro Secondary and Industrial Schools; member of the Board of Managers of the Armstrong Association. He is a member of Phi Beta Kappa. He is author of Wings of Oppres¬ sion from which the selections are taken. He married Jane Ethel Clark, of Newark, New Jersey, June 2, 1907. His present address is Cheyney, Pennsylvania. The Wings of Oppression T have a song that few will sing In honor of all suffering, A song to which my heart can bring The homage of believing— A song the heavy-laden hears Above the clamor of his fears, While still he walks with blinding tears, And drains the cup of grieving. I ask not why, I only see How poor is all our potency, How soon the wise, the strong, the free Some deadly bane discloses; While he whose bread is doubly priced. By whom all gain is sacrificed, Keeps near to beauty, near to Christ, And Socrates and Moses. The captains and the gilded kings, With all their marshalled underlings, Are found to be but puny things, Impermanent and hollow; 196 Leslie Pinckney Hill While up through terror, blood and dearth, Poor men accounted little worth, Still raise the beacon lights of earth For truth and faith to follow. So long as life is steeped in wrong, And nations cry: “How long, how long!” I look not to the wise and strong For peace and self-possession; But right will rise, and mercy shine. And justice lift her conquering sign Where lowly people starve and pine Beneath a world oppression. O sweet is power, dear is ease, And beauty cannot fail to please, But mightier far than all of these Those chastening of sorrow By which alone the heart will dare To mount beyond a world of care On visions bright beyond compare Of better things tomorrow. Tuskegee W HEREFORE this busy labor without rest? Is it an idle dream to which we cling, Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing Unto the world their hope? “Build we our best, By hand and thought,” they cry, “although unblessed.” So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, And so the thought is wedded to the thing; But what shall be the end, and what the test? Leslie Pinckney Hill 197 Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see Not many steps ahead, but this we know— If all our toilsome building is in vain, Availing not to set our manhood free, If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, The South will wear eternally a stain. Freedom Freedom, let thy perfect work be wrought In us, the children of a chastened race, Long, long ago in thy benignant face Our fathers saw “the gleam.” They meekly brought Their shackled limbs in faith to thee, and sought Thy heart with prayer; and thou didst rend apace The bonds of men who leaned upon thy grace, Their spirits with a tuneful patience fraught. We call upon thee now no more in chains Such as our fathers wore—from these we’re freed— But clanging still the fetters of the soul. The liberation of ourselves remains: “The gleam” we follow weakly, for we need The Freedom of a sturdy self-control. “So Quietly” News item from the New York Times on the lynching of a Negro at Smithville, Ga., December 21, 1919: “The train was boarded so quietly . . . members of the train crew did not know that the mob had seized the Negro until informed by the prisoner’s guard after the train had left the town ... A coroner’s inquest held immediately returned the verdict that West came to his death at the hands of unidentified men.” S O quietly they stole upon their prey And dragged him out to death, so without flaw Their black design, that they to whom the law 198 Leslie Pinckney Hill Gave him in keeping, in the broad, bright day, Were not aware when he was snatched away; And when the people, with a shrinking awe, The horror of that mangled body saw, “By unknown hands!” was all that they could say. So, too, my country, stealeth on apace The soul-blight of a nation. Not with drums Or trumpet blare is that corruption sown, But quietly—now in the open face Of day, now in the dark—and when it comes. Stern truth will never write, “By hands unknown.” Self-Determination (The Philosophy of the American Negro) F OUR things we will not do, in spite of all That demons plot for our decline and fall; We bring four benedictions which the meek Unto the proud are privileged to speak. Four gifts by which amidst all stern-browed races We move with kindly hearts and shining faces. We will not hate. Law, custom, creed, and caste, All notwithstanding, here we hold us fast. Down through the years the mighty ships of state Have all been broken on the rocks of hate. We will not cease to laugh and multiply We slough off trouble, and refuse to die. The Indian stood unyielding, stark and grim; We saw him perish, and we learned of him To mix a grain of philosophic mirth With all the crass injustices of earth. Leslie Pinckney Hill 199 We will not use the ancient carnal tools These never won, yet centuries of schools, Of priests, and all the work of brush and pen Have not availed to win the wisest men From futile faith in battleship and shell: We see them fall, and mark that folly well. We will not waver in our loyalty. No strange voice reaches us across the sea; No crime at home shall stir us from this soil. Ours is the guerdon, ours the blight of toil, But raised above it by a faith sublime We choose to suffer here and bide our time. And if we hold to this, we dream some day Our countrymen will follow in our way. To the Smartweed 1 HOU art far more to me than blight and bane Alone, as rustics deem, who thus deny Thy regal will and martial quality. Often have I beheld the angered swain Charge through thy ranks with horse and steel in vain, And often have I seen the children try With gleaming blade to make thy banners fly Till every scion of thy stock was slain. But when the havoc tarried I have seen Thy striplings spring again to take the field, Choke the strong tuber, rout the bean forlorn, Shade every valued plant with insolent green, Constrain the earth to their prolific yield, And wave their purpling tops above the corn 200 Leslie Pinckney Hill 2 With plow and chain I saw the husbandman Tear up thy roots to wither in the heat, And drag thy foliage down to make a seat For the brown odorous furrow-crest that ran Across the mead where thy career began: But every blade and stalk that met defeat Rose up transfigured into sheaves of wheat, And wrought a conquest by a subtler plan. Ah, then I knew that he is more than blind And dim of thought who cannot surely see In thee the symbol of a world of men Swept down to darkness by the torrid wind Blown from the caves of fate eternally. In whom posterity will rise again. Christmas at Melrose C OME home with me a little space And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer. These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design. Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you. We’ll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Leslie Pinckney Hill 201 Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree. Eleanor, leader of the fold, Hermione with heart of gold, Elaine with comprehending eyes, And two more yet of coddling size, Nathalie pondering all that’s said, And Mary of the cherub head— All these shall give you sweet content And care-destroying merriment, While one with true madonna grace Moves round the glowing fire-place Where father loves to muse aside And grandma sits in silent pride. And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pass the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake. Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King, Or hear great Milton’s organ verse, Or Plato’s dialogue rehearse— What Socrates with his last breath Sublimely said of life and death. These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere. And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart. 202 Leslie Pinckney Hill The Symphony T think there scarcely can be given Nobler harmonies in heaven; Seraph harps and voices swelling Could not be more heart-compelling; For these instruments have found All the ministries of sound, And their shriving tones have won me Far more good than priests have done me. What troublous passion-stirring comes Upon the thunder-rolling drums! What weakness could withstand the scorns Blown by the bold courageous horns! What grace is that the spirit needs Uncompassed by the lowly reeds. And who could keep a truce with sins That heard the pleading violins! Oh, I was weary when I came To listen, for the sham and shame And poverty of mortal fare Are heavy weights for souls to bear. But, when I left, a flame of light Went with me through the solemn night, I walked in splendor in a place Large as illimitable space, Peace through the mists of doubting smiled, And life and death were reconciled. Leslie Pinckney Hill 203 Spring S WEET are the maiden promises of spring, Her voice comes wandering like some muted tone From far-off symphonies, and everything She wears is but a veiling lightly thrown Around the form of beauty. She will seem Demurely chaste and reticent awhile, But in her eyes is youth’s eternal dream, And all the light of passion in her smile. When the bold sun, her lover, argues down Her shy reserves, then will her lips confess Her timorous deep desire, and she will crown Her fealty with wondrous fruitfulness. And when her time is done, the earth will praise Her blithe and rosy breed of summer days. CLAUDE McKAY Claude McKay was born in Jamaica in 1890. His ancestors in Jamaica came originally from Madagas¬ car. At an early age he began to compose verses, the first to do so in the native Jamaican dialect. In 1912 he received the medal of the Institute of Arts and Sci¬ ences in recognition of his merit. In the same year he came to the United States, having been offered an education by a friend in Jamaica who believed in him. After attending for a time an institution for colored people, he went to the Agricultural College of Kansas, for he had decided to learn scientific farming and return to his native land in the hope that he might be of service to his people. He remained at the Kansas Agricultural College for two years, where he became 204 Claude McKay more and more interested in literature instead of farming. He left the college in 1914, and since that time has followed a variety of occupations, including service in hotels and as Pullman car porter. During most of this time he has resided in New York City. He is associate editor of The Liberator. He is author of Songs of Jamaica. Spring in New Hampshire, and Harlem Shadows. The selections are from Harlem Shadows. The Easter Flower F AR from this foreign Easter damp and chilly My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground. Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily Soft-scented in the air for yards around; Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; And many thought it was a sacred sign, And some called it the resurrection flower; And I, a pagan, worshipped at its shine, Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power. The Tropics in New York T> ANANAS ripe and green, and ginger-root. Cocoa in pods and alligator pears, And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit, Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs, Set in the window, bringing memories Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills, And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies In benediction over nun-like hills. Claude McKay 205 My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze; A wave of longing through my body swept. And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept. Harlem Shadows I hear the halting footsteps of a lass In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass To bend and barter at desire’s call. Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet Go prowling through the night from street to street! Through the long night until the silver break Of day the little gray feet know no rest; Through the lone night until the last snow-flake Has dropped from heaven upon the earth’s white breast, The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street. In Bondage I would be wandering in distant fields Where man, and bird, and beast, live leisurely, And the old earth is kind, and ever yields 206 Claude McKay Her goodly gifts to all her children free; Where life is fairer, lighter, less demanding And boys and girls have time and space for play Before they come to years of understanding— Somewhere I would singing, far away. For life is greater than the thousand wars Men wage for it in their insatiate lust, And will remain like the eternal stars, When all that shines to-day is drift and dust But I am bound with you in your mean graves, O black men, simple slaves of ruthless slaves. The Lynching H IS Spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. His father, by the crudest way of pain, Had bidden him to his bosom once again; The awful sin remained still unforgiven. All night a bright and solitary star (Perchance the one that ever guided him, Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim) Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char. Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view The ghastly body swaying in the sun The women thronged to look, but never a one Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; And little lads, lynchers that were to be, Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. Baptism I NTO the furnace let me go alone; Stay you without in terror of the heat. I will go naked in—for thus ’tis sweet— Claude McKay 207 Into the weird depths of the hottest zone. I will not quiver in the frailest bone, You will not note a flicker of defeat; My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet, My mouth give utterance to any moan. The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears ; Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name. Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears, Transforming me into a shape of flame. I will come out, back to your world of tears, A stronger soul within a finer frame. Absence '\T OUR words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool, Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb, Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. Like soft rain-christened sunshine, as fragile as rare gold lace, Your breath, sweet-scented and warm, has kindled my tranquil face. But a silence vasty—deep, oh deeper than all these ties Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word, To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred. 208 Georgia Douglas Johnson GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON Georgia Douglas Johnson was born at Atlanta, Georgia, September 10, 1886, and was educated in the Atlanta public schools and at Oberlin College. She married Henry Lincoln Johnson, once recorder of deeds at Washington, and is the mother of two sons. She has published two volumes, The Heart of a Woman and Bronze, and has another, An Autumn Love Cycle, now in press. Her home is in Washing¬ ton, 1461 S. Street, N.W., where she is writing for magazines and newspapers and is getting together material for another volume. The Torch. The first selection is from The Heart of a Woman, (1918) ; the other three from Bronze, (1922). Isolation A LONE! yes, evermore—isolate each his way, Though hand is echoing to hand vain sophistries of clay, Within that veiled, mystic place where bides the inmost soul, No twain shall pass while tides shall wax, nor chang¬ ing seasons roll. Enisled, apart our pilgrimage, despite the arms that twine. Despite the fusing kiss that wields the magic charm of wine, Despite the interplay of sigh, the surge of sympathy, We tread in solitude remote, the trail of destiny! Georgia Douglas Johnson The Octoroon 209 O NE drop of midnight in the dawn of life’s pulsat¬ ing stream Marks her an alien from her kind, a shade amid its gleam; Forevermore her step she bends insular, strange, apart— And none can read the riddle of her wildly warring heart. The stormy current of her blood beats like a mighty sea Against the man-wrought iron bars of her captivity. For refuge, succor, peace and rest, she seeks that humble fold Whose every breath is kindliness, whose hearts are purest gold. Little Son * I V HE very acme of my woe, The pivot of my pride, My consolation, and my hope Deferred, but not denied. The substance of my every dream, The riddle of my plight, The very world epitomized In turmoil and delight. Taps / I 'HEY are embosomed in the sod, In still and tranquil leisure; Their lives they’ve.cast like trifles down, To serve their country’s pleasure. 210 Georgia Douglas Johnson Nor bugle call, nor mother’s voice, Nor moody mob’s unreason, Shall break their solace and repose Through swiftly changing season. O graves of men who lived and died Afar from life’s high pleasures, Fold them in tenderly and warm With manifold fond measures. COUNTED P. CULLEN Countee P. Cullen is a young man, twenty years of age, a student in New York University. His work has appeared in the New York Times, The Crisis, The New York World, Opportunity, Telling Tales Maga¬ zine, and The Bookman. In the 1523 Undergraduate Poetry Contest of the Poetry Society of America, his poem, The Ballad of the Brown Girl, was ranked second among the 700 poems judged. His address is 234 West 131 St., New York. The selection is from The Crisis, (1923). The Touch T am no longer lame since Spring Came, daisy-decked, my way, And charmed with flute and silver lute, My laggard limbs to play; Her voice is sweet as long-stored wine; I leap like a hounded fawn; I rise and follow o’er hill and hollow To the flush of the crimson dawn. Countee P. Cullen 211 I am no longer deaf who hear The litany of Spring; The choir celestial of thrush and throstle, Of feathered breast and wing; The matin hymns of airy folk; The ave of the lark; The vesper trill of the whippoorwill To usher in the dark. I am no longer blind who see The little folk that pass, With woodland talk through garden walk, And o’er the shadow grass. In iridescent hues arrayed, The hooded flowers burst, And nightly clouds drop dewy shrouds To quench their wakened thirst. There is no longer room for doubt, For sorry mundane fears; I garner gain from poignant pain Reap joy from sowing tears; Through all old things new beauty runs. Defying any name; I only know that this is so: That earth is not the same. 212 Sarah Collins Fernandis SARAH COLLINS FERNANDIS Sarah Collins Fernandis was born in Baltimore. In 1882 she graduated from Hampton Institute. Since 1882 she has devoted her life to social service. Her first years of social service work, under the Woman’s Home Missionary Society, of Boston, consisted of school work in Tennessee and Florida. Next, after teaching several years in the Baltimore Public Schools, she became interested in organized charity in Wash¬ ington, and with her husband established a model home in Bloodfield, the worst Negro district of the city. Here they established a library, kindergarten, day nursery, and children’s clubs and attracted consider¬ able attention by their success in practically renovating the community. Later she accomplished a great suc¬ cess in a similar undertaking in the Negro slums of East Greenwich, Rhode Island. Since 1913 she has lived in Baltimore, where she has been an active social worker. During the war she attracted attention by her successful social service among the Negroes of Chester, Pennsylvania. Her present position in Bal¬ timore is that of social investigator in the public health clinic in the Provident Hospital, a Negro institution. She has published several poems in The Southern Workman from which the following selection is taken, and is said to be contemplating publishing a volume of verse. A Vision S OMETIMES a vision flashes out to me Of more abundant life that is to be! It may be when some woe-worn face has-smiled; Or when, ere the day’s dawning, sweet and clear, A bird-song breaks on my dream-drowsy ear; Saraii Collins Fernandis 213 Or when has laughed a happy little child,— Sometimes a vision flashes out to me Of more abundant life that is to be! Anon, it is when in some squalid place A lovely blossom lifts its tiny face; A mother’s lullaby at twilight time; A night-star’s glow from heaven’s deeper hue; The rainbow mirrored in a drop of dew; The Sabbath-morning bells’ uplifting chime,— Sometimes a vision flashes out to me Of more abundant life that is to be! Then all the present things that hurt and vex, The questionings that trouble and perplex, For a brief moment seem to fade away; And the swift glimpse of life’s full treasure-trove. Its unspent wealth of beauty, joy, and love. Give surety of the coming “better day,”— Sometimes a vision flashes out to me Of more abundant life that is to be! 214 Bibliographical and Critical Notes BIBLIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTES The following notes seek to give some idea of the nature, content, and value of most of the volumes used in the prepara¬ tion of this book. They are condensed and edited from reading notes taken at the time the volumes were used. A few volumes were examined under conditions that made the taking of notes impracticable and are therefore not represented in this list; one or two others have been omitted either because they were fully treated in the essay with which this volume is pre¬ faced or because, like the works of Paul Laurence Dunbar, they are easily accessible in any library. These notes are included in this volume because they contain information diffi¬ cult to incorporate in a critical and historical preface and because they show, in a way that seemed otherwise impossible, the level from which the better poets of the Negro race have developed. ADAMS, WELLINGTON. Lyrics of an Humble Birth. Washington, 1914. A short, modest preface calls the volume “but the weak effort of an humble soul, reaching out beyond the piercing gloom and pene¬ trating darkness; which, it seems, has filled a large part of our life. Regardless of the many difficulties encumbered (sic), however, the inner-man still yearns for a larger usefulness to his race in particular and to mankind in general.” The poems are mostly in dialect. There are some songs. The thought is sometimes humorous, sometimes serious; the spirit is agreeable, but both thought and emotion are shallow. The diction is sometimes unnatural; typography and spelling are poor, also punctuation. The grammar is bad (e.g. “shook’d” and “borned,” not in dialect). The thought is often obscure. The best poems are De Mekins ob a Man, Apprehension, The Passing of “ Old Aunt Maria/* The songs in Part II are trivial as poetry. From the subjects one guesses Adams is a government employee. ALLEN, J. MORD. Rhymes, Tales and Rhymed Tales. Topeka, 1906. Both the stories and poems are good. The poems are mostly in dialect and show a good sense of humor of a rather quiet kind. They express excellently the cheerful side of the Negro philosophy of life. There are eighteen poems in all. The Rhymed Tales are good narration and good pictures of Negro life and psychology. The Test, an account of a checker game over a backslider, and The Devil and Sis’ Viney are both good. His Race’s Benefactor is a humorous account of a Negro agitator who won’t work—a restrained satire on racial agitation. Eureka is a humorous account of a Negro who is buying a prescription to make him a white man. When the Fish Begin to Bite and Shine on Mr. Sun are short lyrics full of real Negro humor. The book opens with The Psalm of the Uplift and concludes with Counting Out. BEADLE, S. A. Lyrics of the Underworld. Jackson, Miss., 1912. Contains photographic illustrations, including pictures of the author, W. A. Mollison, “Introductor” of the poems, and J. A. Scott, publisher, all Negroes. The preface shows a keen feeling of racial injustice. Beadle says he chose his title because the Negroes are treated as alien Bibliographical and Critical Notes 215 enemies and otherwise discriminated against. He expresses scorn for “worshippers of the idol, Color,” defiantly apologizes for the patriotism of My Country, and says that The Jaunt is merely inserted to take the place of The Black Knight “which ... I prefer not to publish at this time.” Beadle says he is not a college man and seems a little bitter that some college men of his race have shunned endorsing his poems. The style of the introduction is rather ornate. None of the poems is really worth quotation. The love poems are both heavy-footed and inane. Baby Darling expresses with some effectiveness a genuine feel¬ ing of loss; it is not very good, but is among the best of the lot. There are only one or two dialect poems. The diction on the whole is pond¬ erously and Latinously elaborate (e.g. “lobate breasts”). Driving the Cattle Home has one or two fair stanzas. Onward expresses racial aspiration without bitterness. Lines to Caste shows racial bitterness; it contains his best poetry. In When Truth Comes Home, which is an obscure poem on a colored prostitute, he speaks of “the lordly heir of Caste, Triumphant in his lechery.” In Lines to Caste he says “I simply know that Caste is blind, And that its hope is vicious mind,” continuing, to the conclusion: Because God loves he doth chastise, And makes another race the rod; Then let the chastened race be wise And know the lash is not the God; ’Tis not the rod’s; chastisement is Eternally and justly His. We have forgot our own household To take our tribute to the strong— The willing vassal, young or old, Deserves chastisement late and long; And ours is but the well-earned hell Of wanton, faithless infidel. BELL, JAMES MADISON. The Poetical Works of —. Lansing, Michigan, 1901. Contains pictures of Bell, an old man, and of Bishop B. W. Arnett, who wrote the accompanying biographical sketch. The poems are long with simple verse forms (couplets and quatrains, etc.) and rhyme schemes. There is neither grace nor suggestiveness of language. The thought is clear and vigorous (sometimes violent and sometimes crude) and is emotional and sincere. The poems are mostly hortatory or denunciatory. Some titles are: Apostrophe to Time, Cre¬ ation Light, The Black Man’s Wrongs, The Dawn of Freedom, The Day and the War, The Abolition of Slavery in the District of Columbia, The Progress of Liberty, The Death of Lincoln, The Future of America in the Unity of the Races, Triumph of the Free, Liberty or Death. There are twenty-seven poems in all, mostly devoted to Negro freedom. The four-page Valedictory on Leaving San Francisco is one of the best. In The Future of America in the Unity of the Races he traces the decadence of races that have been self-sufficient, regards the discovery of America as a new lease on life for decadent Europe, and glories in the coming unity of races in America. BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Lyrics of Life and Love. Boston, 1905. There are sixty-three poems, mostly short. Some are reprinted from magazines. The poems are mostly lyrical, with a tech¬ nical finish well above the average. Some are rather exquisite; many have a delicate beauty, but few are of any individual weight or ethical value. There is no interest in racial questions at all, nor in much else that implies stress or conflict. Benjamin Brawley, in The Negro in Literature and Art, (1910 edition) criticises him for this, while praising his technique. The best poems in this volume are: A Little Song, Keats Was an Unbeliever, In a Grave-Yard, The Departure of Pierrot, A Sea Prayer, By an Inland Lake, It’s a Long Way. 216 Bibliographical and Critical Notes —The House of Falling Leaves. Boston, 1908. There are sixty-eight poems, similar in nature to his earlier poems. They have a somewhat pale and graceful estheticism with no feeling of “mission’* or racial self-consciousness. The House of Falling Leaves, a sequence of four sonnets dedicated to F. L. Knowles, is a good threnody. Mater Trium- phalis, to Louise Imogen Guiney, is good, but somewhat obscure. To Fiona, 19 Months Old, is a good bit of sentimental fatherhood. Off the New England Coast, in four strophes, is deep, perhaps, but incomprehen¬ sible as a whole. Nympholepsy states the problem of a sensitive soul. A Song of Living is really worth while both ethically and artistcally. The Eternal Self expresses the idea of the insubstantiality of life and the reality of soul. Braithwaite’s admiration for Keats, Shelley, Ros¬ setti, and Blake is evident. A good example of his authentic and sug¬ gestive lyricism is in From the Crowd. A Little While Before Farewell is a good example of poetic wistfulness. This Is My Life epitomizes the spirit of his poems; it is dignified and sincerely idealistic. BRAWLEY, BENJAMIN GRIFFITH. The Problem, and Other Poems. Atlanta, Ga., 1905. Paper, pp. 18. Some of the poems are reprinted from the magazine, The Voice of the Negro. There are twelve poems, all of respectable quality. The general theme is protest against injus¬ tice to Negroes. The Problem points out the inconsistency of the white race in worshipping liberty and mistreating the Negro. The Flag is rather vague. The Religion, in the same metre and stanza as The Flag, says “go find a new religion,” apparently alluding to the same incon¬ sistency as The Problem. The Law is a strong moral indictment of lynching. Brawley’s idealism and faith are shown in The Plan. The spirit of the poems is fairly well epitomized in his introduction: “In the heart of a black man there is ever a feeling of wonder. His faith bids him be hopeful, but the present makes him dubious of the future. He looks at his child or his younger brother and wonders what the end of it all will be. Those who know this may be able to understand what I have tried to say in this little book.” —The Desire of the Moth for the Star. Atlanta, 1906. Six poems, mostly reprinted from The Voice and The Boston Evening Transcript. The titles are: Chaucer, The Bells of Notre Dame, To Kit Marlowe, Sonnet, Browning, Good Night. All except Sonnet are on literary sub¬ jects. The poems are superior to those in The Problem. —-The Dawn, and Other Poems. Washington, 1911. A large folio con¬ taining seven poems: The Dawn, (sonnet) Chaucer, The Bells of Notre Dame, I Did Not Dream, To Kit Marlowe, Ballade of One That Died Before His Time, St. John's River. All except the first, sixth, and seventh are reprinted from the 1906 volume. The Dawn is an Easter sonnet. St. John's River is a personal poem of love or friendship, con¬ nected with memories of the river. —The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, A Lyrical Legend. Atlanta, 1917. Thirty-three six-line stanzas. One of Brawley’s best poems. It is a lyrical legend telling the story of the seven sleepers, their persecution, miraculous sleep, and awakening centuries later. It contains some good ballad touches, good lyrical use of names, good use of simple ballad stanza style, good presentation of simple, primitive religion, and is somewhat reminiscent in certain lines of Rossetti and Coleridge. —The Negro in Literature and Art. Atlanta, 1910 and New York, 1918 and 1921, enlarged and revised. Pp. 196. The chapters of the 1921 edition are: The Negro Genius; Phillis Wheatley; Paul Lawrence Dun¬ bar; Charles W. Chesnutt; W. E. Burghardt Du Bois; William Stanley Braithwaite; Other Writers; Orators—Douglas and Washington; The Stage; Painters—Henry O. Tanner; Sculptors—Meta Warwick Fuller; Music; General Progress, 1918-1921; Charles S. Gilpin. The appendix contains an essay on The Negro in American Fiction, protesting against the injustice of the conventional story of farcical Negro humor and pleading for more dignified treatment; also a useful bibliography in four Bibliographical and Critical Notes 217 sections. The book is illustrated with portraits of all the persons men¬ tioned in the table of contents. The plan and style are lucid; the critical judgment is temperate, sensible and well-grounded in knowledge; the material presented is full and trustworthy. It is a volume that should be in the library of anyone interested in the American Negro and is unquestionably the best study of the American Negro’s development in literature and art. The plan and temper of the volume are the same as those of the 1910 booklet, which it supersedes. It is perhaps worth noting that the latest edition does not repeat the earlier criticism of Braithwaite’s poems as lacking sufficient earnestness and body, or the statement made in the 1910 volume that “Much that has been written on the Negro Problem, while it may have some value in the search for truth, is, from the standpoint of polite literature, absolutely worthless, so that comparatively little of the writing on this large subject has been considered. ” —Three Negro Poets: Horton, Mrs. Harper and Whitman, in Journal of Negro History, II, 4. October, 1917. Contains considerable detailed information, criticism and quoted material not included in The Negro in Literature and Art. COFFIN, F. B. Coffin’s Poems, with Ajax’s Ordeals. Little Rock, Arkansas, 1897. Dedicated first to the memory of his mother, second to the conscience of the nation. The volume is strongly impregnated with a sense of racial wrong. Coffin protests against lynching, injustice, and discrimination. The poetic qualities are almost nil. In Our Country, a seven-page poem, he says: This star-spangled banner country Is styled as the “Land of the Free”; And yet our race here suffers wrong And great humility. Other stanzas protest against lynching. There is a poem to Frances E. Harper. The rhymes, thought, and vocabulary are only semi-literate. There is no spirit of violent resentment toward white people, merely strong protests. There are some religious poems. Part II is The Children’s Corner. Part III, Ajax’s Ordeals, deals mainly with the horror of lynching. Ajax’s Death is in dramatic form—a lynching party. CORROTHERS, JAMES DAVID. In Spite of the Handicap. Intro¬ duction by Ray Stannard Baker. New York, 1916. An autobiography. There is an interesting account of Corrothers’ boyhood in the Michigan lake region and of his early struggle with poverty. His experiences with hardship and discrimination in various kinds of work are interest¬ ingly recounted. He has been a boxer, dock hand, field hand, hotel boy, roustabout, boat hand, newspaper writer, and preacher. He wrote copi¬ ously as a space writer for the Chicago dailies, but was a victim of dis¬ crimination and could never make a regular reporter’s position. The only regular newspaper job ever offered him was by a Southern man editing the Saint Louis Post Dispatch. He met Douglass and was a friend of T. T. Fortune and Dunbar. The book contains some interesting side¬ lights on discrimination against Negroes in the North. Corrothers seems to think the South treats negroes really better and speaks gratefully of his own treatment in North Carolina and in Virginia where he “pastored” several churches. He condemns Jim Crow laws, which he thinks the worst element of discrimination against Negroes in the South, but readily sees provocation in the rough behavior of the Negro pass¬ engers. Corrothers turned minister after considerable newspaper experi¬ ence and was in turn Methodist, Presbyterian and Baptist. He was prosecuted in court and acquitted of conspiracy against his bishop, but claims he was hounded thereafter by the church organization. There are interesting revelations of the jealousy, intrigue, ignorance, and immorality of some ministers. He wrote verse from his boyhood. He 218 Bibliographical and Critical Notes speaks of the great pains taken with his later poems, and quotes approval from Robert Underwood Johnson and R. M. Alden. His atti¬ tude to white people shows feeling of being discriminated against, but is not antagonistic, and does full justice to the South. COTTER, JOSEPH S., JR. The Band of Gideon and Other Lyrics. Boston, 1918. Pp. 29. There are twenty-five poems, all short, the longest being only forty-five lines. In a brief introduction Cale Young Rice bespeaks attention from all sympathizers with the Negro race and finds poetic promise in the gallant spirit in which the poems “were nearly all written on a sick-bed, by a boy whose twenty-two years have been far from filled with the ineffable boon of health.” Some of the shorter poems are slight as to material content, but the volume holds decided promise. Except for a slight vagueness in the title poem, the thought is always clear, if not vigorous, and is adequately expressed, especially in the three sonnets. There is a slight personal note, as in his reference to the expectation of death in To Florence. A racial note that is unmistakably clear without being violent is to be found in Sonnet to Negro Soldiers, The Mulatto to His Critics, Is It Because I am Blackf. And What Shall You Say, and O Littie David, Play on Your Harp. The last-named deals with the madnesss of the World War and asserts that “in every land” Negroes are being oppressed, as well as the Russians and Belgians in Europe. The volume is one of the few by Negro poets in which free verse appears. DANDRIDGE, RAYMOND GARFIELD. The Poet and Other Poems. Cincinnati, 1920. Pp. 64. Sixty-four poems, with a Foreword in which Winston V. Morrow commends the author for his energy and applica¬ tion in producing two volumes of verse while helpless from the should¬ ers down. The poems are all short. They are about evenly divided between dialect and standard English. There are some slightly false quantities in the versification, and the diction, which is almost trite and not always exact, shows the lack of wide or discriminating reading in English literature. The dialect vocabulary is more exact and in A Recalled Prayer is a vehicle for some rather good humorous touches. To An Unhanged Judas is a bitter attack on one who has proved a traitor to his race. Time to Die, Supplication, Brother Mine, and Color Blind show a vigorous and somewhat militant racial feeling. Facts expresses the feeling that the part played by Negro soldiers in the World War should alter the old racial discrimination. In Flanders Fields and Old Glory are expressions of American patriotism. Such general themes as Love, Deceit, Opportunity, Fren’ship, are rather tritely developed. Humor, as in Halid Cider and In Stripes, is the most effective element of the volume except the one poem, Zalka Pee- truza, which is clearly the best poem included. The author has pub¬ lished an earlier volume, Penciled Poems, now out of print, but which will be represented in a volume of Selected Poems now under consider¬ ation by a Boston publisher. DAVIS, DANIEL WEBSTER. Idle Moments. Baltimore, 1895. Con¬ tains photographic illustrations. Some of the poems are reprinted from magazines and journals. Practically all were reprinted in Weh Down Souf, q.v. —Weh Down Souf. Cleveland, 1897. Pp. 133. The poems are mostly in dialect. They do full justice to the Old South and handle some super¬ stitions interestingly. While not especially good, they are well above the average of Negro poems. The author likes the old things and makes one or two good-humored thrusts at modern new-fangledness in De Linin' ub de Hymns, 01’ Virginny Reel, etc. He has racial pride, as seen in Emancipation, Exposition Ode and De Nigger's Got to Go, but he has national pride too, and no racial bitterness. He can laugh at the “forty acres and a mule” paradise and at the great hopes that McKin- Bibliographical and Critical Notes 219 ley’s administration would be a Negro millennium. The Baby Show tells how “the infant with the ‘kinky top’ was certainly not ‘in it’ ” and others, “Because their colors ‘ran to dark’ Had nothing to com¬ mend them,” and concludes that some may be frightened by this, “But to my mind it demonstrates We are simply being enlightened .” Uncle Rastus and the Whiskey Question and Pomp’s Case Argued are humorous treatments of Negro weaknesses. Night on de 01’ Plantashun and 01’ Mistis’ both point out the human element in slavery life. Hog Meat is a good example of the numerous Negro poems turning on appetite, and Fishin ’ Hook an’ Worms is a good expression of the easy, pleasure-loving side of the Negro race. Exposition Ode (read at the opening of the Negro Building, Atlanta Exposition, 1895) is a very sensible presenta¬ tion of the Negro’s case. It represents him as proud of progress, grateful for help, without bitterness, proud of protecting Southern homes during the Civil War, proud of the South and resolved to stick to it and help improve it, despite discouragement. DINKINS, [REV.] CHARLES R. Lyrics of Love, Sacred and Secular. Columbia, South Carolina, 1904. Pp. 230. With portrait of author and of author at age of 12, as the “Boy Preacher.” The Invocation is by far the best poem. It has some faulty stanzas but approaches eleva¬ tion of theme and expression. The Religious Poems, seventy-eight in number, are practically all hymns. In general they have some elevation and dignity and are not beneath the average found in many hymn books to-day. The group of Secular Poems is concerned mainly with the Negro question, woman (somewhat jocosely treated), and personal tributes. An Appeal from the Stake, expresses bitter protest at the treatment of the Negro, yet professes still to love the white man. Let Him Alone is a humorous appeal to solve the race question by letting the Negro alone. No Longer a Slave rejoices in freedom. We Are Black but We are Men protests equality in the sight of heaven. Other titles are How Was Woman Made (insinuating that God made her crooked), Marrying (a catalog of the contrasting goods and ills thereby contracted), The Wife Problem (indicating the uselessness of quarreling with a woman) and To the Bachelor (advising marriage). General Wade Hampton and Appo¬ mattox are genuinely Confederate in feeling throughout. Dinkins is always charitable, though sometimes a little bitter and vigorous on race wrongs. He never preaches revenge, but exalts love, and glorifies Booker T. Washington’s ideas in The Prophet of the Plow. There are occasional gross crudities in Dinkins’ verse, especially when trying to be humorous. FORD, [REV.] ROBERT E. Brozvn Chapel: A Story in Verse. 1905. Preface dated from Baltimore. No publisher or place of publication indicated. The story is told in twenty-one cantos. 307 pages in eight¬ line tetramenter stanzas, rhymed alternately, witli many run-on lines and stanzas. There are a few errors of grammar, diction, and quantity, but the verse is plain and well adapted to narrative. The conversation and description are very natural. The story, a three cornered love-affair, is simple but not uninteresting. Reverend Ray¬ mond Stone, the new pastor at Brown Chapel, is idolized by his flock. Rose Hawkins is choir leader, rather mischievious and romping by nature. May Melville, wife of one of the principal laymen, has had a love affair with Stone long ago when Stone was a wild student. She recognizes and still loves him, but remains true to her husband. Stone and Rose fall in love by various stages fully described. May at first disapproves of Rose. Stone is nearly killed in a runaway; May nurses him back to life. Stone builds a new parsonage, conducts a camp meet¬ ing, and grows in favor. It is discovered that May and Stone are brother and sister, separated in infancy. May helps Stone acquire Rose. The principal value of the book is in its clear and unassuming pictures of life and the seasons in a Maryland Eastern Shore Negro community— 220 Bibliographical and Critical Notes church services, meetings of stewards, entertainment of preachers, respectable Negro family life, camp meeting, a pounding party, etc. The analysis of the love situation is sincere, free of cant, and psychologically true. Several ministerial problems, such as the quiet vs. the passionate style of pulpit oratory, the wire-pulling to avoid poor country charges, and the inequality of Conferences’ awards, are well discussed. In the preface the author says he served five years as an Eastern Shore min¬ ister. The book gives a good, true, unassuming inside picture of a Negro religious community. It contains nothing ornate—the author is plainly and simply describing what he saw. FORDHAM, MARY WESTON. Magnolia Leaves. Charleston, South Carolina, 1897. 104 pp. The volume contains a brief introduction by Booker Washington, and a picture of the author’s home. The poems are not illiterate, but commonplace and poor. Atlanta Exposition Ode shows hope for a brighter day, expresses a feeling of loyality for the South, and quotes approvingly Washington’s “Cast down your buckets where you are.” Other poems show patriotism, religious feeling of a conventional type, and personal interests. There are fourteen in memoriam poems. FORTUNE, TIMOTHY THOMAS. Dreams of Life. New York, 1905. 192 pp. 50 poems. There are several long narrative poems, e.g. Mary Conroy, Sadie Fontaine, Fah-F'ali (an Indian legend), Dukalon (longest of all), and The Bride of Ellerslie. These poems are rather verbose and wooden. The Wildwood Rose Will Grow deals with the death of the author’s young son. Emmanuel is apparently an imitation of Adonais. Some little literary atmosphere is connoted by Edgar Allen Poe and Byron's Oak and Newstead Abbey. There is some conventional poetic feeling for liberty that does not link itself very definitely with the slave question. The question of race relations is not raised. The love poetry and some pessimism are apparently more conventional than poignant. The title poem (somewhat suggestive of the tone of In Memoriam ) is rather diffuse but contains some of his best lines. It reviews Alexander, Caesar, Rome, and Bonaparte to show man’s essential weakness; reviews the pyramids and the vanity that inspired them; and concludes that man’s labors are all in vain “If Wisdom, Justice, Truth, be not The objects of his care and zeal.” The volume lacks inspiration, technique, and conciseness. FRANKLIN, JAMES T. Midday Gleanings, Memphis, Tennessee, 1893. It is described by the publishers as “A book for home and holiday reading.” The preface describes the young author as a “self-made gentleman of culture and a natural born poet” and says one poem, The Wandering Heart, “required only three minutes for its composition.” Sample titles are: A F'aded Flower, Autumn, Christ’s Whisper, Don’t Kiss, Grover Cleveland, Jeff Davis, etc. All are commonplace jingles, poor in thought, imagination, grace, and variety. Little Sue opens thus: Mong the stately larches, larches Where the willow arches, arches And the lilies bow; In the meadows yonder, yonder Little Sue would wander, wander. Looking for the cow. FULTON, DAVID B. See Thorne, Jack. HAMMON, JUPITER. In Oscar Wegelin’s Jupiter Hammond, Ameri¬ can Negro Poet, Selections and a Bibliography. New York, 1915. Ham¬ mond’s poetry was published mostly at Hartford, where his master fled from the English occupation of Long Island. Part of it was in broad¬ side form. It is crude compared with Phillis Wheatley’s. The vocabu- Bibliographical and Critical Notes 221 lary is poor; the grammar and spelling were probably corrected by others. His verse is religious doggerel, often with Scriptural references in the margin. Few of his poems are extant. Some of his titles are: An Evening Thought—Salvation by Christ, with Penetential Cries; An Address to Miss Phillis Wheatly; A Poem for Children with Thoughts on Death; A Dialogue Intitled the Kind Master and the Dutiful Servant. An Evening Thought, etc. published in broadside, December 25, 1760, proves that Hammon published verse nine years before Phillis Wheatley, whose first published poem was Elegy on the Death of Mr. Whitfield, 1769. This makes him the first Negro writer of verse in America. HARPER, FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS. Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects. Philadelphia, 1857; Pp. 48. A preface by “W. L. G.” (William Lloyd Garrison), Boston, points out the unfair and discour¬ aging position of the Negro race and says it has done well to produce so many writers, considering handicaps, and that such efforts as Miss Watkins’, which he thinks rather promising, should be encouraged, and judged on a different plane than verse by white people. The poems are of three types—strong anti-slavery, religious, and sentimentally-moral- istic verse. Nearly all are very banal and commonplace. Good examples of prosiness are Report, advising a young man how to seek a wife, and Advice to Girls: Wed not a man whose merit lies In things of outward show, In raven hair or flashing eyes, That please your fancy so, etc. Typical titles are: Saved by Faith, The Dying Christian, Eliza Harris, Bible Defense of Slavery, The Slave Mother. The last, though rather commonplace, has some genuine feeling. The volume ends with prose selections on Christianity, The Colored People in America, etc. The prose is rather turgid in style and stodgy in thought, but is better than the poems. The “Second Series,” with the same title as above, was published in Philadelphia, 1866, and is practically a reprint, with the addition of The Slave Mother—A Tale of the Ohio, Rizpah, The Daugh¬ ter of Ai, and Ruth and Naomi. All are mediocre, or worse. There are fifty-six pages, including prose. — Moses: A Story of the Nile. 3rd edition. Philadelphia, 1870. 47 pages, including four pages of prose on The Mission of the Flowers. Moses is a heroic narrative that sometimes resembles drama a bit on account of the long dramatic speeches. It is better than the poems noted above. It gives Moses a fairly distinct, patriotic character and fills in some of the gaps and characters of Genesis. The blank verse is rather lame. The princess who rescued Moses is given substance. There are two lyrics, fairly good. Moses is written in nine “chapters,” on The Parting, The Flight into Midian, and The Death of Moses. The first chapter is written as a dramatic dialogue. — Poems. Philadelphia, 1871. Pp. 48. The poems are of the same type as the first volume, but more finished and mature. The verse forms are elemental, and the poems lack subtlety and depth of thought, but their feeling, particularly about slavery, seems genuine. Some of the titles are: Sumner, Lincoln, Thaddeus Stevens, The Dying Fugi¬ tive, Bury Me in a Free Land, The Freedom Bell, Mary at the Feet of Christ, Vashti, Truth, and A Mother’s Blessing. The Dying Child to her Blind Father is a good example of the sentimentality of many of the poems. —Sketches of Southern Life. Philadelphia, 1872. Pp. 24. Begins with Our English Fireside, expressing gratitude for English sympathy in the Civil War. The Sketches are a series of crude narrative poems about Aunt Chloe’s children being sold, settling up the old estate, the young “massa,” the war, the slaves’ hopes during the war, liberation, slave voting, and Chloe’s reunion with her son. It is poor poetry, almost doggerel. The volume concludes with two or three religious poems. 222 Bibliographical and Critical Notes HAWKINS, WALTER EVERETTE. Chords and Discords. Boston, 1920. The preface refers to a hard boyhood on the farm and to the author’s desire merely to express in his poems the voice within himself. Off to the Fields of Green is autobiographic of his youth, which he describes as wayward, headstrong, talented. There are some poems of the World War (e.g.. They Shall Not Pass), poems of social unrest and discontent (e.g., TJie Death of Justice and Land of the Living Lie), poems of religious independence (e.g., Too Much Religion, God, Religion, The Goody Goody Good and others showing opposition to hypocrisy). There are some love poems of mediocre quality. Wrong’s Reward shows his belief in ultimate justice. A Festival in Christendom is a bitter satire on lynching. His Credo shows him somewhat of a free¬ thinker in religion and politics. Evolution closes with a good touch of unexpected satiric humor—man is still a monkey. There are forty-seven poems in all, some rather good. They show a competence of rhythm, vocabulary and thought well above the level of most of the other Negro versifiers. HILL, LESLIE PINCKNEY. The Wings of Oppression. Boston, 1921. Pp. 124. The volume contains sixty-eight poems, mostly short. The nine Poems of the Times are most of them already somewhat out of date, but there is some lyric quality in the four Songs. Most of the other poems show a quality of thought and an adequacy of expression that rank them with the best contemporary poetry written by Negroes. Some of the poems are reprinted from The Crisis, The Independent, The Outlook, and Life. There are no dialect poems. HOLLOWAY, JOHN WESLEY. From the Desert. New York, 1919. Pp. 147. Seventy-five poems. In a brief foreword the author, who was formerly a teacher but is now a preacher, states his purpose to publish, “as soon as possible a volume devoted ... to devotional, moral and religious subjects.” In a brief Introduction, Henry Hugh Proctor, Pastor of the First Congregational Church of Atlanta, comments upon the fact that the author has had the advantage both of a good education and of extensive travel and has returned to the soil “in the heart of Georgia.” His prediction that John Wesley Holloway will take rank next to Dunbar is too optimistic, but it is not to be doubted that his position among negro poets should be a very respectable one. The Corn Song is truly felicitous in its metrical representation of the Negro yodel; Discouraged "pleases by the exactness of its psychological truth; Calling the Doctor is real Negro humor; and Plowin' Cane contains a real lesson in spiritual humility. The dominant note of the volume is humor, best expressed in dialect treatment of farcial details of Negro life. Examples are Aunt Betsy’s Christmas Dinner, Ill-Manners, Mali Wife, The Pop- Call, Dat Susie Gal, Tile Doxology, The Baptising. Such poems as Business Religions, The Sermon on the Mount, Marriage Counsel and The Pessimist express a cynical view of spiritual and moral matters evidently born of a positive faith and at variance with the cheerful buoyance implicit in Down to Farmer Joe’s, Sunrise on the Farm, and Gardening. Racial consciousness (except for dispassionate genre pic¬ tures ar.d humorous incident) is a minor note. In I Am a Voice aspiration for Negro betterment is combined with admiration for the old-style Negro and closes on a note of patriotism; San Juan expresses pride in the Negro soldiers of the Spanish-American War; Black Mam¬ mies is a tribute to the old-time Negro mammy; and Back to the Farm endorses Booker Washington’s doctrine of manual labor. The poems on religious subjects are in general inferior to the others. HORTON, GEORGE MOSES. The Poetical Works of George Moses Horton the Colored Bard of North Carolina, to which is prefixed the Life of the Author, written by Himself. Hillsborough, 1845. Born a slave, Horton encountered immense difficulties in developing himself. Bibliographical and Critical Notes 223 He learned spelling with difficulty and in spite of discouragement, then reading. He read the New Testament, and “Wesley’s old hymns,” which made him passionately fond of poetry, “that new style” to him, as he calls it. He used to pick up scraps of paper in hopes of finding poetry. Then he fell to imitating them, and soon composed a hymn. His brother alone, “who was equally emulous for literature, and strove to rival me,” knew his ambitions. Horton admits that sensual pleasures, particularly drink, which his master served out to the slaves, hindered his develop¬ ment. Then his master gave George to his son, who took him in 1815 to Chapel Hill. Here the college boys “discovered a spark of genius in me, either by discourse or other means, which excited their curiosity, and they often eagerly insisted on me to spout, as they called it.” At first he harrangued; then, coming to consider himself “a public ignor¬ amus,” he spoke of poetry. He would compose while one of the boys acted as amanuensis. “I have composed love pieces in verse for courtiers from all parts of the state and acrostics on the names of many of the tiptop belles of Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia,” he says. The boys often gave him books; e.g., Murray's English Grammar, John¬ son's Dictionary, abridged, Milton, Thompson, Homer, Byron, Plutarch, and Shakespeare. They also gave him twenty-five cents each for his poems, “but some gentlemen, extremely generous, have given me from fifty to seventy-five cents.” He regrets that they encouraged him to drink. He thanks “the much distinguished Mrs. Hentz, of Boston,” for encouraging and correcting him. The book has an introduction, prob¬ ably by the publisher, which says that the author does not claim any great poetic merit and is fully conscious of his limitations. Pp. 95, 96, contain a list of 119 subscribers. There are love poems, poems of com¬ pliments, hymns, religious poems, and poems on general, bromidic sub¬ jects. Specimen titles are: To Catherine, The Swan—Vain Pleasures, Meditations on a cold, dark and rainy night. Memory, Prosperity, The Setting Sun, Death of General Jackson, Mr. Clav's reception at Ral¬ eigh, Clay's Defeat, The Tippler and his Bottle, On the Conversion of a Sister, Troubled with the Itch, The Creditor to his Proud Debtor, The Retreat from Moscow, and On the Pleasures of a College Life. Meditations is Popian and not bad. Troubled with the Itch may be a little grossly frank, but contains some arresting lines; e.g.: In fine I know not which Can play the most deceitful game, The devil, sulphur, or the itch; The three are but the same. The devil sows the itch, And sulphur has a loathsome smell. And with my clothes as black as pitch, I stink where’er I dwell.” etc. On the Pleasures of College Life is the longest and most ambitious. He has a strong sense of jingle and seldom goes wrong on metre. Apparently he wrote some poems with hymn tunes in mind. Prosperity, beginning “Come thou queen of every creature, Nature calls thee to her arms,” sings throughout to “Come thou Fount of every blessing.” Cf. also Death of General Jackson—An Eulogy, beginning “Hark from the mighty Hero’s tomb, I hear a voice proclaim,” with “Hark, from the tombs a mournful sound.” Some of his verse, though not involved, has little meaning; most of it is clear, orthodox, commonplace. —Poems by a Slave. Raleigh, 1829. The Explanation, by the publisher, W. R. Gale, states that Horton is still a slave, now thirty-two years old. The object of the volume is to raise funds to free him and send him to Liberia, where he is anxious to go. Two prefatory letters to the second edition, 1837, show that the receipts were small and Horton is still a slave at Chapel Hill. In 1829 Gales says Horton dictated his previous poems but is now learning to write. Some of the poems had appeared in the Raleigh Register and in Boston papers. There are thirty pages 224 Bibliographical and Critical Notes of poems, bound in with Poems by Phillis Wheatley. Praise of Creation is a hymn in the eighteenth century manner plus some enthusiasm. There are some conventional artificial verses to ladies and three poems expressing great longing for freedom: On Liberty and Slavery, The Slave's Complaint, and Lines, on hearing of the intention of a gentleman to purchase the Poet's freedom. The volume was first published with the title, The Hope of Liberty. JOHNSON, CHARLES BERTRAM. Songs of My People. Boston, 1918. Pp. 55. Thirty-five poems. Scarcely half the poems have the racial theme suggested by the title of the volume. Such racial champion¬ ship as appears is of an unmilitant variety and finds best expression in the Ode to Booker Washington and in three tributes to Negro poets, viz., Lacrimae Aethiopiae, Negro Poets, and The Mantle of Dunbar. The poems on general subjects, such as A Larger Life, Serenity, and Memory show a respectable back-ground of right-thinking, but are some¬ what commonplace in content and expression. The dialect genre pic¬ tures, such as Breakfast Time, Arbor Singing, Singing at Amen Church, and Spring in Callao are the truest “Songs of My People” as well as perhaps the most effective verse in the volume. JOHNSON, FENTON. A Little Dreaming. Chicago, 1913. The Fore¬ word prays “that my songs may please thee and give thee cheer and sympathy for my people.” There are fifty-nine poems, mostly short lyrics. The rhythm is good; there is some singing quality in the lyrics. One long poem, The Vision of Lazarus, mainly in blank verse, is an ambitious attempt. It recounts Lazarus’ experience in the tomb, and his journey through Heaven and Hell, conducted by Israfel. Most of the space is given to interviews with Homer, David, Solomon, and Alexander. It shows real promise in the grand style and in handling historical and classic names in the way that makes them really the stuff of poetry. The volume contains some conventional love poems in negro dialect, and even a few in Scotch, Irish, and German dialects. Some of the titles are: Dream of a Whisper, Dunbar, Beloved, Swinburne, What Mistah Robin Sais, Launcclot's Defiance, Down upon the Palatine, Where is Fame, My Love, Mistah Witch, And the Wound is Not for Man to See, Song of the Titanic Victim, The Ethiopian's Song, Dream Song, Abend- lied, etc. Thought is not so prominent as rhythm with him; there is no crudeness of thought, however. He is rather sensitive to beauty. Love, not so very impassioned and personal, is one motif. He shows very little of the racial tone, despite the prayer in the foreword. The Mulatto's Song does show the Negro’s feeling of being an outcast, and Rome Is Dying may be a symbol for oppression of the Negro. My Love praises the* Negro beauty, but not with any sense of racial wrong, bit¬ terness, or inferiority. —Songs of the Soil. Privately printed. New York, 1916. Forty-one poems, nearly all in dialect. The Introduction states Johnson’s purpose “to represent Negro life;—the Negro life in the rural districts of the South.” “I feel that a true artist can go no further than the American Negro for romantic inspiration.” He points out some reasons for this in the Negro. He thinks “Race prejudice is not a product of the soil but of propagandists who attempt to keep a certain political balance in the South. The masses of white people, if let alone, would love the Negro, and the masses of black people, if they were not disturbed by the results of propaganda, would love the white man. There is no natural reason for bitterness when we must consider that a large pro¬ portion of our Negro population has Caucasion blood in their veins and that the Negro has contributed more than his share to American wel¬ fare.” The poems are mostly short. They are not exactly poor, but much below the quality of A Little Dreaming. They are not as genuinely Negro and folksy as Johnson might wish. John Crossed the Island (A Negro Spiritual) is somewhat like the real spiritual We'll Bibliographical and Critical Notes 225 Put John on de Island. Spinning and The Golden City have no con- nection with Negro life, are in regular English, and are perhaps the best in the volume, though hardly worth quoting beside his other poems from A Little Dreaming. Johnson sentimentalizes the plantation Negro and does not really catch his mood, thought, or language. The book hardly fulfills the purpose stated in the preface. Representative titles are: Dreamin’ Land’, De Music Call, De 01’ Sojer, Ah’s Gwine Away, Injun Summah, De Elduh, De Witch Ooman, Close de Book. JOHNSON, GEORGIA DOUGLAS. The Heart of a Woman. Boston, 1918. Sixty-two poems, many of four or eight lines and none exceeding twelve lines. The quantities are smooth and the thought clear but some¬ what tenuous. There is some delicacy of feeling but no strength or originality. The key-note is a wistful melancholy and self-pity. Wil¬ liam Stanley Braithwaite, in the Introduction, comments upon the plaintive introspection of the tone as true to woman’s nature and hence to human nature. The volume, like those of Braithwaite, contains no touch of dialect or racial feeling. Representative titles are: Gossamer, Peace, Quest, Mate, Repulse, Youth, Tears and Kisses, When I am Dead, My Little Dreams. — Bronze. Boston, 1922. Sixty-five poems, grouped under the following divisions: Exhortation, Supplication, Shadow, Motherhood, Prescience, Exaltation, Martial, Random, and Appreciations. Practically all the poems are racial in theme. The concluding sentence of W. E. B. Du Bois’ Foreword, except that the last word is perhaps too strong, is an unusually just appraisal of the book: “Her word is simple, sometimes trite, but it is singularly sincere and true, and as a revelation of the soul struggle of the women of a race it is invaluable.” Both thought and feeling are stronger than in The Heart of a Woman, and the execution, though not distinguished, is fairly adequate. The poems of the Motherhood group are best. Although the view of the Negro’s past and present is pessimistic, as in Moods, Prejudice, The Hegira, The Octoroon, and Aliens, and even despairing, as when in Black Woman, a mother wishes to deny birth to an unborn child, the attitude toward the future is in general hopeful, as in Sonnet to the Mantled who “shall rise and cast their mantles by.” In Credo is a belief in “the ultimate justice of Fate”; The Suppliant learns the “The strong demand, con¬ tend, prevail; the beggar is a fool”; and Hope concludes that “each has his hour—to dwell in the sun.” The sociologist will be interested in the exaltation expressed in Cosmopolite and Fusion at being of mixed blood. The poems of appreciation are addressed to Lincoln, Braithwaite, Du Bois, Samuel Coleridge Taylor, and other inspirers of the Negro race. There are no dialect verses. JOHNSON, JAMES WELDON. The Book of American Negro Poetry. New York, 1922. Pp. 214, including a biographical index of authors and an index of titles. There is a 47-page prefatory essay on The Negro’s Creative Genius which discusses ragtime music, the dance, spirituals, Phillis Wheatley, Frances E. Watkins Harper, Bell, Whitman, Dunbar, Placido, Braithwaite, McKay, Fenton Johnson, Holloway, Campbell, Davis, Joseph Seaman Cotter, Jr., and R. C. Jamison. The selection included in the anthology begin with Dunbar and include thirty-one writers. The plan of beginning with Dunbar enables the editor to repre¬ sent contemporary writers more fully than would be otherwise prac¬ ticable, but results in a loss of earlier material of some historic value. The treatment of earlier writers in the introductory essay does not quite compensate for this loss. This essay is of some value in its discussion of the poets, though it does not make as complete and well-grounded a case as does Benjamin Brawley in The Negro in Literature and Art. Though the selections indicate a slight bias in the direction of race propaganda, they are made with fair taste and judgment. 226 Bibliographical and Critical Notes JONES, EDWARD SMYTHE. The Sylvan Cabin, A Centenary Ode on the Birth of Lincoln; and Other Verse. Boston, 1911. In the Introduction William Stanley Braithwaite says that these poems “are the rendering of a human document ... of an individual who speaks universally . . . “The opening poem, which celebrates the centenary of Lincoln’s birth, with its fine imaginative sweep, is as good as any poem I have seen which that occasion called forth.” Braithwaite praises the “upward-striving” spirit of the poems, and, “as good as these are,” predicts better successors. The title poem is in metrical, unrhymed stanzas. It addresses the place of Lincoln’s birth with great respect, comments on the dead glories of Egypt, Greece, Rome, and says that this spot, though unmarked by memorials, is secure against such a fate. The choice of words shows some education; there is no evidence of inspiration. The following, for instance, is rather indiscriminate verse: Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin. For as fled on the flight of years, The unrelenting Hand of time Wiped her sweet visage off the globe! Life in a Dream is so lilty that it strains diction. A Song of Thanks is cheerful optimism. An Ode to Ethiopia in Spenserians, is very ambitious though not always clear in particular passages and not always facile metrically. It gives an appreciation of the achievements of the black race, ancient and modern, historically, scientifically, in war, medi¬ cine, art, literature, etc., mentioning all the great names and making a few rather dubious claims. There is too much sentimentality in Jones’ verse, as in Were I a Bird. The book is an engaging revelation of ad¬ mirable traits of character, however. In a prose preface to O God Wilt Thou Help Me in School, he tells of his hard work and disappointment in beginning his education. Any one might have been inclined to bitterness and desperation; he merely writes his poem as a sort of prayer for help. The poem is rather crude, but the spirit is admirable. Also in Harvard Square, he tells of his long, toilsome journey to Harvard, the goal of his dreams and ideals, his conversation when he reaches the Yard, his arrest as a tramp and his night in jail—but his determination never weakens and he expresses no bitterness or resentment— Harvard Square is still the goal of his dreams. JONES, JOSHUA HENRY, JR. The Heart of the World. Boston, 1919. The main defect is lack of ability to rise above the commonplace in diction, emotion, and thought. It is good commonplace verse. Good¬ bye Mr. Gloom has some touch of insouciant Negro humor. My Jewels and Contentment are fairly good. Pedestrianism, however, is the key¬ note. Some of the poems are connected with the World War; e.g., Gone West. A feeling of democracy is expressed in The Heart of the World, inspired by Wilson’s speech in Boston after his return from the first peace sitting in 1919. There is no racial bitterness; the poems are written from a general rather than a racial point of view. They’ve Lynched a Man in Dixie is a strong protest against lynching, but not from a Negro point of view. One or two translations show a cultural horizon broader than the average, but the scope of ideas and diction shows no special culture. KERLIN, ROBERT T. Negro Poets and Their Poems. Washington, 1923. Pp. 285. including Index of Titles and Index of Authors with Biographical and Bibliographical Notes. There are eight chapters as fol¬ lows: The Present-Day Negro Heritage of Song and The Earlier Art of Poetry; The Present Renaissance of the Negro; The Heart of Negro Womanhood; Ad Astra per Aspera; The New Forms of Poetry; Dialect Verse; The Poetry of Protest; and Miscellaneous. The poems are quoted in a critical and explanatory context by Dr. Kerlin. About 170 poems are quoted (many of them only in part, however) from over 70 Bibliographical and Critical Notes 227 writers. Poems of over two pages are excluded. The emphasis is primarily upon contemporary writers, the Poets from Hammon to Dun¬ bar being briefly treated. Several minor poets have been omitted, and —a more serious fault—there is no mention of D. W. Davis, Benjamin Brawley, or John Wesley Holloway. Nevertheless, it is the most com¬ prehensive collection of Negro verse, especially later verse, in the field. The author’s accompanying prose contains considerable valuable infor¬ mation about the poets and their work, but is often unreliable in its critical judgments because it is not sufficiently dispassionate. The illus¬ trations, including three sculptures by Meta Warwick Fuller and thirty- five portraits, add considerably to the value of the book. LYNCH, CHARLES. Gladys Klyne. Boston, 1915. Contains two poems, Gladys Klyne, 40 pp., and More Harmony, 27 pp. Both are perfectly opaque, not worth reading. Browning’s Sordello is trans¬ parently lucid by contrast. The language and figures inevitably seem about to lead to something, then get lost. I have no idea what it is all about, beyond the fact that Gladys Klyne seems to tell of some unhappy love affair. The concluding lines of More Harmony, no less intelligible than many others, deserve quotation as a masterpiece of opacity: This is the day of many strange surprises, All winds, which, blown aside the fair disguises Of men and lands externe, release to sight Foul deeds accomplished which no pen could write Imagining; all which the sense of shame repugns, Recurs, which same this reign of life condones. Not that “Is it?” it is! No wonder more; They shall their journeys wend till they are o’er. A pause! Ah! shall these pausings be some soils Whereon like slaught’rous ends prepare their toils, Hatched in their hatcheries intransparent set, Whose service ends return more heinous yet, Against who victors now in retribution? Beware! beware! perchance its fair solution Lies in a harmonize’d palm. This volume was published by the publishers of Poetry—A Magazine of Verse . MARGETSON, GEORGE REGINALD. Songs of Life. Boston, 1910. The volume contains twenty-six poems. They are rather ambitious, but lack finish. Representative titles are: The Call to Duty; Life; God, Man and Nature; The Unbeliever, To Our Dead Heroes; The Conquest of the North Pole; A Song of Suffrage; To Women; With Dearie at My Side; The Call to Duty; A Prayer. The Threatening Day in Slumber Dies and Love's Message to Nature are the best. To Our Dead Heroes, and Edward Everett Hale show his feelings of identity with negroes, though not really racial in tone so much as matter. The Ode to President Roosevelt, The Conquest of the North Pole, and A Song of Suffrage show the journalistic taste in the choice of subjects that characterizes his Fledgeling Bard and the Poetry Society. —The Fledgeling Bard and the Poetry Society. Boston, 1916. The prevailing stanza form is iambic pentameter rhymed ababbcc, the last line Alexandrine. There are a number of interspersed passages in lyric metres. Quantity is seldom violated, and the accent is fairly sure. The tone is ironic, rather Don Juanish, except that the author assumes an air of impudence and ignorance which enables him to use slang effectively. He shows some knowledge of Byron (evidently his model), Tennyson, Keats, and Shelley. He praises Milton, Shakespeare, and Dante via ironic flings, but without showing much comprehension of them. The plan is a sort of leisurely pilgrimage of the poet to a meet¬ ing of the Poetry Society, with frequent pauses for incidental comment 228 Bibliographical and Critical Notes and satire by the way. The Prelude takes a satiric fling at critics. He pauses at a cheap lunch, then proceeds, musing about Wilson, Bryan, and Carnegie. He comments on New York in a vein of Socialistic dis¬ content. He reviews Wilson’s first administration, with caustic jolts on “too proud to fight,” diplomatic notes, and the Negro question. This seems to be a genuine attack on Wilson—not irony intended as covert praise. There is a long ironic passage (pp. 55-66) on the Negro question. He makes bitter fun of Negroes for demanding equal rights and justice. In a lyric he says: With him we hail the stripes and stars The stripes that stand for color bars The stars that burn and leave their scars On our black, bleeding race. He says: If they don’t quit their doggone agitation The color line we will most strongly draw And leave them to work out their own salvation For we’ll transport them back to Africa There let them rule themselves, make their own laws There let them fight and be their own grave-diggers God made this land for white folks, not for coons and niggers. Further on he says: The people they laugh, while all the nations yell ‘The white man’s heaven is the black man’s hell’. He concludes this subject (p. 65) Arise ye sons of Africa’s tar Brave brawny men without a scar Arise and break the color bar False knots and ties Unhinge glad Freedom’s gates ajar Arise, arise. Next comes Billy Sunday, whom he treats ironically, but admires. After commenting on Milton, Walt Mason, Democrats and Bull Moosers, he glances at the Shakespeare-Bacon question. He finds the Poetry Club: What blinding brilliance! ’tis the Imagists, That grand illustrious galaxy of stars. Here, he says, is his own place, for There sits Foreflusho in Apollo’s chair. He refers to the failure of several poetry magazines, then drops irony for concluding tributes to Wordsworth, Tennyson, Byron, Keats. He concludes the poem with the Prayer, which is quoted (enlarged and improved) from his former volume. There are some touches of crude¬ ness in the execution, the criticism is generally rather aimless and shallow, but the ironic vein is amusing. As in the former volume he takes himself too seriously, in spite of ironic self-depreciation. He dedicates the book to God and the People. It is not always possible to tell whether his irony is real or mock-irony. McKAY, CLAUDE. Harlem Shadows. New York, 1922. Pp. 95, in addition to an 18-page critical and biographical preface by Max Eastman and an Author’s Word. In the Author's Word Claude McKay explains that his aim has been to write simply and directly and that he has never studied poetics or followed any one poetic master. Max Eastman regards this volume as the first significant expression of the Negro race in poetry and finds in it both racial and universal qualities. He explicitly ranks McKay above Dunbar. Some of the poems, such as Harlem Shadows and The Harlem Dancer present pictures of negro life in Harlem. His pictures of city life are full of bitter realism greatly in Bibliographical and Critical Notes 229 contrast with the reminiscent longing for the tropics to be found in such poems as Easter Flower, The Tropics in New York, Flame Heart, Home Thoughts and Homing Swallows. His poetry of nature is as genuinely pictorial and poetic as any ever written by a Negro poet. It deals both with nature in the tropics and nature in America and is to be found mainly in the following: Wild May, The Plateau, After the Winter,. The Spanish Needle, In Bondage, Winter in the Country, Spring in New Hampshire, Summer Morn in Hampshire, and Jasmines. These poems have real poignance. The poems of racial feeling, of which there are more than a dozen, are surcharged with a bitter antagonism to the white race. Prominent among these poems are: The Barrier, Enslaved, Outcast, The Lynching, and If We Must Die. Then from the dark depths of my soul I cry To the avenging angel to consume The white man’s world of wonder utterly, is his mood in Enslaved, when he thinks of racial wrongs, to which he adds, in If We Must Die, Like Men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back! There are some poems of purely introspective feeling, such as I Know My Soiil, Baptism, and Absence, that, like the poems of racial feeling, are marked with intense passion. In fact, the intensity of both his love and hate somewhat justifies Max Eastman’s comparative allusion to Catullus, in the introduction. And there are about ten poems of sexual passion (the objects of which sometimes cross the color-line) that come as near to Catullus in both frankness and intensity of passion as any recent verse I have read, though I suspect they really come a little nearer to Swinburne and Richard Aldington. Despite what seem to be unpleasant decadent elements, the volume shows more poetic vigor, vitality, and descriptive grace than any other volume by a Negro poet. McCLELLAN, GEORGE MARION. Poems. Nashville, 1895. Pp. 145, with prose selections beginning at p. 97. The preface, Race Liter¬ ature, admits that Negroes have not yet produced worthy literature. The author thinks that it is not to be expected so soon and deprecates an article in the April, 1892, North American Review showing the Negroes* poor achievement in literature. He says he himself has not had time to develop whatever gift he may have—he has been too busy as financial agent of Fisk University—but he hopes to publish better work later. This he really does in The Path of Dreams (q.v.), in which some poems are repeated from this volume. He explains the variety of his local color by his travels and says he has not confined his interest to his own race but deals with general themes, the influence of nature, etc. There are fifty-seven poems in this volume, many of them repeated (some¬ times changed and re-worked, condensed, etc., but generally unchanged) in The Path of Dreams. Of the poems not republished, A Summer Afternoon, a poem of nature and love, has fairly good lyric qualities. All the others are inferior to the poems preserved. Sunday Morning is simply the first twenty-seven lines of The Bride of Nitta Yuma, in his next volume. The rejected poems, however, are above the general level of Negro poetry. Several of them deal with the race question. That Better Day is an optimistic forecast; The Color Bane deals with a Negro girl who is banned on account of the color “sham”; and Lines to the Memory of Dr. Powell express the author’s aspiration to help his race. There is also a poem on After Commencement at Fisk University. -—The Path of Dreams. Louisville, 1916. Forty-three poems, including those reprinted from Poems (1895). The principal note is the beauty of nature. Several poems are of a more personal nature, as To Lochiel and To Theodore, apparently the author’s sons. There is a fine religious feeling in the prayer, As Sifted Wheat, and in several other poems. Of the love poems, some seem to express a real emotion directed toward 230 Bibliographical and Critical Notes a personal object, while others are the conventional verse of compliment and devotion. A Decoration Day is a dignified and graceful tribute to the memory of the Northern dead honored by the Negroes they helped to free. There is some race consciousness; but it is neither contentious nor cringing and is not particularly emphasized. Daybreak exhorts the Negroes to virtue, patience, and endurance of “ignoble prejudice,” because the Negro’s day is breaking. “Though wrongs there are and and wrongs have been. And wrongs we still must face. We have more friends than foes within. The Anglo-Saxon race.” His most ambitious poem is The Legend of Tannhauser, eleven pages in three sections. The story is very well told, though the blank verse, as in other poems, is some¬ what defective and the story is essentially one for a long poem and seems too condensed. There are some few errors of quantity and diction in the book, but some of these are apparently typographical. The rhythm, rhyme, stanza form, vocabulary and generally the quantity and melody are good—much above the general run. Both the thought and artistic finish are above the poems not reprinted from Poems (1895) and give him a respectable rank among Negro poets. The best poems are The Path of Dreams, To Hollyhocks, The Ephemera, Hydromel and Rue, The Feet of Judas, To Lochiel, In the Heart of a Rose, A Belated Oriole, A Serenade, As Sifted Wheat, Estranged, A Decoration Day, June. McGIRT, JAMES E. Some Simple Songs and a Few More Ambitious Attempts. Philadelphia, 1901. In the preface, dated from Greensboro, North Carolina, the author says he feels these are much better poems than his previous Avenging the Maine. At that, even the best, such as Winter, The Century Prayer, and Signs of Rain, are mediocre. Winter, in four short stanzas, strikes a true note in its reference to pumpkins, possums, bird-dogs, turkeys fattening, etc. The Century Prayer is a dignified prayer for a reign of peace, showing the influence of Kipling’s Recessional. Signs of Rain is a genre sketch in dialect. The dialect is poorly spelled; the sketch fair. PLATO, ANN. Essays; including Biographies and Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose and Poetry. Hartford, 1841. There are twenty short poems of the hymn-meter quatrain style, moral and religious in tone. Repre¬ sentative titles are: Advice to Young Ladies, Lines, Reflections, I Have no Brother, The True Friend, Memory of Mary, The Infant Class, etc. They are earnest, illiterate and vapid, with occasional errors in gram¬ mar and spelling, and strained rhymes. To the First of August is her only reference to slavery. Here she praises Britain’s emancipation of slaves, but with no specific allusion to America. The Introduction is by her Congregational pastor, who says she should be encouraged because of her youth and especially by Negroes, in order to help dignify the race. “But as Greece had a Plato, why may we not have a Platoess” he says. He alludes to Philis (sic) Wheatley. The prose essays are short and commonplace and are on general subjects. RAY, H. CORDELIA. Poems. New York, 1910. Pp. 169. There are 145 poems divided into A Rosary of Fancies, Meditations, Champions of Freedom, Ballads and Other Poems, Chansons D'Amour, Quatrains, The Procession of the Seasons, The Seer, The Singer and the Sage, Heroic Echoes. They are fairly good in execution and would be rather good poetry if not lacking in inspiration. They show considerable cul¬ tural background, though somewhat superficial and lacking in depth. She treats Dante, Longfellow, Thoreau, Lincoln, Garrison, Phillips, Sumner, Shaw, L’Ouverture, Emerson, The Venus de Milo, Beethoven, Raphael, Shakespeare, Milton in separate poems, all with some knowl¬ edge, but with rather superficial, dilettantish insight and without much penetration, or sign of intellectual kinship. There is little real passion of any sort in these poems. The “ballads” are sentimental and lack Bibliographical and Critical Notes 231 vigorous movement. Her treatment of Antigone and Oedipus is neither bad nor wrong, but merely too obvious. New England and Canada seem familiar to her. Representative titles are: The Sculptor's Vision , In a Nook Called Fairyland, Ode on the Twentieth Century, Revery, Star Song, Broken Heart, Life, The Tireless Sculptor, Mignon, Listen¬ ing Nydia, Love's Vista, etc. Our Task, The Triple Benison and Dawn's Carol are her best. Though lacking in passion and intellectual vigor, these poems are considerably above the crudities of the majority of the volumes characterized in these notes. ROWE, GEORGE C. Thoughts in Verse: Poems. Charleston, S. C. 1887. Pp. 113. Rowe was pastor of Plymouth Congregational Church, Charleston, and published his book in the hope of “stirring up our young people to higher aspirations.” The volume has seven divisions: Dedication, Sunbeams, In Memoriam, Psalms in Verse, Bethesda and Other Poems, Ambition, Miscellaneous. The religious note is promi¬ nent though not impressive. In his introductory poem, God Speed, he wants his volume to “Cheer up the tired and lonesome, And raise their thoughts above,” to teach humility, salvation, and “cheer our strug¬ gling race.” The volume ends with a benedictory “God be With You.” Many poems seem to be personal, dealing with members of his flock, his mother, his church, his choir, etc. The section marked Ambition is best, though scarcely worth quoting from. It is Not All of Life to Live, Teachers of Georgia, Emancipation, True Nobility, Freedom, are most noteworthy. The Reason Why glorifies a Negro standard-bearer in the Northern army. Teachers of Georgia exhorts colored teachers to teach by example as well as precept. Emancipation, a sort of hymn to freedom, carries a note of genuine enthusiasm. SCHOMBURG, ARTHUR. A Bibliographical Checklist of American Negro Poetry. Vol. II in Bibliographic a Americana, edited and pub¬ lished by Charles F. Heartman. New York, 1916. Fifty-seven pages, including a ten-page special bibliography of Phillis Wheatley. The book is alphabetically arranged according to author. It gives the author’s name, title of volume, place and date of publication, name of publisher, size of page (8vo., 12mo, 4to, etc.) and number of pages. It includes a number of Spanish and French titles, also, in the case of Braithwaite, anthologies that contain no verse by Negroes. Up to 1916 it is an invaluable aid to any research in Negro poetry. Very few volumes have been overlooked. There are numerous titles in French and Spanish. A curious error is the listing a volume by a rather well-known white citizen of Tennessee (John Trotwood Moore’s Songs and Stories from Tennessee ) as of Negro authorship. SHACKELFORD, OTIS M. Seeking the Best. Kansas City, 1911. “Dedicated to the Negro Youth. An autobiography, Entertaining, Instructive and Inspiring. Ten chapters of True Stories . . . Bits of History in Verse . . . Essays and Poems, charming in arrangement, beautiful and instructive in thought, full of wholesome advice to all. A credit to literature and worthy of a place on the shelves of any library. All in one volume.” The Author’s Introduction, much more modest, shows him as a Negro educator who feels that educated Negroes must lift their race to higher ideas. The seventy-eight pages of auto¬ biography relate Shackelford’s struggle for an education and subsistence, and gives an account of his teaching and travels, etc. He shows plenty of self-confidence. He writes as a Negro, but with no feeling of antagonism. His best friend, he says, was a white boy. He says he always allowed for different social stations and so, unlike Dubois, never became bitter about it. Bits of History in Verse or a Dream of Free¬ dom Realized is a lame imitation of Hiawatha in manner with a pro¬ logue stating the Negro’s claims and the wrongs he has suffered. The sections are headed: Prologue, The Negro, Secret Hopes of Freedom, 232 Bibliographical and Critical Notes Secret Meetings, The Underground Railroad, Growing Wise, A Bone of Contention, Preparing for a Frolic, On the Way, The Fun Begins, Something Sa dabout It, Indignation and Secession of South, Struggle Between North and South, The Negro Called to Arms, Fighting for Freedom, The Triumph, Abraham Lincoln. It is rather poor verse. It shows a strong realization of the wrongs suffered by the negro in the C ast. There are seventeen other poems, not altogether bad metrically, ut trite in thought and diction, and without word-melody. The ten essays, in prose, are terse, commonsense comments on racial questions. Shackelford deprecates racial animosities and says that Negroes should demonstrate, instead of claim, racial attainments, conciliate opposition, and above all, improve the character and aims of the race—by self- analysis and discipline. SIMPSON, J. McC. The Emancipation Car, Being an Original Com¬ position of Anti-Slavery Ballads, Composed Exclusively for the Under¬ ground Railroad. Zanesville, Ohio, 1874. Pp. 152. The author says he was free-born, in Ohio. He began his education at twenty-one, under difficulties. He became a student at Oberlin Collegiate Institute. In 1874 he was an Elder in Zion Baptist Church, Zanesville. Most of the songs were written between 1842 and 1860. Nearly all are written to well-known tunes of the day, such as America, Alice Ben Bolt, Old Kentucky Home, Buy a Broom, The Low-Backed Car, Last Rose of Summer, Marseillaise, Long, Long Ago, Alabama Again, There is a Happy Land, Uncle Ned, Hail Columbia, Dandy Jim, etc. The rhythms are, naturally, pretty good. Sometimes there are fairly good parody touches, as when he speaks of the “land of the free and the home of the slave” and when a slave who has escaped to Canada sees his old master in a vision and refuses to be cajoled back to My Old Kentucky Home. The poems are full of bitterness. The Dying Slave Holder pictures its subject as going to Hell in mortal agony. Simpson gives sample hymns and prayers, bitterly ironic, for slave holders. One, called The Slaveholder's Rest, is to the tune of Uncle Ned. One or two poems oppose the Liberia Colony scheme. British emancipation is praised in The First of August in Jamaica (Air: Hail Columbia). He gives the following footnote on cruel punishments: “It is a mode of punishment in the South for certain offences, to hang the offender on a tree, or bind him upon his back, and let his carcass hang or lie, until the flesh is devoured by the Carrion-Crow. They commence their dissection at the eyes, which many times are both plucked out before the sufferer is dead.” The songs seem written to arouse the hatred and keep up the spirits of Negroes fleeing to Canada and to stimulate others to flee. TEMPLE, GEORGE HANNIBAL. The Epic of Columbus’ Bell, and Other Poems. Reading, Pa., 1900. The “epic” is no epic at all, but a narrative, in fifty-four eight-line stanzas, of the gift of the bell to Columbus, its use at Cartagena, its capture by buccaneers, and its gift to a colored congregation of Haleyville, New Jersey, by a Yankee cap¬ tain. The other poems are occasional and nature poems, fairly good in execution, though somewhat bromidic. Examples are: The Shower, The Snow Storm, In Memory of Harriet Beecher Stowe, The Tornado, Evening, and Crispus Attucks. The “Epic” is the best of the lot. Except in one poem on an African king, Temple shows little concern with racial wrongs. THOMPSON, AARON BELFORD. Morning Songs. Rossmoyne, Ohio, 1899. Privately printed. There are forty poems, badly printed, and dedicated to the author’s sisters, Clara and Priscilla (q.v.). The Invocation prays God to “Lead us, a trodden nation, through This dark and stormy land.” Our National Flag expresses patriotic devotion that is commonplace, yet apparently genuine. Poems on the race question are Our Girls (praising the Ethiope beauty), Emancipation, The Chain Bibliographical and Critical Notes 233 of Bondage, The Foresight (a vision of Ethiopia triumphant), and On the Southern Side. The religious note is prominent. Thompson’s gram¬ mar is somewhat faulty, his diction is poor, and his verse form is almost entirely restricted to quatrains. Some titles are: Life's Pro¬ cession, Goliath and David, The Tempest, The Lock of Hair, Farewell to Summer, The Feast, My Country Home, The Butterfly, etc. THOMPSON, CLARA ANN. Songs from the Wayside. Rossmoyne, Ohio. Privately printed, 1908. There are thirty-seven poems, of better quality than those of her brother and sister. She has more restraint. Uncle Rube's Defense, Uncle Rube on the Race Problem, Uncle Rube to the Young People, in dialect, show that her race feeling is not bitter and not without recognition of the Negro’s obligations and deficiencies, but has little real breadth. She thinks the Negro fails to get equal justice and urges the Negro to keep up the fight. Although much has been accomplished, the white man is still more eager to believe evil than good of the Negro. Johnny's Pet Superstition has some humor. His Answer is short and respectably good. Mrs. Johnson Objects expresses the half-humorous objection of a respectable Negress to her children playing with white trash. The Easter Light is a fairly good poem of consolation. The religious note seems a bit more impressive throughout than that of her brother and sister (q.v.), and the artistic finish is better. There are not so many crudities of rhyme, diction, and grammar. She has no breadth of view, or intensity or much imagination, and not much culture. Representative titles are: An Opening Service, An Autumn Day, Hope, Not Dead But Sleeping, Parted, The Dying Year, The Skeptic, The Empty Tomb. THOMPSON, PRISCILLA JANE. Ethiope Lays. Rossmoyne, Ohio, 1900. Privately printed. In a brief introduction the author says her purpose is to present a true and just picture of her race. There are thirty-one poems. She shows greater rhythmic facility and metric variety than her brother, also more narrative. At that, her verse is rather ignorant and crude. The volume is filled with a keen, crude, indiscriminate sense of race. She exhorts the Negroes to rise against oppression and patronage ( Address to Ethiopia ), denounces lynching, etc. Hers appears to be rather a sullen, uncomprehending, illiterate hatred. There are some religious verses. Representative titles are: To a Little Colored Boy, The Old Saint's Prayer, The Precious Pearl, Evelyn, A Winter Night. —Gleanings of Quiet Hours. Rossmoyne, Ohio. Privately printed, 1907. The author’s purpose is to elevate her race, if only in the mind of the reader, says the ungrammatical introduction. She repeats a number of poems from Ethiope Lays. The dialect of many, like that in Ethiope Lays, is not bad. The new poems show considerable improvement; still there are occasional raw crudities and the same fundamental lack of education. There are forty poems in all. Representative titles are: A Home Greeting, A Christmas Ghost, The Interrupted Reproof, The Examination, Lines to Emma, The Muse's Favor, Insulted, etc. There are occasional humorous touches. “THORNE, JACK” (DAVID B. FULTON). Abraham Lincoln. Brooklyn, 1909. A Lincoln Centenary poem, ninety lines in eight stanzas. It is an uninspired review of Lincoln’s contribution to Negro freedom, with no aptness of diction nor special rhythmic features. A note by W. B. Dodson on Fulton’s literary achievements explains that he was a sleeping car porter, and tells his experiences in Recollections of a Sleeping Car Porter. Roused by the Wilmington race riots, he wrote Hanover, a story of the riots. This had considerable sale. “Hanover was followed by Eagle Clippings, a collection of writings in answer to various criticisms of the Negro race.” One of his poems i3 included in Wheeler’s Cullings from Zion's Poets, q.v. 234 Bibliographical and Critical Notes TOOMEY, RICHARD E. S. Thoughts for True Americans. Wash¬ ington, 1901. There are twenty-seven poems. The title-page identifies Toomey as “Of Tennessee, 1st Lieutenant, Late U. S. V. Infantry." In his preface he says he claims no special merit, publishes on account of numerous requests, and has written as the spirit moved him, unaffected by various schools of poetry, but possibly influenced by Gray, Scott, and Dunbar. There is an introduction by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, who says that “sober and sound matter” may be found here, and that Toomey has told his message “melodiously and clear, and those who love strong, manly ideas vigorously expressed will pause and listen to this soldier singer.” The poems do not justify the introduction. They are very rugged rhythmically—there is no idea of quantity in some lines, no feeling for words, little freshness in rhymes, and ambitious subjects are never thoroughly analyzed or presented. The sentiments are respect¬ able, but far from profound. The Ode to Columbia is patriotic. His state of education is fairly represented by: “The Armada once Great Britian awed; Nelson its icy pride soon thawed;” from A Hero and A Lesson. Self-Effacement, one of the best poems in the volume, is a protest against Negroes adopting that treatment for the race question. It concludes: “Why all our progress now retrace, Ourselves from public life ‘Efface’? Deliver us from such advice As would find peace at any price And full quiescent, bear our wrongs, Ah, sing me not such servile songs! Mark well this truth! On sea or land Naught is achieved by a weak hand. The men whose deeds have blessed our race Have dared look trouble in the face; Then, with such plans as wisdom taught Have blessings for their people wrought. Let all who give such poor advice Try it themselves; then in a trice, As proxy for the entire race We might, with ease, ourselves ‘Efface’.” There is a poem on the Battle of Manila, and one To the Shade of Douglas. Other titles are Nature and Friendship, Disappointed, Muta¬ tion, Changeless, The American Negro, Southern Chivalry, etc. The American Negro traces the race’s claim to respect, praises some racial heroes, and exhorts the race to be true to national ideals. Southern Chivalry, though somewhat crude, is a telling indictment of lynching, on the score of its cowardice. VANDYNE, WILLIAM JOHNSON. Revels of Fancy. Boston, 1891. Pp. 50. It contains a prefatory letter from Hezekiah Butterworth, Assistant Editor of The Youth’s Companion, telling Vandyne his poems merit approval and encouragement, praising “your beautiful and sympa¬ thetic poem on Toussaint Louverture” and saying he, Butterworth, has accepted some of these poems, presumably for The Youth's Companion. The poems are abstract and bromidic, morally sound, but uninspired. Representative titles are: Address to the Ocean (Byronic), Beauty, Cleopatra, The Crossing of the Delaware, Gems of Thought, (which justifies its title by saying that poetry cannot be acquired except “by rhyming, constant rhyming”), Make Your Mark, Man, Napoleon’s Grave, Sunset, Tact, Valor, Women and Wine. She Was a Beauty is a fair lyric poem on a trite theme. WALDEN, ISLAY. Walden’s Miscellaneous Poems. Washington, 1872. Pp. 50. There are thirty-six poems, thirty-five in quatrains of the broadside ballad type. The religious note is strong: e.g. Prayer for Bibliographical and Critical Notes the School, Temperance, The Sacred Stream, Cast Your Cares Upon the Lord, Call to Sabbath School. A few are personal: e.g. The Danger (when Walden is hiding from a mob), Letter to Miss Smitherman (whom he had loved in North Carolina when she was a baby), 1 o < My Benefactor, To M. W. IV. on her first effort at shirt making, and On a Seamstress. Some verses are of the political broadside type, as Election of Mayor Bowen and Impeachment of President Johnson, on whom he makes an ignorant attack. He makes slight reference to the slavery question The poems are all very poor, crude in thought and limited and drossy in diction. There are two prefatory letters, one of which testifies to the genuineness of the book. It is worthy of note here * hat similar testimony was thought necessary for Hammon Bhillis Wheatley, and Horton, all slaves. The second letter, by J. L. H. Winfield, praises the author’s Christian character. The introduction, signed C. C. H., gives a short biographical sketch. Walden was born a slave m Randolph County. North Carolina, and was sold or transferred several times. He worked in mines. He was especially valued by his master tor his uncommon readiness in mental arithmetic. After Lees surrender he drifted from job to job to Washington, seeking glasses to enable him to study. He sold political ballads of his own composition on the streets, for three years, wandering about seeking help. Finally he was enabled to enter Howard University. He had no knowledge of books until a year before his volume appeared. His first stanza of Introductory Verses is a fair sample: I will record each little rhyme. Although it may not be sublime. Shall I despise the day though small? Can I forget my Saviour’s call? In accounting for Walden’s “call” to write verse, the Introduction quotes his first poem, an absurd impromptu on a slain ox, with his master’s comment, “Walden, you are a poet ” Walden didn t know what a poet was, but his ambition started here. I note with some curiosity that Walden uses the old word coney for rabbit. So does George Moses Horton. It is very unlikely that either could have got it from books; it was apparently a common word in North Carolina m 1872 (Walden) and 1845 (Horton). WHEATLEY, PHILLIS (PHILLIS PETERS). Poems and Letters. First collected and edited by Charles Frederic Heartman. With an appreciation by A. A. Schomburg. New York, 1915. Contains forty-four poems. The letters and poems show admirable religious feeling, real piety. There is a slight Miltonic strain in To the University of Cam¬ bridge, in New England', elsewhere Pope is her model. There are some Bible paraphrases, a classical poem on Niobe m Distress for her C hild- ren, etc., and a number of poems on various deaths, always offering religious consolation. Schomburg’s criticism is not bad, but the best critfcism of Phillis Wheatley is to be found in Brawley s The Negro in Literature and Art. She is rightly reverenced by Negroes Bfp r e- sentative titles are: To a Lady on the Death of Her Husband, On the Death of Dr. Samuel Marshall (1771); On the Death of Mr. George Whitefield (1770); Thoughts on the Works of Providence- A Farewell to Anierica (1773); His Excellency, General Washington ( 1 775) w h ich drew a gracious letter from Washington; Liberty and Peace (1784); lo a Gentlemen and Ladv on the Death of the Lady s Brother and Sister, and a Child of the Name of Avis, Aged One Year; On Imagination (Brawley calls this her best); To Maecenas (psuedo-classical); and lo the King’s Most Excellent Majesty (1768) which shows gratitude for the repeal of the Stamp Act. The poems are characterized by piety, patriotism and lovalty, personification, 18th century poetic diction, and the conventional classical, historical, and biblical references. Other poems by her were lost or destroyed by her husband after her death. 236 Bibliographical and Critical Notes WHEELER, B. F. Callings from Zion’s Poets. 1907. 384 pp. The preface is dated from Mobile, Alabama. The volume contains numerous illustrations, portraits and biographical sketches. Nearly all the poems are religious, on the hymn model. For the most part, they are trash. One or two show an interesting similarity to the negro spirituals; for example. The Destiny of the Righteous, written “as early as 1859” by Bishop James Walker Hook, of which the first two stanzas will serve to establish the point: O in the judgement day You will hear Jesus say Go down and wake my people From every grave yard. Arise and meet Him Arise and meet Him Arise and meet Him From every grave yard. Go blow, Gabriel blow. How loud shall I blow? As seven peals of thunder From every grave yard. Awake ye nations Awake ye nations Awake ye nations In every grave yard. The preface states that the book was originally intended as garner of religious verse, but so many contributions were offered that others were included. Its worth is perhaps indicated by the first stanza of the first poem, Retrospect, by Bishop Singleton Thomas Jones, D.D. 1 of which the editor says “A greater poem has not been produced during our century.” There are some poems by Negro educators. „ Perhaps the best are by the Reverend W. T. Biddle and Prince Beloved by Professor J. E. Kweg-Aggrey. There are many contributors and many personal tributes. WHITMAN, A. A. Not a Man and Yet a Man. Springfield, Ohio, 1877. The book is dedicated in tense language to “the abolition fathers.” The preface gives brief facts about the author, who was born a slave, educated himself and became financial agent for Wilberforce University. Most of the preface concerns Wilberforce and the need of such insti¬ tutions to help the freed Negroes. The object of the volume is to increase the funds of the college. The poem is a romantic narrative of 202 pages, with apostrophes, invocations, etc. In style it is strongly influenced by Pope and Goldsmith; Longfellow’s influence is very strong in the Indian portions. The passages on slavery are strong but not vengeful. The concluding passage, an exhortation to patriotism and equality, is perhaps the best single passage. The Negro soldiers of the Civil War are praised. There is some middling good description and narration throughout; Whitman is never actually crude, though generally mediocre. The plot is not bad at all, though it has slight lapses and inconsistencies. Rodney is the one slave, three-fourths white, in a frontier village near the Wabash. Frontier life and characters are described after the Goldsmith style. The settlers provoke an Indian attack, which Rodney tries to save them from by a perilous trip for aid. The village is in ashes on his return. He bravely rescues his master’s daughter, Dora. He is then sold South, via the Memphis slave market, to an old Florida family that has degenerated. He loves a Creole slave, the daughter of her master, whom his master buys and finally rapes. She flees with him; they are hunted with bloodhounds, but after frequent fights, narrow escapes, and concealments they reach Canada and thereafter live happily. There they meet Dora who befriends 1 Quoted in the Introduction, p 23. Bibliographical and Critical Notes 237 them. Rodney and his two sons fight for the Union in the Civil War, and Rodney witnesses the death of Aylor, his Florida master, who prays forgiveness. _ There are about fifteen “Miscellaneous Poems” on Peace, Custar’s Oic] Last Ride (an imitation of Tennyson’s Light Brigade ), To the Student, A Dream of Glory, The Great Strike, and Ye Bards of England. None is particularly good. WILDS, MYRA VIOLA. Thoughts of Idle Hours. Nashville, 1915. The author’s preface begins, “Total Blind and Limited Education.” The preface contains some autobiographical notes. None of the poems is really good. The best, perhaps, are Little Yellow Baby and The Babe That’s Dark as Night. The former was printed in the Philadelphia Record, July 13, 1914. Many poems are rather well illustrated. Pic¬ tures of Negro life are presented with rather mediocre humor in A Raccoon Chase, Basket Meeting Day, Ezekiel’s First Degree. There is also some religious feeling, as in He is Risen, The Old Time Religion, A Thanksgiving Prayer. Race feeling is expressed in A Yoke of Oppres¬ sion and Our Exposition. The latter rejoices in negro progress; the former says that though the Negro has been free fifty years he still sometimes feels a yoke of oppression, but Be not discouraged, go on to the end; Be brave men of valor, be women and men And the yoke of oppression that is weighing us down Some day like a boomerang, May turn and rebound. WILLIAMS, EDWARD W. The Views and Meditations of John Brown. Washington, D. C. Pamphlet. Dated July 11 (no year), but the inscription, “A. R. Spofford Estate, October 12, 1908,” shows that it was written before 1909. A manuscript note says Williams “was a colored minister of Washington.” The title-page says he is the author of Americus Moor, or Life Among the American Freedmen. In the preface the author says he represents Brown “on the four great occasions of his career. First, as leader of the Anti-Slavery men in their fight with the Pro-Slavery men in Kansas; secondly, when after the Kansas struggles he met his men in Iowa and there determined to attack Harper’s Ferry; thirdly, the night of the attack; and fourthly, before he goes to the gallows.” Williams presents this as what he imagines Brown would have thought and said, and claims to have studied him carefully. The verse form is the common hymn-meter—four and three stress alternate-rhymed quatrains. There are twenty stanzas in the first section, eighty-one in the second, twenty-one in the third, and ten in the fourth—132 in all. The poetry is rather commonplace—not posi¬ tively bad, merely jejune and not worth quoting—there is no distinction of diction, no real inspiration of feeling. Some of Brown’s utterances are violent, as Those who refuse us or resist Be as it may by words or arms Enroll their names on death’s black list To meet their dooms at war’s alarms. But the prevailing note is devotion to the idea of freedom, as practically applied in liberating the Negroes. WILSON, W. J. The author has several poems in The Anglo-American Magazine. It is mediocre stuff, hardly worth attention. Frances Ellen Watkins (see Harper) also has some poems in this magazine. INDEX OF AUTHORS Adams, Wellington, 214. Allen, J. Mord, 17-18; 23; 24; 116 132; 214. Beadle, S. A., 214. Bell, James Madison, 9; 37-39; 215; 225. Braithwaite, William Stanley, 14- 16; 23; 24; 25; 134-145; 215-216; 225; 226; 231. Brawley, Benjamin G., 22; 156-160; 215; 216-217; 225; 227; 235. Corrothers, James David, 21; 163- 168; 217-218. Cotter, Joseph Seaman (Sr.), 25; 146-148. Cotter, Toseph Seaman, Jr., 18-19; 25; 180-183; 218; 225. Cullen, Countee P., 210-211. Dandridge, Raymond G., 191-193; 218. Davis, Daniel Webster, 22; 24; 98- 103; 218-219; 225; 227. Dinkins, Charles R., 22; 105-113; 219. Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 11-14; 23; 24; 54-91; 217; 222; 224; 225; 228; 234. Fauset, Jessie Redmond, 193-194. Fernandis, Sarah Collins, 212-213. Ford, R. E., 22; 219-220. Fortune, Timothy Thomas, 114-116; 217; 220. Fordham, Mary Weston, 220. Franklin, James T., 220. Fulton, David B. (See Thorne, Jack). Hammon, Jupiter, 3-4; 24; 220-221; 235. Harper, Frances Ellen Watkins, 9-10; 39-43; 217; 221; 225 (See also under Watkins). Hawkins, Walter Everette, 22; 148-151; 222. Hill, Leslie Pinckney, 20-21; 24; 194-203; 222. Holloway, John Wesley, 183-189; 222; 225; 227. Horton, George M., 6-7; 33-37; 217; 222-224; 235. Johnson, Charles Bertram, 189-190; 224. Johnson, Fenton, 21; 160-163; 224- 225. Johnson, Georgia Douglas, 208-210; 225. Johnson, James Weldon, 17; 170- 180; 225. Jones, Edward Smythe, 154-156; 226. Jones, Joshua H., 226. Kerlin, Robert T., 226-227. Lynch, Charles, 227. McClellan, George M., 21; 92-97; 229-230. McGirt, James E., 230; 231. McKay, Claude, 19-20; 203-207; 225; 228-229. Margetson, George Reginald, 22; 168-170; 227-228. Plato, Ann, 6; 230. Ray, H. Cordelia, 22; 251-154; 230. Reason, Charles L., 10; 43-50. Rowe, George C., 231. Schomburg, Arthur A., 2; 231; 235. Shackelford, Otis M., 231-232. Simpson, J. M., 8; 232. Temple, George Hannibal, 104-105; 232. Thompson, Aaron Belford, 232-233. Thompson, Clara Ann, 132-134; 233. Thompson, Priscilla Jane, 233. “Thorne, Jack” (David B. Fulton), 233. Toomey, Richard E. S., 234. Vandyne, William J., 234. Walden, Islay, 234-235. Watkins, Frances Ellen, 8; 237. (See also under Harper). Wheatley, Phillis, 3; 4-5; 27-33; 220; 221; 224; 225; 230; 231; 235. Wheeler, B. F., 236. Whitman, Alberry A., 22; 50-53; 217; 225; 236-237. Wilds, Myra Violet, 237. Williams, Edward W., 237. Wilson, W. J., 237. INDEX OF TITLES Note: Titles of Books are Printed in Capitals Abendlied, F. Johnson’s, 224 Abolition of Slavery in the District of Columbia, The, Bell’s, 215 Abraham Lincoln, “Jack Thorne’s,” 233 Absence, McKay’s, 207; 229 Actress, The, Hill’s, 20 Address to Ethiopia, P. J. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Address to Miss Phillis Wheatley, Hammon’s, 3; 221 Address to the Ocean, Vandyne’s, 234 Advice to Girls, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Advice to Young Ladies, A. Plato’s, 230 Africa and the War, Brawley’s, 157 After Commencement at Fisk Uni¬ versity, McClellan’s, 229 After the Winter, McKay’s, 229 Ah’s Gwine Away, F. Johnson’s, 225 Ajax’s Death, Coffin’s, 217 Ajax’s Ordeals, Coffin’s, 217 Alien’s, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 American Negro, The, Toomey’s, 234 Americus Moor, or Life Among the American Freedmen, Wil¬ liams’s, 237 And the Wound is Not for Man to See, F. Johnson’s, 224 And What Shall You Say? Cotter, Jr.’s, 19; 182-183; 218 Angelina, Dunbar’s, 72-74 Answer to Prayer, J. W. Johnson’s, 17; 178-179 Anthology of Magazine Verse, Braithwaite’s, 135 Apostrophe to Time, Bell’s, 215 Appeal from the Stake, An, Dink¬ ins’s, 219 Appomattox, Dinkins’s, 219 Apprehension, Adams’s, 214 Arbor Singing, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 As Sifted Wheat, McClellan’s, 229; 230 Atlanta Exposition Ode, Fordham’s, 220 Aunt Betsy’s Christmas Dinner, Holloway’s, 222 Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, The, J. W. Johnson’s, 171 Autumn, Franklin’s, 220 Autumn Day, An, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Autumn Love Cycle, G. D. John¬ son’s, 208 Avenging the Maine, McGirt’s, 230 Babe That’s Dark as Night, The, Wilds’s, 237 Baby Darling, Beadle’s, 215 Baby Show, The, Davis’s, 219 Back to the Farm, Holloway’s, 222 Ballad of the Brown Girl, The, Cullen’s, 210 Ballade of One Who Died Before His Time, Brawley’s, 159-160; 216 Band of Gideon, The, Cotter, Jr.’s, 18; 180; 218 Banjo Song, A, Dunbar’s, 68-71 Baptism, McKay’s, 206-207; 229 Baptizing, The, Holloway’s, 222 Barrier, The, McKay’s, 229 Basket Meeting Day, Wilds’s, 237 Beauty, Vandyne’s, 234 Belated Oriole, A, McClellan’s, 97, 230 Bells of Notre Dame, The, Braw¬ ley’s, 158; 216 Beloved, F. Johnson’s, 224 Bible Defense of Slavery, Mrs. Harper’s, 40; 221 Bibliographical Check List of American Negro Poetry, Schom- burg’s, 231 Bits of History in Verse, Shackel¬ ford’s, 231 240 Index of Titles Black and White, Fortune’s, 114 Black Cat Club, The, Corrothers’s, 163 Black Knight, The, Beadle’s, 215 Black Mammies, Holloway’s, 222 Black Man’s Wrongs, The, Bell’s, 9; 215. Black Soldiers, The, Hawkins’s, 148 Black Women, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Book of American Negro Poetry, J. W. Johnson’s, 171; 225 Book of Elizabethan Verse, Braithwaite’s, 135 Book of Georgian Verse, Braith¬ waite’s, 135 Book of Modern British Verse, Braithwaite’s, 135 Book of Poems and Short Stories, McClellan’s, 92 Book of Restoration Verse, Braithwaite’s, 135 Borglum Statue of Lincoln, The, Hill’s, 20 Breakfast Time, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Bride of Ellerslie, The, Fortune’s, 220 Bride of Nitta Yuma, McClellan’s, 229 Broken Heart, Ray’s, 231 Bronze, G. D. Johnson’s, 208; 225 Brother Mine, Dandridge’s, 218 Brown Chapel, Ford’s, 22; 219 Browning, Brawley’s, 216 Bury Me in a Free Land, Mrs. Harper’s, 10; 40; 42; 221 Business Religions, Holloway’s, 222 Butterfly, The, A. B. Thompson’s, 233 By an Inland Lake, Braithwaite’s, 15; 135; 136; 215 By Rugged Ways, Dunbar’s, 66-67 Byron’s Oak and Newstead Abbey, Fortune’s, 220 Caleb the Degenerate, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Calling the Doctor, Holloway’s, 186-187; 222 Call to Duty, The, Margetson’s, 227 Call to Sabbath School, Walden’s, 235 Cast Your Cares Upon the Lord, Walden’s, 235 Century Prayer, The, McGirt’s, 230 Chain of Bondage, The, A. B. Thompson’s, 232 Changeless, Toomey’s, 234 Chaucer, Brawley’s, 158; 216 Child of the Night, The, Haw¬ kins’s, 148 Choice, A, Dunbar’s, 87-88 Chords and Discords, Hawkins’s, 148; 222 Christianity, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Christmas at Melrose, Hill’s, 200-201 Christmas Ghost, A, P. J. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Christ’s Whisper, Franklin’s, 220 Clay’s Defeat, Horton’s, 223 Cleopatra, Vandyne’s, 234 Close de Book, F. Johnson’s, 225 Coffin's Poems With Ajax's Or¬ deals, Coffin’s, 217 Color Bane, The, McClellan’s, 229 Color Blind, Dandridge’s, 218 Colored People in America, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Commemoration Ode, Ray’s, 151 Compensation, Dunbar’s, 90-91 Complete Poems of Paul Lau¬ rence Dunbar, 12 Conquest of the North Pole, The, Margetson’s, 227 Contentment, J. H. Jones’s, 226 Corn Song, The, Holloway’s, 187- 189; 222 Cosmopolite, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Counting Out, Allen’s, 214; 131-132 Creation Light, Bell’s, 215 Creative Genius of the Negro, The, J. W. Johnson’s, 171 Creditor to His Proud Debtor, The, Horton’s, 7; 223 Credo, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Crisis, The, Dunbar’s, 55-56 Crispus Attucks, Temple’s, 104-105; 232 Crossing of the Delaware, The, Van- dyne’s, 234 Index of Titles 241 Cullings From Zion's Poets, Wheeler’s, 233; 236 Custer’s Last Ride, Whitman’s, 237 Danger, The, Walden’s, 235 Dat Susie Gal, Holloway’s, 222 Daughter of Ai, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Dawn, The, Brawley’s, 216 Dawn and Other Poems, The, Brawley’s, 157; 216 Dawn of Freedom, The, Bell’s, 9; 38; 215 Dawn’s Carol, Ray’s, 152; 231 Day and the War, The, Bell’s, 215 Daybreak, McClellan’s, 230 Days, Dandridge’s, 192 Death of General Jackson, Horton’s, 223 Death of Justice, The, Hawkins’s, 150-151; 222 Death of Lincoln, The, Bell’s, 215 Death of Love, F. Johnson’s, 161 Death Song, Dunbar’s, 91 Deceit, Dandridge’s, 218 Decoration Day, McClellan’s, 230 De Elduh, F. Johnson’s, 225 De Linin’ ub de Hymns, Davis’s, 218 De Mekins ob a Man, Adams’s, 214 De Music Call, F. Johnson’s, 225 De Nigger’s Got to Go, Davis’s, 218 De 01’ Sojer, F. Johnson’s, 225 Departure of Pierrot, The, Braith- waite’s, 215 Deserted Plantation, The, Dunbar’s, 71-72 Desire of the Moth for the Star, The, Brawley’s, 157; 216 Destiny of the Righteous, The, Hook’s, 236 De Witch Ooman, F. Johnson’s, 225 Devil and Sis Viney, The, Allen’s, 18; 117-128; 214 Dialogue, etc., Hammon’s, 221 Discouraged, Holloway’s, 184-185; 222 Don’t Kiss, Franklin’s, 220 Down to Farmer Joe’s, Holloway’s, 222 Down Upon the Palatine, F. John¬ son’s, 224 Disappointed, Toomey’s, 234 Doxology, The, Holloway’s, 222 Dreamin’ Lan’, F. Johnson’s, 225 Dream and the Song, The, Cor- rothers’s, 21 Dream and the Song, The, Car- rothers’s, 21; 163; 167-168 Dream of a Whisper, F. Johnson’s, 224 Dreams, Dunbar’s, 56; 57 Dream of Glory, A, Whitman’s, 237 Dreams of Life, Fortune’s, 114; 220 Dream Song, F. Johnson’s, 224 Driving the Cattle Home, Beadle’s, 215 Drizzle, Dunbar’s, 13; 67-68 Dukalon, Fortune’s, 220 Dunbar, F. Johnson’s, 224 Dying Child to Her Blind Father, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Dying Christian, The, Mrs. Har¬ per’s, 221 Dying Fugitive, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Dying Slave Holder, The, Simp¬ son’s, 232 Dying Year, The, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Eagle Clippings, “Jack Thorne’s,” 233 Easter Flower, The, McKay’s, 204; 229 Easter Light, The, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Edgar Allen Poe, Fortune’s, 220 Election of Mayor Bowen, Walden’s, 235 Elegy Sacred to the Memory of Dr. Samuel Cooper, An, Wheatley’s, 28 Eliza Harris, Mrs. Harper’s, 40, 221 Emancipation, Bell’s, 38 Emancipation, Davis’s, 218 Emancipation, Rowe’s, 231 Emancipation, A, A. Thompson’s, 232 Emancipation Car, The, Simpson’s, 8; 232 Emmanuel, Fortune’s, 220 242 Index of Titles Empty Tomb, The, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 End of the Chapter, The, Dunbar’s, 57-58 England in the West Indies, Margetson’s, 168 Enslaved, McKay’s, 229 Ephemera, The, McClellan’s, 95; 230 Epic of Columbus' Bell, The, etc., Temple’s, 104; 232 Ere Sleep Comes Down, etc., Dun¬ bar’s, 59-60 Essays: Including Biographies and Miscellaneous Pieces, A. Plato’s, 230 Estranged, McClellan’s, 230 Eternal Self, The, Braithwaite’s, 15; 141-142; 216 Ethiope Lays, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Ethiopian’s Song, The, F. John¬ son’s, 224 Eulogium on Thomas Clarkson, Crummell’s, 43 Eureka, Allen’s, 214 Evelyn, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Evening, The, Temple’s, 232 Evening Thought, An, etc., Ham- mon’s, 3; 221 Evolution, Hawkins’s, 222 Ethiopa’s Flight, Margetson’s, 168 Examination, The, P. J. Thompson’s, 232 Expectation, Dunbar’s, 13; 74-75 Exposition Ode, Davis’s, 218; 219 Ezekiel’s First Degree, Wilds’s, 237 Facts, Dandridge’s, 218 Faded Flower, A .Franklin’s, 220 Fah-Fah, Fortune’s, 220 Farewell to America, A, Wheatley’s, 235 Farewell to Summer, A. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Feast, The, A. B. Thompson’s, 233 Feet of Judas, The, McClellan’s, 96; 230 Festival in Christendom, A, Haw¬ kins’s, 222 Fifty Years and Other Poems, J. W. Johnson’s, 17; 171 Fifty Years, J. W. Johnson’s, 17; 172-175 First of August, The, Simpson’s, 232 Fishin’ Hook an’ Worms, Davis’s, 219 Five Wisdoms of Graine, The, Braithwaite’s, 135 Flag, The, Brawley’s, 216 Flame Heart, McKay’s, 229 Fledgeling Bard and the Poetry Society, The, Margetson’s, 168; 227-228 Folks From Dixie, Dunbar’s, 55 Foresight, The, A. B. Thompson’s, 233 Freedom, Hill’s, 197 Freedom, Reason’s, 10; 44-50 Freedom, Rowe’s, 231 Freedom Bell, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 40; 221 Fren’ship, Dandridge’s, 218 Frolic, A, Dunbar’s, 75-76 From the Crowd, Braithwaite’s, 15; 137-138; 216 From the Desert, Holloway’s, 184; 222 Fusion, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Future of America in the Unity of the Races, The, Bell’s, 38; 215 Gardening, Holloway’s, 222 Gems of Thought, Vandyne’s, 234 General Wade Hampton, Dinkins’s, 219 Gladys Klyne, Lynch’s, 227 Gleanings of Quiet Hours, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Goal, The, Cotter, Jr.’s, 181 God, Hawkins’s, 222 God, Man, and Nature, Marget¬ son’s, 227 God Speed, Rowe’s, 231 Going Over Tendal, Braithwaite’s, 135 Golden City, The, F. Johnson’s, 225 Golden Moonrise, Braithwaite’s, 142 Golden Treasury of Magazine Verse, Braithwaite’s, 135 Index of Titles 243 Goliath and David, A. B. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Gone West, J. H. Jones’s, 226 Good-bye, Mr. Gloom, J. H. Jones’s, 226 Good Night, Brawley’s, 216 Goody, Goody Good, The, Haw¬ kins’s, 222 Gossamer, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Goyescas, J. W. Johnson’s, 2; 171 Great Strike, The, Whitman’s, 237 Grover Cleveland, Franklin’s, 220 Guardian, Hawkins’s, 148 Hahd Cider, Dandridge’s, 218 Hanover, “Jack Thorne’s,” 233 Harlem Dancer, The, McKay’s, 228 Harlem Shadows, McKay’s, 19; 204; 228 Harlem Shadows, McKay’s, 205; 228 Harvard Square, E. S. Jones’s, 226 Heart of a Woman, The, G. D. Johnson’s, 208; 225 Heart of Happy Hollow, The, Dun¬ bar’s 55 Heart of the World, The, J. H. Jones’s, 226 Heart of the World, The, J. H. Jones’s, 226 He Is Risen, Wilds’s, 237 Hero and a Lesson, A, Toomey’s, 234 Hejira, The, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 His Answer, C. A. Thompson’s, 133; 233 His Excellency, General Washing¬ ton, Wheatley’s, 235 His Race’s Benefactor, Allen’s, 214 History of Morehouse College, Brawley’s, 157 Hog Meat, Davis’s, 100-101; 219 Home Greeting, A, P. J. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Home Thoughts, McKay’s, 229 Homing Swallows, McKay’s, 229 Hope, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Hope, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Hope of Liberty, The, Horton’s, 224 House of Falling Leaves, The, Braithwaite’s, 15; 134; 216 House of Falling Leaves, The, Braithwaite’s, 216 How Lucy Backslid, Dunbar’s, 13; 76-82 How Was Woman Made, Dinkins’s, 219 Hydromel and Rue, McClellan’s, 230 Hymn, A, Dunbar’s, 61 Hymn Written After Hearing Lead Kindly Light, Dunbar’s, 13 I Am a Voice, Holloway’s, 222 Idle Moments, Davis’s, 98; 218 Idyl of the South, An, Whit¬ man’s, 50 If We Must Die, McKay’s, 229 I Have No Brother, A. Plato’s, 230 I Know My Soul, McKay’s, 229 Ill-Manners, Holloway’s, 222 Impeachment of President Johnson, Walden’s, 235 In a Grave Yard, Braithwaite’s, 15; 16; 136-137; 215 In a Nook Called Fairyland, Ray’s, 231 In Bondage, McKay’s, 205-206; 229 In Flanders Fields, Dandridge’s, 218 In Memory of Harriet Beecher Stowe, Temple’s, 232 In Old Plantation Days, Dun¬ bar’s, 55 In Spite of the Handicap, Cor- rothers’s, 163; 217 In Stripes, Dandridge’s, 218 In the Evening, F. Johnson’s, 21; 161-162 In the Heart of a Rose, McClel¬ lan’s, 230 Indignation Dinner, An, Corroth- ers’s, 164-165 Industrial History of the Negro Race, An, McClellan’s, 98 Infant Class, The, A. Plato’s, 230 Injun Summah, F. Johnson’s, 225 Interrupted Reproof, The, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Invocation, Dinkins’s, 105-110; 219 244 Index of Titles Invocation, A. B. Thompson’s, 232 Insulted, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Iola Leroy, or the Shadows Lifted, Mrs. Harper’s, 40 Is It Because I Am Black? Cotter, Jr.’s, 218 Isolation, G. D. Johnson’s, 208 It Is Not All of Life to Live, Rowe’s, 231 It’s a Long Way, Braithwaite’s, 15; 215 Jasmines, McKay’s, 229 Jaunt, The, Beadle’s, 215 Jeff Davis, Franklin’s, 220 John Crossed the Island, F. John¬ son’s, 224 Johnny’s Pet Superstition, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 June, McClellan’s, 230 Jupiter Hamhon, American Negro Poet, Wegelin’s, 3; 220 Keats Was an Unbeliever, Braith¬ waite’s, 215 Lacrimae Aethiopiae, C. B. John- • son’s, 224 Land of the Living Lie, The, Haw¬ kins’s, 222 Larger Life, A, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Launcelot’s Defiance, F. Johnson’s, 224 Law, The, Brawley’s, 216 “Lazy,” J. W. Johnson’s, 177-178 Legend of Tannhauser, The, Mc¬ Clellan’s, 230 Letter to Miss Smitherman, Wal¬ den’s, 235 Let Him Alone, Dinkins’s, 219 Liberty and Peace, Wheatley’s, 28; 31-33; 235 Liberty or Death, Bell’s, 215 Life, Dunbar’s, 89 Life, Margetson’s, 227 Life, Ray’s, 231 Life and Works of Paul Lau¬ rence Dunbar, The, Wiggins’s, 12 Life Is a Dream, E. S. Jones’s, 226 Life’s Dawn and Dusk, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Life’s Procession, A. B. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Life’s Tragedy, Dunbar’s, 90 Lincoln, Bell’s, 38 Lincoln, Fortune’s, 115-116 Lincoln, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Lines, A. Plato’s, 230 Lines, etc., Horton’s, 224 Lines to Caste, Beadle’s, 215 Lines to Emma, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Lines to the Memory of Dr. Powell, McClellan’s, 229 Lines Written in the Alps, Hill’s, 20 Links of Friendship, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Listening Nydia, Ray’s, 231 Little Dreaming, A, F. Johnson’s, 21; 160; 224 Little Son, G. D. Johnson’s, 209 Little Song, A, Braithwaite’s, 15; 135-136; 215 Little Sue, Franklin’s, 220 Little While Before Farewell, A, Braithwaite’s, 216 Little Yellow Baby, Wilds’s, 237 Lock of Hair, The, A. B. Thomp¬ son's, 233 Love, Dandridge’s, 218 Love of Landry, The, Dunbar’s, 55 Love Despoiled, Dunbar’s, 61-62 Love Is a Star, Braithwaite’s, 135 Love’s Good-Night, F. Johnson’s, 21; 160-161 Love’s Phases, Dunbar’s, 62-63 Love’s Unchangeableness, Haw¬ kins’s, 148 Love’s Vista, Ray’s, 231 Lynching, The, McKay’s, 206; 229 Lyrics of an Humble Birth, Adams’s, 214 Lyrics of Life and Love, Braith¬ waite’s, 15; 134; 215 Lyrics of Love and Laughter, Dunbar’s, 55 Lyrics of Love, Sacred and Se¬ cular, Dinkins’s, 105; 219 Lyrics of Lowly Life, Dunbar’s, 54 Index of Titles 245 Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow, Dunbar’s, 55 Lyrics of the Hearthside, Dun¬ bar’s, 55 Lyrics of the Underworld, Bead¬ le’s, 214 Magnolia Leaves, Fordham’s, 220 Mah Wife, Holloway’s, 222 Majors and Minors, Dunbar’s, 54 Make Your Mark, Vandyne’s, 234 Man, Vandyne’s, 234 Mantle of Dunbar, The, etc., C. B. Johnson’s, 189 Mantle of Dunbar, The, C. B. John¬ son’s, 224 Marriage Counsel, Holloway’s, 222 Marrying, Dinkins’s, 219 Mary at the Feet of Christ, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Mary Conroy, Fortune’s, 220 Mate, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Mater Triumphalis, Braithwaite’s, 216 Meditations on a Cold, Dark, and Dreary Night, Horton’s, 7; 34-35; 223 Memory, Horton’s, 223 Memory, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Memory of Mary, A. Plato’s, 230 Midday Gleanings, Franklin’s, 220 Mignon, Ray’s, 231 Mistah Witch, F. Johnson’s, 224 Moods, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 More Harmony, Lynch’s, 227 Morning Songs, A. B. Thompson’s, 232 Mortality, Dunbar’s, 14; 88 Moses, a Story of the Nile, Mrs. Harper’s, 9; 10; 221 Mother Night, J. W. Johnson’s, 17; 179-180 Mother’s Blessing, A, Mrs. Harp¬ er’s, 221 Mr. Clay’s Reception at Raleigh, Horton’s, 223 Mrs. Johnson Objects, C. A. Thompson’s, 133-134; 233 Mulatto’s Song, The, F. Johnson’s, 224 Mulatto to His Critics, The, Cotter, Jr.’s, 218 Muse’s Favor, The, P. J. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Mutation, Toomey’s, 234 My Country, Beadle’s, 215 My Country Home, A. B. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 My Little Dreams, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 My Love, F. Johnson’s, 224 Mystery, The, Braithwaite’s, 135; 144 Napoleon’s Grave, Vandyne’s, 234 Nature and Friendship, Toomey’s, 234 Negro in American Fiction, The, Brawley’s, 216 Negro in Literature and Art, The, Brawley’s, 157; 215; 216-217; 225; 235 Negro in Politics, The, Fortune’s, 114 Negro Poets, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Negro Poets and Their Poems, Kerlin’s, 226 Negro Singer, The, Corrothers’s, 165-166 Negro Tales, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Negro’s Educational Creed, The, Cot¬ ter, Sr.’s, 147 Night, Dunbar’s, 64 Night on de Ol’ Plantashun, Davis’s, 98-100; 219 Niobe in Distress, etc., Wheatley’s, 235 No Longer a Slave, Dinkins’s, 219 Not a Man and Yet a Man, Whit¬ man’s, 22; 50; 236 Not Dead but Sleeping, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Nympholepsy, Braithwaite’s, 15; 216 Oak and Ivy, Dunbar’s, 54 O Black and Unknown Bards, J. W. Johnson’s, 175-177 Octoroon, The, G. D. Johnson’s, 209; 225 Ode on the Twentieth Century, Ray’s, 231 246 Index of Titles Ode to Booker Washington, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Ode to Columbia, Toomey’s, 234 Ode to Ethiopia, An, E. S. Jones’s, 226 Ode to Ethiopia, Dunbar’s, 14; 64- 65 Ode to George Washington, Wheat¬ ley’s, 27 Off the New England Coast, Braithwaite’s, 216 Off to the Fields of Green, Haw¬ kins’s, 222 O God Wilt Thou Help Me in School, E. S. Jones’s, 226 Old Glory, Dandridge’s, 218 Old Greenbottom Inn, McClel¬ lan’s, 92 Old Saint’s Prayer, The, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Old Things, C. B. Johnson’s, 190 Old Time Religion, The, Wilds's, 237 01’ Virginny Reel, Davis’s, 218 O Little David, Play on Your Harp, Cotter, Jr.’s, 218 On a Proud Man, Cotter, Sr.’s, 147 On a Seamstress, Walden’s, 235 On Imagination, Wheatley’s, 5; 28- 29; 235 On Liberty and Slavery, Horton’s, 224 On the Conversion of a Sister, Horton’s, 223 On the Death of Dr. Samuel Mar¬ shall, Wheatley’s, 235 On the Death of Mr. George White- field, Wheatley’s, 27; 235 On the Pleasures of a College Life, Horton's, 7; 223 On the Southern Side, A. B. Thompson’s, 233 Opening Service, An, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Opportunity, Dandridge’s, 218 Oriflamme, Fauset’s, 194 Our Country, Coffin’s, 217 Our English Fireside, Mrs. Harp¬ er’s, 221 Our Essayists and Critics of To¬ day, Braithwaite’s, 135 Our Exposition, Wilds’s, 237 Our Girls, A. B. Thompson’s, 232 Our National Flag, A. B. Thomp¬ son’s, 232 Our Task, Ray’s, 152-153; 231 Outcast, McKay’s, 229 Out of the Shadows, Cotter, Jr.’s, 180 Parted, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Passing of “Old Aunt Maria,” The, Adams’s, 214 Path of Dteams, The, McClellan’s, 21; 92; 229 Path of Dreams, The, McClellan’s, 21; 92-94; 230 Paul Laurence Dunbar, Corrothers’s, 166-167 Peace, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Peace, A. A. Whitman’s, 237 Penciled Poems, Dandridge’s, 191; 218 Pessimist, The, J. W. Holloway’s, 222 Philosophy, Dunbar’s, 13 Plan, The, Brawley’s, 157; 216 Plateau, The, McKay’s, 229 Plowin’ Cane, Holloway’s, 185-186 Poem for Children with Thoughts on Death, A, Hammon’s, 221 Poems, Mrs. Harper’s, 40; 221 Poems, McClellan’s, 21; 229 Poems, Ray’s, 151; 230 Poems and Letters of Phillis Wheatley, Heartman’s, 28; 235 Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects, Mrs. Harper’s, 8; 9; 40; 221 Poems on Various Subjects, Re¬ ligious and Moral, Wheatley’s, 27 Poems by a Slave, Horton’s, 7; 223 Poet and Other Poems, The, Dand¬ ridge’s, 191; 218 Poet and the Baby, The, Dunbar’s, 89-90 Poetical Works of James Madison Bell, The, Arnett’s, 9; 38; 215 Poetical Works of George Moses Horton, The, 6; 34; 222 Poetic Year for 1916, The, Braithwaite’s, 134 Pomp’s Case Argued, Davis’s, 103; 219 Index of Titles 247 Pop Call, The, Holloway’s, 222 Possum, Dunbar’s, 13; 82-83 Praise of Creation, Horton’s, 7; 35- 37; 224 Prayer, A, Margetson’s, 169; 228 Prayer for the School, Walden’s, 234 Precious Pearl, The, P. J. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Prejudice, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Prince Beloved, Kweg-Aggrey’s, 236 Problem and Other Poems, The, Brawley’s, 157; 216 Problem, The, Brawley’s, 216 Progress of Liberty, The, Bell’s, 9; 215 Prophet of the Plow, The, Dinkins’s, 219 Prosperity, Horton’s, 223 Psalm of the Uplift, The, Allen’s, 17; 116-117; 214 Quest, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Raccoon Chase, A, Wilds’s, 237 Rain Music, Cotter, Jr.’s, 181-182 Rain Song, A, C. B. Johnson’s, 189- 190 Reason Why, The, Rowe’s, 231 Recalled Prayer, A, Dandridge’s, 218 Recollections of a Sleeping Car Porter, “Jack Thorne’s,” 233 Reflections, A. Plato’s, 230 Religion, Dunbar’s, 13, 14 Religion, Hawkins’s, 222 Report, Harper’s, 221 Repulse, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Resurrection, Margetson’s, 170 Retreat from Moscow, The, Hor¬ ton’s, 223 Retrospect, S. T. Jones’s, 236 Revels of Fancy, Vandyne’s, 234 Revery, Ray’s, 231 Rhymes, Tales, and Rhymed Tales, Allen’s, 2; 17; 116; 214 Rhyming, A, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Richard Le Gallienne: A Study of His Poetry, Brawley’s, 157 Rizpah, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Rome Is Dying, F. Johnson’s, 224 Ruth and Naomi, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Sacred Stream, The, Walden’s, 235 Sadie Fontaine, Fortune’s, 220 Salvation by Christ, etc., Ham- mon’s, 221 Sandy Star, Braithwaite’s, 135; 144 Sandy Star and Willy Gee, Braithwaite’s, 16; 135 San Juan, Holloway’s, 222 Saved by Faith, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Sculptor’s Vision, The, Ray’s, 231 Sea Lyric, Braithwaite’s, 135 Sea Prayer, A, Braithwaite’s, 215 Seeking the Best, Shackelford’s, 2; 231 Selected Poems, Corrothers’s, 21; 163 Selected Poems, Dandridge’s, 218 Self-Determinaton, Hill’s, 21; 198- 199 Self-Effacement, Toomey’s, 234 Serenade, A, McClellan’s, 230 Serenity, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Sermon on the Mount, The, Hol¬ loway’s, 222 Setting Sun, The, Horton's, 223 Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, The, Brawley’s, 157; 216 She Was a Beauty, Vandyne’s, 234 Shine On, Mr. Sun, Allen’s, 8; 130- 131; 214 Short History of the American Negro, A, Brawley’s, 22; 157 Shower, The, Temple’s, 232 Sic Vita, Braithwaite’s, 142-143 Singing at Amen Church, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Signs of Rain, McGirt’s, 230 Skeptic, The, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Sketches of Southern Life, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Slave Holder’s Rest, The, Simp¬ son’s, 9; 232 Slave Mother, The, Mrs. Harper’s, 10; 40; 41; 221 Slave Mother, The—A Tale of the Ohio, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Slave’s Complaint, The, Horton’s, 224 Slow Through tlifc Dark, Dunbar’s, 66 Snow Storm, The, Temple’s, 232 248 Index of Titles Social History of the American Negro, A, Brawley’s, 157 Some Simple Songs and a Few More Ambitious Attempts, Mc- Girt’s, 230 Song for the First of August, Bell’s, 38-39 Song of a Syrian Lace Seller, Braithwaite’s, 138-139 Song of Living, A, Braithwaite’s, 15; 139-140; 216 Song of Suffrage, A, Margetson’s, 227 Song of Thanks, A, E. S. Jones’s, 154-156; 226 Song of the Titanic Victim, F. Johnson’s, 224 Song; To-day and To-morrow, Braithwaite’s, 137 Songs From the Wayside, C. A. Thompson’s, 132; 233 Songs of Jamaica, McKay’s, 204 Songs of Life, Margetson’s, 168; 227 Songs of My People, C. B. John¬ son’s, 189; 224 Songs of the Soil, F. Johnson’s, 21; 160; 224 Sonnet, Brawley’s, 216 Sonnet to the Mantled, G. D. John¬ son’s, 225 Sonnet to Negro Soldiers, Cotter, Jr.’s 182; 218 “So Quietly,” Hill’s, 197-198 Southern Chivalry, Toomey’s, 234 Spade Is Just a Spade, A, Hawk¬ ins’s, 149-150 Spanish Needle, The, McKay’s, 229 Spinning, F. Johnson’s, 225 Spring, Hill’s, 203 Spring in Callao, C. B. Johnson’s, 224 Spring in New Hampshire, Mc¬ Kay’s, 204 Spring in New Hampshire, McKay’s, 229 Star Song, Ray’s, 231 St. John’s River, Brawley’s, 216 Stickin’ to de Hoe, Davis’s, 101-103 Story of the Great War, The, Braithwaite’s, 134 Strength of Gideon, The, Dun¬ bar’s, 55 Sum, The, Dunbar’s, 88-89 Summer, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Summer Afternoon, A, McClellan’s, 229 Summer Morn in New Hampshire, McKay’s, 229 Sunday Morning, McClellan’s, 229 Sunrise on the Farm, Holloway’s, 222 Sunset, Vandyne’s, 234 Suppliant, The, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Supplication, Dandridge’s, 218 Swan, The—Vain Pleasures, Hor¬ ton’s, 223 Swinburne, F. Johnson’s, 224 Sylvan Cabin, The, Etc., E. S. Jones’s, 154; 226 Symphony, The, Hill’s, 20; 202 Tact, Vandyne’s, 234 Taps, G. D. Johnson’s, 209-210 Teachers of Georgia, Rowe’s, 231 Tears and Kisses, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Temperance, Walden’s, 235 Tempest, The, A. B. Thompson’s, 233 Temptation, Dunbar’s, 83-84 Test, The, Allen’s, 18; 214 Thaddeus Stevens, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Thanksgiving Prayer, A, Wilds’s, 237 That Better Day, McClellan’s, 229 There Is Confusion, Fauset’s, 193 They Shall Not Pass, Hawkins’s, 222 They’ve Lynched a Man in Dixie, J. H. Jones’s, 226 This Is My Life, Braithwaite’s, 143; 216 Thoughts for True Americans, Toomey’s, 234 Thoughts in Verse; Poems, Rowe’s, 231 Thoughts of Idle Hours, Wilds’s, 237 Thoughts on the Works of Provi¬ dence, Wheatley’s, 235 Three Negro Poets, Brawley’s, 217 “Thy Works Shall Praise Thee,” Dinkins’s, 113 Time, Margetson’s, 169-170 Index of Titles 249 Time to Die, Dandridge’s, 218 Tippler and His Bottle, The, Hor¬ ton’s, 223 Tireless Sculptor, The, Ray’s, 231 To a Gentleman and Lady, etc., Wheatley’s, 5; 30-31; 235 To a Lady on the Death of Her Husband, Wheatley’s, 235 To a Little Colored Boy, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 To an Unhanged Judas, Dandridge’s, 218 To Catherine, Horton’s, 223 To Fiona, Braithwaite’s, 216 To Florence, Cotter, Jr.’s, 218 To His Excellency, General Wash¬ ington, Wheatley’s, 5; 235 To Hollyhocks, McClellan’s, 21; 94- 95; 230 To Kit Marlowe, Brawley’s, 216 To Lochiel, McClellan’s, 229; 230 To M. W. W. on Her First Effort at Shirt-Making, Walden’s, 235 To My Benefactor, Walden’s, 235 To Our Dead Heroes, Margetson’s, 227 To the Bachelor, Dinkins’s, 219 To the First of August, A. Plato’s, 230 To the King’s Most Excellent Maj¬ esty, Wheatley’s, 4; 235 To the Sea, Braithwaite’s, 135; 145 To the Shade of Douglas, Toomey’s, 234 To the Smartweed, Hill’s, 199-200 To the South on the New Slavery, Dunbar’s, 14 To the Student, Whitman’s, 50-52; 237 To the University of Cambridge in New England, Wheatley’s, 4; 235 To Theodore, McClellan’s, 229 To William James, Hill’s, 20 Too Much Religion, Hawkins’s, 148; 222 Toast to Love and Death, A, Brawley’s, 157 Torch, The, G. D. Johnson’s, 208 Tornado, The, Temple’s, 232 Touch, The, Cullen’s, 210-211 Toussaint L’Ouverture, Vandyne’s, 234 Tracin’ Tales, Dandridge’s, 192-193 Triple Benison, The, Ray’s, 153-154; 231 Triumph of the Free, The, Bell’s, 9; 215 Tropics in New York, The, Mc¬ Kay’s, 204; 229 Troubled With the Itch, Horton’s, 7; 223 True Friend, The, A. Plato’s, 230 True Nobility, Rowe’s, 231 Truth, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Tuskegee, Hill’s, 196-197 Twasinta’s Seminoles, or the Rape of Florida, Whitman’s, 50 Unbeliever, The, Margetson’s, 227 Uncalled, The, Dunbar’s, 55 Uncle Rastus and the Whiskey Question, Davis’s, 219 Uncle Rube on the Race Problem, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Uncle Rube to the Young People, C. A. Thompson’s, 233 Uncle Rube’s Defense, C. A. Thomp¬ son’s, 233 Valedictory on Leaving San Fran¬ cisco, Bell’s, 38; 215 Valor, Vandyne’s, 234 Vashti, Mrs. Harper’s, 221 Victory, Braithwaite’s, 135 Views and Meditations of John Brown, The, Williams’s, 237 Vision, A, Fernandis’s, 212-213 Vision of Lazarus, The, F. John¬ son’s, 21; 224 Visions of the Dusk, F. Johnson’s, 21; 160 Walden’s Miscellaneous Poems, 234 Wandering Heart, The, Franklin’s, 220 Warrior’s Prayer, The, Dunbar’s, 63 We Are Black But- We Are Men, Dinkins’s, 111-112; 219 We Know No More, Fortune’s, 115 We Wear the Mask, Dunbar’s, 14 “Weh Down Souf," Etc., Davis’s, 22; 98; 218 Were I a Bird, E. S. Jones’s, 226 250 Index of Titles What Mistah Robin Sais, F. John¬ son’s, 224 When I Am Dead, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 When I Die, F. Johnson’s, 21; 162- 163 When Malindy Sings, Dunbar’s, 85- 87 When the Fish Begin to Bite, Al¬ len’s, 18; 128-129; 214 When Truth Comes Home, Beadle’s, 215 Where Air ol Freedom Is, Haw¬ kins’s, 148 Where Is Fame, F. Johnson’s, 224 White Song and a Black One, A, Cotter, Sr.’s, 146 Wife Problem, The, Dinkins’s, 219 Wild May, McKay’s, 229 Wildwood Rose Will Grow, The, Fortune’s, 220 Wind Whisperings, C. B. John¬ son’s, 189 Wings of Oppression, The, Hill’s, 20; 195-196; 222 Winter, McGirt’s, 230 Winter in the Country, McKay’s, 229 Winter Night, A, P. J. Thompson’s, 233 Winter Piece, etc., Hammon’s, 3 Women and Wine, Vandyne’s, 234 Women of Achievement, Braw- ley’s, 157 Wrong’s Reward, Hawkin’s, 148- 149; 222 Ye Bards of England, Whitman’s, 52-53; 237 Yoke of Oppression, A, Wilds’s, 237 Youth, G. D. Johnson’s, 225 Zalka Peetruza, Dandridge’s, 191- 192; 218 D00436185R