Selected Poems Read Online

From some high peak, nigh yet remote,
He voiced the world’s absorbing beat.

He sang of love when earth was young,
And Love, itself, was in his lays.
But ah, the world, it turned to praise
A jingle in a broken tongue.

A Spiritual

De ’cession’s stahted on de gospel way,
De Capting is a-drawin’ nigh:
Bettah stop a-foolin’ an’ a-try to pray;
Lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

Oh, sinnah mou’nin’ in de dusty road,
Hyeah’s de minute fu’ to dry yo’ eye:
Dey’s a moughty One a-comin’ fu’ to baih yo’ load;
Lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

Oh, widder weepin’ by yo’ husban’s grave,
Hit’s bettah fu’ to sing den sigh:
Hyeah come de Mastah wid de powah to save;
Lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

Oh, orphans a-weepin’ lak de widder do,
An’ I wish you’d tell me why:
De Mastah is a mammy an’ a pappy too;
Lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

Oh, Moses sot de sarpint in de wildahness
W’en de chillun had commenced to die:
Some ’efused to look, but hit cuohed de res’;
Lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

Bow down, bow ’way down, Bow down, But lif’ up yo’ haid w’en de King go by!

W’en I Gits Home

It’s moughty tiahsome layin’ ’roun’
Dis sorrer-laden earfly groun’,
An’ oftentimes I thinks, thinks I,
’Twould be a sweet t’ing des to die,
An’ go ’long home.

Home whaih de frien’s I loved ’ll say,
“We’ve waited fu’ you many a day,
Come hyeah an’ res’ yo’se’f, an’ know
You’s done wid sorrer an’ wid woe,
Now you’s at home.”

W’en I gits home some blessid day,
I ’lows to th’ow my caihs erway,
An’ up an’ down de shinin’ street,
Go singin’ sof’ an’ low an’ sweet,
W’en I gits home.

I wish de day was neah at han’,
I’s tiahed of dis grievin’ lan’,
I’s tiahed of de lonely yeahs,
I want to des dry up my teahs,
An’ go ’long home.
Oh, Mastah, won’t you sen’ de call?
My frien’s is daih, my hope, my all.
I’s waitin’ whaih de road is rough,
I want to hyeah you say, “Enough,
Ol’ man, come home!”

The Unsung Heroes

A song for the unsung heroes who rose in the country’s need,

When the life of the land was threatened by the slaver’s cruel greed,

For the men who came from the cornfield, who came from the plough and the flail,

Who rallied round when they heard the sound of the mighty man of the rail.

They laid them down in the valleys, they laid them down in the wood,

And the world looked on at the work they did, and whispered, “It is good.”

They fought their way on the hillside, they fought their way in the glen,

And God looked down on their sinews brown, and said, “I have made them men.”

They went to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in,

And the men who saw their muskets’ fire thought not of their dusky skin.

The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers,

And they said, “ ’Tis true, they have force to do, these old slave boys of ours.”

Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood,

That poured on a nation’s altar, a sacrificial flood.

Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air,

And the old free fires of their savage sires again were kindled there.

They laid them down where the rivers the greening valleys gem.

And the song of the thund’rous cannon was their sole requiem,

And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud,

Was the flag that furled o’er a saddened world, and the sheet that made their shroud.

Oh, Mighty God of the Battles Who held them in Thy hand,

Who gave them strength through the whole day’s length, to fight for their native land,

They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain,

And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain.

Give, Thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might,

The men who feared the master’s whip, but did not fear the fight;

That he may tell of their virtues as minstrels did of old,

Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold.

A song for the unsung heroes who stood the awful test,

When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the best;

A song for the unsung heroes who fell on the bloody sod,

Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God.

The Pool

By the pool that I see in my dreams, dear love,
I have sat with you time and again;
And listened beneath the dank leaves, dear love,
To the sibilant sound of the rain.

And the pool, it is silvery bright, dear love,
And as pure as the heart of a maid,
As sparkling and dimpling, it darkles and shines
In the depths of the heart of the glade.

But, oh, I’ve a wish in my soul, dear love,
(The wish of a dreamer, it seems,)
That I might wash free of my sins, dear love,
In the pool that I see in my dreams.

Speakin’ at de Cou’t House

Dey been speakin’ at de cou’t house,
An’ laws-a-massy me,
’Twas de beatness kin’ o’ doin’s
Dat evah I did see.
Of cose I had to be dah
In de middle o’ de crowd,
An’ I hallohed wid de othahs,
W’en de speakah riz and bowed.

I was kind o’ disapp’inted
At de smallness of de man,
Case I’d allus pictered great folks
On a mo’ expansive plan;
But I t’ought I could respect him
An’ tek in de wo’ds he said,
Fu’ dey sho was somp’n knowin’
In de bald spot on his haid.

But hit did seem so’t o’ funny
Aftah waitin’ fu’ a week
Dat de people kep’ on shoutin’
So de man des couldn’t speak;
De ho’ns dey blared a little,
Den dey let loose on de drums,—
Some one tol’ me dey was playin’
“See de conkerin’ hero comes.”

“Well,” says I, “you all is white folks,
But you’s sutny actin’ queer,
What’s de use of heroes comin’
Ef dey cain’t talk w’en dey’s here?”
Aftah while dey let him open,
An’ dat man he waded in,
An’ he fit de wahs all ovah
Winnin’ victeries lak sin.

W’en he come down to de present,
Den he made de feathahs fly.
He des waded in on money,
An’ he played de ta’iff high.
An’ he said de colah question,
Hit was ovah, solved, an’ done,
Dat de dahky was his brothah,
Evah blessed mothah’s son.

Well he settled all de trouble
Dat’s been pesterin’ de lan’,
Den he set down mid de cheerin’
An’ de playin’ of de ban’.
I was feelin’ moughty happy
’Twell I hyeahed somebody speak,
“Well, dat’s his side of de bus’ness,
But you wait for Jones nex’ week.”

Black Samson of Brandywine

“In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks. . . .” —C. M. SKINNER S Myths and Legends of Our Own Land.

Gray are the pages of record,
Dim are the volumes of eld;
Else had old Delaware told us
More that her history held.
Told us with pride in the story,
Honest and noble and fine,
More of the tale of my hero,
Black Samson of Brandywine.

Sing of your chiefs and your nobles,
Saxon and Celt and Gaul,
Breath of mine ever shall join you,
Highly I honor them all.
Give to them all of their glory,
But for this noble of mine,
Lend him a tithe of your tribute,
Black Samson of Brandywine.

There in the heat of the battle,
There in the stir of the fight,
Loomed he, an ebony giant,
Black as the pinions of night.
Swinging his scythe like a mower
Over a field of grain,
Needless the care of the gleaners,
Where he had passed amain.
Straight through the human harvest,
Cutting a bloody swath,
Woe to you, soldier of Briton!
Death is abroad in his path.
Flee from the scythe of the reaper,
Flee while the moment is thine,
None may with safety withstand him,
Black Samson of Brandywine.

Was he a freeman or bondman?
Was he a man or a thing?
What does it matter? His brav’ry
Renders him royal—a king.
If he was only a chattel,
Honor the ransom may pay
Of the royal, the loyal black giant
Who fought for his country that day.

Noble and bright is the story,
Worthy the touch of the lyre,
Sculptor or poet should find it
Full of the stuff to inspire.
Beat it in brass and in copper,
Tell it in storied line,
So that the world may remember
Black Samson of Brandywine.

Douglass

Ah, Douglass, we have fall’n on evil days,
Such days as thou, not even thou didst know,
When thee, the eyes of that harsh long ago
Saw, salient, at the cross of devious ways,
And all the country heard thee with amaze.
Not ended then, the passionate ebb and flow,
The awful tide that battled to and fro;
We ride amid a tempest of dispraise.
Now, when the waves of swift dissension swarm,
And Honor, the strong pilot, lieth stark,
Oh, for thy voice high-sounding o’er the storm,
For thy strong arm to guide the shivering bark,
The blast-defying power of thy form,
To give us comfort through the lonely dark.

Booker T. Washington

The word is writ that he who runs may read.
What is the passing breath of earthly fame?
But to snatch glory from the hands of blame—
That is to be, to live, to strive indeed.
A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed,
And from its dark and lowly door there came
A peer of princes in the world’s acclaim,
A master spirit for the nation’s need.
Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind,
The mark of rugged force on brow and lip,
Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind
Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip;
With one idea foremost in his mind,
Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.

Philosophy

I been t’inkin’ ’bout de preachah; whut he said de othah night,
’Bout hit bein’ people’s dooty, fu’ to keep dey faces bright;
How one ought to live so pleasant dat ouah tempah never riles,
Meetin’ evahbody roun’ us wid ouah very nicest smiles.

Dat’s all right, I ain’t a-sputin’ not a t’ing dat soun’s lak fac’,
But you don’t ketch folks a-grinnin’ wid a misery in de back;
An’ you don’t fin’ dem a-smilin’ w’en dey’s hongry ez kin be,
Leastways, dat’s how human natur’ allus seems to ’pear
to me.

We is mos’ all putty likely fu’ to have our little cares,
An’ I think we ’se doin’ fus’ rate w’en we jes’ go long and
bears,
Widout breakin’ up ouah faces in a sickly so’t o’ grin,
W’en we knows dat in ouah innards we is p’intly mad
ez sin.

Oh dey’s times fu’ bein’ pleasant an’ fu’ goin’ smilin’ roun’,
’Cause I don’t believe in people allus totin’ roun’ a frown,
But it’s easy ’nough to titter w’en de stew is smokin’ hot,
But hit’s mighty ha’d to giggle w’en dey’s nuffin’ in de pot.

The Debt

This is the debt I pay
Just for one riotous day,
Years of regret and grief,
Sorrow without relief.

Pay it I will to the end—
Until the grave, my friend,
Gives me a true release—
Gives me the clasp of peace.

Slight was the thing I bought,
Small was the debt I thought,
Poor was the loan at best—
God! but the interest!

By Rugged Ways

By rugged ways and thro’ the night
We struggle blindly toward 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;”
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.