Selected Poems Read Online

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.

To the South On Its New Slavery

Heart of the Southland, heed me pleading now,
Who bearest, unashamed, upon my brow
The long kiss of the loving tropic sun,
And yet, whose veins with thy red current run.

Borne on the bitter winds from every hand,
Strange tales are flying over all the land,
And Condemnation, with his pinions foul,
Glooms in the place where broods the midnight owl.

What art thou, that the world should point at thee,
And vaunt and chide the weakness that they see?
There was a time they were not wont to chide;
Where is thy old, uncompromising pride?

Blood-washed, thou shouldst lift up thine honored head,
White with the sorrow for thy loyal dead
Who lie on every plain, on every hill,
And whose high spirit walks the Southland still:

Whose infancy our mother’s hands have nursed.
Thy manhood, gone to battle unaccursed,
Our fathers left to till th’ reluctant field,
To rape the soil for what she would not yield;

Wooing for aye, the cold unam’rous sod,
Whose growth for them still meant a master’s rod;
Tearing her bosom for the wealth that gave
The strength that made the toiler still a slave.
Too long we hear the deep impassioned cry
That echoes vainly to the heedless sky;
Too long, too long, the Macedonian call
Falls fainting far beyond the outward wall,

Within whose sweep, beneath the shadowing trees,
A slumbering nation takes its dangerous ease;
Too long the rumors of thy hatred go
For those who loved thee and thy children so.

Thou must arise forthwith, and strong, thou must
Throw off the smirching of this baser dust,
Lay by the practice of this later creed,
And be thine honest self again indeed.

There was a time when even slavery’s chain
Held in some joys to alternate with pain,
Some little light to give the night relief,
Some little smiles to take the place of grief.

There was a time when, jocund as the day,
The toiler hoed his row and sung his lay,
Found something gleeful in the very air,
And solace for his toiling everywhere.

Now all is changed, within the rude stockade,
A bondsman whom the greed of men has made
Almost too brutish to deplore his plight,
Toils hopeless on from joyless morn till night.

For him no more the cabin’s quiet rest,
The homely joys that gave to labor zest;
No more for him the merry banjo’s sound,
Nor trip of lightsome dances footing round.
For him no more the lamp shall glow at eve,
Nor chubby children pluck him by the sleeve;
No more for him the master’s eyes be bright,—
He has nor freedom’s nor a slave’s delight.

What, was it all for naught, those awful years
That drenched a groaning land with blood and tears?
Was it to leave this sly convenient hell,
That brother fighting his own brother fell?

When that great struggle held the world in awe,
And all the nations blanched at what they saw,
Did Sanctioned Slavery bow its conquered head
That this unsanctioned crime might rise instead?

Is it for this we all have felt the flame,—
This newer bondage and this deeper shame?
Nay, not for this, a nation’s heroes bled,
And North and South with tears beheld their dead.

Oh, Mother South, hast thou forgot thy ways,
Forgot the glory of thine ancient days,
Forgot the honor that once made thee great,
And stooped to this unhallowed estate?

It cannot last, thou wilt come forth in might,
A warrior queen full armored for the fight;
And thou wilt take, e’en with thy spear in rest,
Thy dusky children to thy saving breast.

Till then, no more, no more the gladsome song,
Strike only deeper chords, the notes of wrong;
Till then, the sigh, the tear, the oath, the moan,
Till thou, oh, South, and thine, come to thine own.

The Haunted Oak

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim’s pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh;
I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
And left him here alone.

They’d charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door,
“Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away

“From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long.”

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight.

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
’Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem’ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth
On a bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse as a haunted bough,
On the trunk of a haunted tree.

Weltschmertz

You ask why I am sad to-day,
I have no cares, no griefs, you say?
Ah, yes, ’tis true, I have no grief—
But—is there not the falling leaf?

The bare tree there is mourning left
With all of autumn’s gray bereft;
It is not what has happened me,
Think of the bare, dismantled tree.

The birds go South along the sky,
I hear their lingering, long good-bye.
Who goes reluctant from my breast?
And yet—the lone and windswept nest.

The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by,
Why does a tear come to my eye?
Is it the March rain blowing wild?
I have no dead, I know no child.
I am no widow by the bier
Of him I held supremely dear.
I have not seen the choicest one
Sink down as sinks the westering sun.

Faith unto faith have I beheld,
For me, few solemn notes have swelled;
Love beckoned me out to the dawn,
And happily I followed on.

And yet my heart goes out to them
Whose sorrow is their diadem;
The falling leaf, the crying bird,
The voice to be, all lost, unheard—

Not mine, not mine, and yet too much
The thrilling power of human touch,
While all the world looks on and scorns
I wear another’s crown of thorns.

Count me a priest who understands
The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands;
Count me a comrade of the thief
Hot driven into late belief.

Oh, mother’s tear, oh, father’s sigh,
Oh, mourning sweetheart’s last good-bye,
I yet have known no mourning save
Beside some brother’s brother’s grave.

Robert Gould Shaw

Why was it that the thunder voice of Fate
Should call thee, studious, from the classic groves,
Where calm-eyed Pallas with still footstep roves,
And charge thee seek the turmoil of the state?
What bade thee hear the voice and rise elate,
Leave home and kindred and thy spicy loaves,
To lead th’ unlettered and despised droves
To manhood’s home and thunder at the gate?

Far better the slow blaze of Learning’s light,
The cool and quiet of her dearer fane,
Than this hot terror of a hopeless fight,
This cold endurance of the final pain,—
Since thou and those who with thee died for right
Have died, the Present teaches, but in vain!

A Love Song

Ah, love, my love is like a cry in the night,
A long, loud cry to the empty sky,
The cry of a man alone in the desert,
With hands uplifted, with parching lips,

Oh, rescue me, rescue me,
Thy form to mine arms,
The dew of thy lips to my mouth,
Dost thou hear me?—my call thro’ the night?

Darling, I hear thee and answer,
Thy fountain am I,
All of the love of my soul will I bring to thee,
All of the pains of my being shall wring to thee,
Deep and forever the song of my loving shall sing to thee,
Ever and ever thro’ day and thro’ night shall I cling to thee.
Hearest thou the answer?
Darling, I come, I come.

A Negro Love Song

Seen my lady home las’ night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel’ huh han’ an’ sque’z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f’om huh eye,
An’ a smile go flittin’ by—
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win’ blow thoo de pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin’-bird was singin’ fine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
An’ my hea’t was beatin’ so,
When I reached my lady’s do’,
Dat I couldn’t ba’ to go—
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun’ huh wais’,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an’ took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An’ she answe’d, “ ’Cose I do”—
Jump back, honey, jump back.

The Fount of Tears

All hot and grimy from the road,
Dust gray from arduous years,
I sat me down and eased my load
Beside the Fount of Tears.

The waters sparkled to my eye,
Calm, crystal-like, and cool,
And breathing there a restful sigh,
I bent me to the pool.

When, lo! a voice cried: “Pilgrim, rise,
Harsh tho’ the sentence be,
And on to other lands and skies—
This fount is not for thee.

“Pass on, but calm thy needless fears,
Some may not love or sin,
An angel guards the Fount of Tears;
All may not bathe therein.”

Then with my burden on my back
I turned to gaze awhile,
First at the uninviting track,
Then at the water’s smile.

And so I go upon my way,
Thro’out the sultry years,
But pause no more, by night, by day,
Beside the Fount of Tears.

At the Tavern

A lilt and a swing,
And a ditty to sing,
Or ever the night grow old;
The wine is within,
And I’m sure ’twere a sin
For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear,
For a soldier to choose to be cold.

We’re right for a spell,
But the fever is—well,
No thing to be braved, at least;
So bring me the wine;
No low fever in mine,
For a drink is more kind than a priest, my dear,
For a drink is more kind than a priest.

FROM LI’L’ GAL 1904

Li’l’ Gal

Oh, de weathah it is balmy an’ de breeze is sighin’ low. Li’l’ gal,

An’ de mockin’ bird is singin’ in de locus’ by de do’, Li’l’ gal;

Dere’s a hummin’ an’ a bummin’ in de lan’ f’om eas’ to wes’,

I’s a-sighin’ fu’ you, honey, an’ I nevah know no res’.

Fu’ dey’s lots o’ trouble brewin’ an’ a-stewin’ in my breas’, Li’l’ gal.

Whut’s de mattah wid de weathah, whut’s de mattah wid de breeze,

Li’l’ gal?

Whut’s de mattah wid de locus’ dat’s a-singin’ in de trees, Li’l’ gal?

W’y dey knows dey ladies love ’em, an’ dey knows dey love ’em true,

An’ dey love ’em back, I reckon, des’ lak I’s a-lovin’ you;

Dat’s de reason dey’s a-weavin’ an’ a-sighin’, thoo an’ thoo, Li’l’ gal.

Don’t you let no da’ky fool you ’cause de clo’es he waihs is fine,

Li’l’ gal.

Dey’s a hones’ hea’t a-beatin’ unnerneaf dese rags o’ mine, Li’l’ gal.

C’ose dey ain’ no use in mockin’ whut de birds an’ weathah do,

But I’s so’y I cain’t ’spress it w’en I knows I loves you true,

Dat’s de reason I’s a-sighin’ an’ a-singin now fu’ you, Li’l’ gal.

A Plea

Treat me nice, Miss Mandy Jane,
Treat me nice.
Dough my love has tu’ned my brain,
Treat me nice.
I ain’t done a t’ing to shame,
Lovahs all ac’s jes’ de same:
Don’t you know we ain’t to blame?
Treat me nice!

Cose I know I ’s talkin’ wild;
Treat me nice;
I cain’t talk no bettah, child,
Treat me nice;
Whut a pusson gwine to do,
W’en he come a-cou’tin’ you
All a-trimblin’ thoo and thoo?
Please be nice.

Reckon I mus’ go de paf
Othahs do:
Lovahs lingah, ladies laff;
Mebbe you
Do’ mean all the things you say,
An’ pu’haps some latah day
W’en I baig you ha’d, you may
Treat me nice!

Soliloquy of a Turkey

Dey’s a so’t o’ threatenin’ feelin’ in de blowin’ of de breeze,
An’ I’s feelin’ kin’ o’ squeamish in de night;
I’s a-walkin’ ’roun’ a-lookin’ at de diffunt style o’ trees,
An’ a-measurin’ dey thickness an’ dey height.
Fu’ dey’s somep’n mighty ’spicious in de looks de da’kies give,
Ez dey pass me an’ my fambly on de groun,’
So it ’curs to me dat lakly, ef I caihs to try an’ live,
It concehns me fu’ to ’mence to look erroun’.

Dey’s a cu’ious kin’ o’ shivah runnin’ up an’ down my back,
An’ I feel my feddahs rufflin’ all de day,
An’ my laigs commence to trimble evah blessid step I mek;
W’en I sees a ax, I tu’ns my head away.
Folks is go’gin’ me wid goodies, an’ dey’s treatin’ me wid caih,
An’ I’s fat in spite of all dat I kin do.
I’s mistrus’ful of de kin’ness dat’s erroun’ me evahwhaih,
Fu’ it’s jes’ too good, an’ frequent, to be true.

Snow’s a-fallin’ on de medders, all erroun’ me now is white,
But I’s still kep’ on a-roostin’ on de fence;
Isham comes an’ feels my breas’ bone, an’ he hefted me las’
night,
An’ he’s gone erroun’ a-grinnin’ evah sence.
’Tain’t de snow dat meks me shivah; ’t ain’t de col’ dat meks
me shake;
’Tain’t de wintah-time itse’f dat’s ’fectin’ me;
But I t’ink de time is comin’, an’ I’d bettah mek a break,
Fu’ to set wid Mistah Possum in his tree.

W’en you hyeah de da’kies singin’, an’ de quahtahs all is gay,
’Tain’t de time fu’ birds lak me to be erroun’;
W’en de hick’ry chips is flyin’, an’ de log’s been ca’ied erway,
Den hit’s dang’ous to be roostin’ nigh de groun’.

Grin on, Isham! Sing on, da’kies! But I flop my wings an’ go
Fu’ de sheltah of de ve’y highest tree,
Fu’ dey’s too much close ertention—an’ dey’s too much fallin’
snow—
An’ it’s too nigh Chris’mus mo’nin’ now fu’ me.

When Sam’l Sings

Hyeah dat singin’ in de medders
Whaih de folks is mekin’ hay?
Wo’k is pretty middlin’ heavy
Fu’ a man to be so gay.
You kin tell dey’s somep’n special
F’om de canter o’ de song;
Somep’n sholy pleasin’ Sam’l,
W’en he singin’ all day long.

Hyeahd him wa’blin’ ’way dis mo’nin’
’Fo’ ’twas light enough to see.
Seem lak music in de evenin’
Allus good enough fu’ me.
But dat man commenced to hollah
’Fo’ he’d even washed his face;
Would you b’lieve, de scan’lous rascal
Woke de birds erroun’ de place?

Sam’l took a trip a-Sad’day;
Dressed hisse’f in all he had,
Tuk a cane an’ went a-strollin’,
Lookin’ mighty pleased an’ glad.
Some folks don’ know whut de mattah,
But I do, you bet yo’ life;
Sam’l smilin’ an’ a-singin’
’Case he been to see his wife.

She live on de fu’ plantation,
Twenty miles erway er so;
But huh man is mighty happy
W’en he git de chanst to go.

Walkin’ allus ain’ de nices’—
Mo’nin’ fin’s him on de way—
But he allus comes back smilin’,
Lak his pleasure was his pay.

Den he do a heap o’ talkin’,
Do’ he mos’ly kin’ o’ still,
But de wo’ds, dey gits to runnin’
Lak de watah fu’ a mill.
“Whut’s de use o’ havin’ trouble,
Whut’s de use o’ havin’ strife?”
Dat’s de way dis Sam’l preaches
W’en he been to see his wife.

An’ I reckon I git jealous,
Fu’ I laff an’ joke an’ sco’n,
An’ I say, “Oh, go on, Sam’l,
Des go on, an’ blow yo’ ho’n.”
But I know dis comin’ Sad’day,
Dey’ll be brighter days in life;
An’ I’ll be ez glad ez Sam’l
W’en I go to see my wife.

FROM LYRICS OF SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 1905

A Boy’s Summer Song

’Tis fine to play
In the fragrant hay,
And romp on the golden load;
To ride old Jack
To the barn and back,
Or tramp by a shady road.
To pause and drink,
At a mossy brink;
Ah, that is the best of joy,
And so I say
On a summer’s day,
What’s so fine as being a boy?
Ha, Ha!

With line and hook
By a babbling brook,
The fisherman’s sport we ply;
And list the song
Of the feathered throng
That flit in the branches nigh.
At last we strip
For a quiet dip;
Ah, that is the best of joy.