Chapter V: Onus Probandi

No 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 hand the staff 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.

DEL CASCAR

Del Cascar, Del Cascar, Stood upon a flaming star, Stood, and let his feet hang down Till in China the toes turned brown.

And he reached his fingers over The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, And caught a Mandarin at prayer, And tickled his nose in Orion's hair.

The sun went down through crimson bars, And left his blind face battered with stars-- But the brown toes in China kept Hot the tears Del Cascar wept.

TURN ME TO MY YELLOW LEAVES

Turn me to my yellow leaves, I am better satisfied; There is something in me grieves-- That was never born, and died. Let me be a scarlet flame On a windy autumn morn, I who never had a name, Nor from breathing image born. From the margin let me fall Where the farthest stars sink down, And the void consumes me,--all In nothingness to drown. Let me dream my dream entire, Withered as an autumn leaf-- Let me have my vain desire, Vain--as it is brief.

IRONIC: LL.D.

There are no hollows any more Between the mountains; the prairie floor Is like a curtain with the drape Of the winds' invisible shape; And nowhere seen and nowhere heard The sea's quiet as a sleeping bird.

Now we're traveling, what holds back Arrival, in the very track Where the urge put forth; so we stay And move a thousand miles a day. Time's a Fancy ringing bells Whose meaning, charlatan history, tells!

SCINTILLA

I kissed a kiss in youth
Upon a dead man's brow;
And that was long ago,--
And I'm a grown man now.

It's lain there in the dust,
Thirty years and more;--
My lips that set a light
At a dead man's door.

SIC VITA

Heart 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,
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!

RHAPSODY

I am glad daylong for the gift of song, For time and change and sorrow; For the sunset wings and the world-end things Which hang on the edge of to-morrow. I am glad for my heart whose gates apart Are the entrance-place of wonders, Where dreams come in from the rush and din Like sheep from the rains and thunders.

George Reginald Margetson

STANZAS FROM THE FLEDGLING BARD AND THE POETRY SOCIETY

_Part I_

I'm out to find the new, the modern school, Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly, Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool, To write the stuff the editors would buy; It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,-- Just so it aims to smash tradition's crown And build up one instead decked with a new renown.

A thought is haunting me by night and day, And in some safe archive I seek to lay it; I have some startling thing I wish to say, And they can put me wise just how to say it. Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it, Without due knowledge of its mood and tense, And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense.

Will some kind one direct me to that college Where every budding genius now is headed, The only source to gain poetic knowledge, Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded, Where nothing but the genuine goods are shredded,-- The factory where they shape new feet and meters That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters.

* * * * *

I hope I'll be an eligible student, E'en tho I am no poet in a sense, But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,-- A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance Who thinks that he can make the muses dance By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre, To win some fool's applause and please his own desire.

Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect That I am not a true, a genuine poet; If in the poet's colors I am decked They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it. I'll play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it, But be content to gaze with open mind; I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind.

* * * * *

_Part II_

I have a problem all alone to solve, A problem how to find the poetry club, It makes my sky piece like a top revolve, For fear that they might mark me for a snob. They'll call me poetry monger and then dub Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose, Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse.

Great Byron, when he published his Childe book, In which he sang of all his lovely dears, Called forth hot condemnation and cold look, From lesser mortals who were not his peers. They chided him for telling his affairs, Because they could not tell their own so well, They plagued the poet lord and made his life a hell.

They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight, And all because he dared to tell the truth, Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,-- A full fledged genius with the fire of youth. They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth; Because he blended human with divine, They branded him "the bard of women and of wine."

Of course I soak the booze once in a while, But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it; I love the girls, they win me with a smile, But no one knows, for I won't write about it. And so the fools may never think to doubt it, When I declare I am a moral man, As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan.

* * * * *

Every man has got a hobby, Every poet has some fault, Every sweet contains its bitter, Every fresh thing has its salt.

Every mountain has a valley, Every valley has a hill, Every ravine is a river, Every river is a rill.

Every fool has got some wisdom, Every wise man is a fool, Every scholar is a block-head, Every dunce has been to school.

Every bad man is a good man, Every fat man is not stout, Every good man is a bad man But 'tis hard to find him out.

Every strong man is a weak man, You may doubt it as you please, Every well man is a sick man, Every doctor has disease.

James Weldon Johnson

O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS

O 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? 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 starward 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.

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 stone to Christ.

SENCE YOU WENT AWAY

Seems lak to me de stars don't shine so bright, Seems lak to me de sun done loss his light, Seems lak to me der's nothin' goin' right, Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me de sky ain't half so blue, Seems lak to me dat ev'ything wants you, Seems lak to me I don't know what to do, Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me dat ev'ything is wrong, Seems lak to me de day's jes twice es long, Seems lak to me de bird's forgot his song, Sence you went away.

Seems lak to me I jes can't he'p but sigh, Seems lak to me ma th'oat keeps gittin' dry, Seems lak to me a tear stays in ma eye, Sence you went away.

THE CREATION

(_A Negro Sermon_)

And God stepped out on space, And He looked around and said, _"I'm lonely-- I'll make me a world."_

And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said, _"That's good!"_

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, And God rolled the light around in His hands Until He made the sun; And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said, _"That's good!"_

Then God himself stepped down-- And the sun was on His right hand, And the moon was on His left; The stars were clustered about His head, And the earth was under His feet. And God walked, and where He trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And He spat out the seven seas; He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand Over the sea and over the land, And He said, _"Bring forth! Bring forth!"_ And quicker than God could drop His hand, Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said, _"That's good!"_

Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that He had made. He looked at His sun, And He looked at His moon, 'And He looked at His little stars; He looked on His world With all its living things, And God said, _"I'm lonely still."_

Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think; By a deep, wide river He sat down; With His head in His hands, God thought and thought, Till He thought, _"I'll make me a man!"_

Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled Him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

THE WHITE WITCH

O brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. Trust not your prowess nor your strength, Your only safety lies in flight; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

The great white witch you have not seen? Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, Like nursery children you have looked For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; But no, not so; the witch appears In all the glowing charms of youth.

Her lips are like carnations, red, Her face like new-born lilies, fair, Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, She moves with subtle grace and air, And all about her head there floats The golden glory of her hair.

But though she always thus appears In form of youth and mood of mirth, Unnumbered centuries are hers, The infant planets saw her birth; The child of throbbing Life is she, Twin sister to the greedy earth.

And back behind those smiling lips, And down within those laughing eyes, And underneath the soft caress Of hand and voice and purring sighs, The shadow of the panther lurks, The spirit of the vampire lies.

For I have seen the great white witch, And she has led me to her lair, And I have kissed her red, red lips And cruel face so white and fair; Around me she has twined her arms, And bound me with her yellow hair.

I felt those red lips burn and sear My body like a living coal; Obeyed the power of those eyes As the needle trembles to the pole; And did not care although I felt The strength go ebbing from my soul.

Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, And heard your laughter loud and gay, And in your voices she has caught The echo of a far-off day, When man was closer to the earth; And she has marked you for her prey.

She feels the old Antaean strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal passions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. O, younger brothers mine, beware! Look not upon her beauty bright; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

MOTHER NIGHT

Eternities 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;
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.

O SOUTHLAND!

O Southland! O Southland!
Have you not heard the call,
The trumpet blown, the word made known
To the nations, one and all?
The watchword, the hope-word,
Salvation's present plan?
A gospel new, for all--for you:
Man shall be saved by man.

O Southland! O Southland!
Do you not hear to-day
The mighty beat of onward feet,
And know you not their way?
'Tis forward, 'tis upward,
On to the fair white arch
Of Freedom's dome, and there is room
For each man who would march.

O Southland, fair Southland!
Then why do you still cling
To an idle age and a musty page,
To a dead and useless thing?
'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time!
The world is young again!
And God's above, and God is love,
And men are only men.

O Southland! my Southland!
O birthland! do not shirk
The toilsome task, nor respite ask,
But gird you for the work.
Remember, remember
That weakness stalks in pride;
That he is strong who helps along
The faint one at his side.

BROTHERS

See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye! No light is there; none, save the glint that shines In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap.

How came this beast in human shape and form? Speak, man!--We call you man because you wear His shape--How are you thus? Are you not from That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race Which we have known three centuries? Not from That more than faithful race which through three wars Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless babes Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!

I am, and am not.

Then who, why are you?

I am a thing not new, I am as old As human nature. I am that which lurks, Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed; The ancient trait which fights incessantly Against restraint, balks at the upward climb; The weight forever seeking to obey The law of downward pull;--and I am more: The bitter fruit am I of planted seed; The resultant, the inevitable end Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.

Lessons in degradation, taught and learned, The memories of cruel sights and deeds, The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate Filtered through fifteen generations have Sprung up and found in me sporadic life. In me the muttered curse of dying men, On me the stain of conquered women, and Consuming me the fearful fires of lust, Lit long ago, by other hands than mine. In me the down-crushed spirit, the hurled-back prayers Of wretches now long dead,--their dire bequests,-- In me the echo of the stifled cry Of children for their bartered mothers' breasts.

I claim no race, no race claims me; I am No more than human dregs; degenerate; The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin; I am--just what I am. . . . The race that fed Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same To-day, but I-- Enough, the brute must die! Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will resist The fire much longer than this slender pine. Now bring the fuel! Pile it'round him! Wait! Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose The agony and terror in his face.

And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek! And there's another! Wilder than the first. Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so! Now let it slowly blaze again. See there! He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out, Searching around in vain appeal for help! Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts Down through the coils of chain that hold erect The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.

Stop! to each man no more than one man's share. You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain-- Let us divide its links; this skull, of course, In fair division, to the leader comes.

And now his fiendish crime has been avenged; Let us back to our wives and children.--Say, What did he mean by those last muttered words, _"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?_

FIFTY YEARS (1863-1913)

_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emancipation Proclamation._

O 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.

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.

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;

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's 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.

John Wesley Holloway

MISS MELERLEE

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! Oh, you're pretty sight to see! Sof brown cheek, an' smilin' face, An' willowy form chuck full o' grace-- De sweetes' gal Ah evah see, An' Ah wush dat you would marry me! Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! You're de berry gal fo' me! Pearly teef, an' shinin' hair, An' silky arm so plump an' bare! Ah lak yo' walk, Ah lak yo' clothes, An' de way Ah love you,--goodness knows! Hello, Miss Melerlee!

Hello dar, Miss Melerlee! Dat's not yo' name, but it ought to be! Ah nevah seed yo' face befo' An' lakly won't again no mo'; But yo' sweet smile will follow me Cla'r into eternity! Farewell, Miss Melerlee!

CALLING THE DOCTOR

Ah'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.

"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! Gi' me some'n' to he'p me quick, Don't,--Ah'll die!

THE CORN SONG

Jes' beyan a clump o' pines,--
Lis'n to 'im now!--
Hyah de jolly black boy,
Singin', at his plow!
In de early mornin',
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,
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!"

BLACK MAMMIES

If Ah evah git to glory, an' Ah hope to mek it thoo, Ah expec' to hyah a story, an' Ah hope you'll hyah it, too,-- Hit'll kiver Maine to Texas, an' f'om Bosting to Miami,-- Ov de highes' shaf in glory, 'rected to de Negro Mammy.

You will see a lot o' Washington, an' Washington again; An' good ol' Fathah Lincoln, tow'rin' 'bove de rest o' men; But dar'll be a bunch o' women standin' hard up by de th'one, An' dey'll all be black an' homely,--'less de Virgin Mary's one.

Dey will be de talk of angels, dey will be de praise o' men, An' de whi' folks would go crazy 'thout their Mammy folks again: If it's r'ally true dat meekness makes you heir to all de eart', Den our blessed, good ol' Mammies must 'a' been of noble birt'.

If de greates' is de servant, den Ah got to say o' dem, Dey'll be standin' nex' to Jesus, sub to no one else but Him; If de crown goes to de fait'ful, an' de palm de victors wear, Dey'll be loaded down wid jewels more dan anybody dere.

She'd de hardes' road to trabel evah mortal had to pull; But she knelt down in huh cabin till huh cup o' joy was full; Dough' ol' Satan tried to shake huh f'om huh knees wid scowl an' frown, She jes' "clumb up Jacob's ladder," an' he nevah drug huh down.

She'd jes' croon above de babies, she'd jes' sing when t'ings went wrong, An' no matter what de trouble, she would meet it wid a song; She jes' prayed huh way to heaben, findin' comfort in de rod; She jes' "stole away to Jesus," she jes' sung huh way to God!

She "kep' lookin' ovah Jurdan," kep' "a-trustin' in de word," Kep' a-lookin' fo "de char'et," kep' "a-waitin' fo' de Lawd," If she evah had to quavah of de shadder of a doubt, It ain't nevah been discovahed, fo' she nevah sung it out;

But she trusted in de shadder, an' she trusted in de shine, An' she longed fo' one possession: "dat heaben to be mine"; An' she prayed huh chil'en freedom, but she won huhse'f de bes',-- Peace on eart' amids' huh sorrows, an' up yonder heabenly res'!

Leslie Pinckney Hill

TUSKEGEE

Wherefore 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? 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.

CHRISTMAS AT MELROSE

Come 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 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, Natalie pondering all that's said, And Mary with 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.

SUMMER MAGIC

So many cares to vex the day,
So many fears to haunt the night,
My heart was all but weaned away
From every lure of old delight.
Then summer came, announced by June,
With beauty, miracle and mirth.
She hung aloft the rounding moon,
She poured her sunshine on the earth,
She drove the sap and broke the bud,
She set the crimson rose afire.
She stirred again my sullen blood,
And waked in me a new desire.
Before my cottage door she spread
The softest carpet nature weaves,
And deftly arched above my head
A canopy of shady leaves.
Her nights were dreams of jeweled skies,
Her days were bowers rife with song,
And many a scheme did she devise
To heal the hurt and soothe the wrong.
For on the hill or in the dell,
Or where the brook went leaping by
Or where the fields would surge and swell
With golden wheat or bearded rye,
I felt her heart against my own,
I breathed the sweetness of her breath,
Till all the cark of time had flown,
And I was lord of life and death.

THE TEACHER

Lord, who am I to teach the way To little children day by day, So prone myself to go astray?

I teach them KNOWLEDGE, but I know How faint they flicker and how low The candles of my knowledge glow.

I teach them POWER to will and do, But only now to learn anew My own great weakness through and through.

I teach them LOVE for all mankind And all God's creatures, but I find My love comes lagging far behind.

Lord, if their guide I still must be, Oh let the little children see The teacher leaning hard on Thee.

Edward Smyth Jones

A SONG OF THANKS

For 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, 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 stallèd 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, 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 lift 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!

Ray G. Dandridge

TIME TO DIE

Black brother, think you life so sweet That you would live at any price? Does mere existence balance with The weight of your great sacrifice? Or can it be you fear the grave Enough to live and die a slave? O Brother! be it better said, When you are gone and tears are shed, That your death was the stepping stone Your children's children cross'd upon. Men have died that men might live: Look every foeman in the eye! If necessary, your life give For something, ere in vain you die.

'ITTLE TOUZLE HEAD

(_To R. V.P._)

Cum, listen w'ile yore Unkel sings Erbout how low sweet chariot swings, Truint Angel, wifout wings, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

Stop! Stop! How dare you laff et me, Bekaze I foul de time an' key, Thinks you dat I is Black Pattie, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head?

O, Honey Lam'! dem sparklin' eyes, Dat offen laffs an' selem cries, Is sho a God gib natchel prize, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

An' doze wee ban's so sof an' sweet, Mates wid dem toddlin', velvet feet, Jes to roun' you out, complete, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

Sma't! youse sma't ez sma't kin be, Knows yore evah A, B, C, Plum on down to X, Y, Z, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

De man doan know how much he miss, Ef he ain't got no niece lak dis; Fro yore Unkel one mo' kiss, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head!

I wist sum magic w'u'd ellow, (By charm or craf'--doan mattah how) You stay jes lak you is right now, Mah 'ittle Touzle Head.

ZALKA PEETRUZA

(_Who Was Christened Lucy Jane_)

She 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.

'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.

SPRIN' FEVAH

Dar's a lazy, sortah hazy Feelin' grips me, thoo an' thoo; An' I feels lak doin' less dan enythin'; Dough de saw is sharp an' greasy, Dough de task et han' is easy, An' de day am fair an' breezy, Dar's a thief dat steals embition in de win'.

Kaint defy it, kaint deny it, Kaze it jes won't be denied; Its a mos' pursistin' stubbern sortah thin'; Anti Tox' doan neutrolize it; Doctahs fail to analyze it; So I yiel's (dough I despise it) To dat res'less, wretchit fevah evah Sprin'.

DE DRUM MAJAH

He's struttin' sho ernuff, Wearin' a lady's muff En' ways erpon his head, Red coat ob reddest red, Purtty white satin ves', Gole braid ercross de ches'; Goo'ness! he cuts a stunt, Prancin' out dar in frunt, Leadin' his ban'.

Wen dat ah whistle blows, Each man behine him knows 'Zacklee whut he mus' do; You bet! he dues it, too. W'en dat brass stick he twirls, Ole maids an' lub-sick gurls Looks on wid longin' eyes, Dey simpley idolize Dat han'sum man.

Sweet fife an' piccalo, Bofe warblin' sof an' lo' Slide ho'n an' saxophones, Jazz syncopated tones, Snare drum an' lead cornet, Alto an' clarinet, Las', but not least, dar cum Cymbals an' big bass drum-- O! whut a ban'!

Cose, we all undahstan' Each piece he'ps maik de ban', But dey all mus' be led, Sum one mus' be de head: No doubt, de centipede Has all de laigs he need, But take erway de head, Po' centipede am dead; So am de ban'.

Fenton Johnson

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

We are children of the sun, Rising sun! Weaving Southern destiny, Waiting for the mighty hour When our Shiloh shall appear With the flaming sword of right, With the steel of brotherhood, And emboss in crimson die Liberty! Fraternity!

We are the star-dust folk, Striving folk! Sorrow songs have lulled to rest; Seething passions wrought through wrongs, Led us where the moon rays dip In the night of dull despair, Showed us where the star gleams shine, And the mystic symbols glow-- Liberty! Fraternity!

We have come through cloud and mist, Mighty men! Dusk has kissed our sleep-born eyes, Reared for us a mystic throne In the splendor of the skies, That shall always be for us, Children of the Nazarene, Children who shall ever sing Liberty! Fraternity!

THE NEW DAY

From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince
of Peace hovering over No Man's Land.
Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was
drowned by the happy shouting of the people.
From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant
from the throats of white-robed angels:

Blow your trumpets, little children!
From the East and from the West,
From the cities in the valley,
From God's dwelling on the mountain,
Blow your blast that Peace might know
She is Queen of God's great army.
With the crying blood of millions
We have written deep her name
In the Book of all the Ages;
With the lilies in the valley,
With the roses by the Mersey,
With the golden flower of Jersey
We have crowned her smooth young temples.
Where her footsteps cease to falter
Golden grain will greet the morning,
Where her chariot descends
Shall be broken down the altars
Of the gods of dark disturbance.
Nevermore shall men know suffering,
Nevermore shall women wailing
Shake to grief the God of Heaven.
From the East and from the West,
From the cities in the valley,
From God's dwelling on the mountain,
Little children, blow your trumpets!

From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I
heard the music of the old slave songs.
I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly
fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars.
I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the
crimson in my veins leapt furiously.

Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought
In No Man's Land that peace might come again!
Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave
Red blood to save the freedom of the world!
We were not free, our tawny hands were tied;
But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared
Each rise of sun or setting of the moon.
So when the bugle blast had called us forth
We went not like the surly brute of yore
But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world
The freedom that we never knew nor shared.
These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down
As Samson in the temple of the gods;
Unloosen them and let us breathe the air
That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ.
For we have been with thee in No Man's Land,
Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself;
And now we ask of thee our liberty,
Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.

I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land.

TIRED

I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else's civilization.

Let us take a rest, M'Lissy Jane.

I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike's barrels.

You will let the old shanty go to rot, the white people's clothes turn to dust, and the Calvary Baptist Church sink to the bottomless pit.

You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon.

Throw the children into the river; civilization has given us too many. It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored.

Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars marked my destiny.

I am tired of civilization.

THE BANJO PLAYER

There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.
I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing
my songs of the cabin and the field. At the
Last Chance Saloon I am as welcome as the violets
in March; there is always food and drink for me
there, and the dimes of those who love honest music.
Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap
their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.

But I fear that I am a failure. Last night a woman called me a troubadour. What is a troubadour?

THE SCARLET WOMAN

Once I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister's wife.

My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people's tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired.

I had nothing, so I had to go to work.

All the stock I had was a white girl's education and a face that enchanted the men of both races.

Starvation danced with me.

So when Big Lizzie, who kept a house for white men, came to me with tales of fortune that I could reap from the sale of my virtue I bowed my head to Vice.

Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around.

Gin is better than all the water in Lethe.

R. Nathaniel Dett

THE RUBINSTEIN STACCATO ETUDE

Staccato! Staccato! Leggier agitato! In and out does the melody twist-- Unique proposition Is this composition. (Alas! for the player who hasn't the wrist!) Now in the dominant Theme ringing prominent, Bass still repeating its one monotone, Double notes crying, Up keyboard go flying, The change to the minor comes in like a groan. Without a cessation A chaste modulation Hastens adown to subdominant key, Where melody mellow-like Singing so 'cello-like Rises and falls in a wild ecstasy. Scarce is this finished When chords all diminished Break loose in a patter that comes down like rain, A pedal-point wonder Rivaling thunder. Now all is mad agitation again. Like laughter jolly Begins the finale; Again does the 'cello its tones seem to lend Diminuendo ad molto crescendo. Ah! Rubinstein only could make such an end!

Georgia Douglas Johnson

THE HEART OF A WOMAN

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.

The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

YOUTH

The dew is on the grasses, dear,
The blush is on the rose,
And swift across our dial-youth,
A shifting shadow goes.

The primrose moments, lush with bliss,
Exhale and fade away,
Life may renew the Autumn time,
But nevermore the May!

LOST ILLUSIONS

Oh, for the veils of my far away youth, Shielding my heart from the blaze of the truth, Why did I stray from their shelter and grow Into the sadness that follows--to know!

Impotent atom with desolate gaze Threading the tumult of hazardous ways-- Oh, for the veils, for the veils of my youth Veils that hung low o'er the blaze of the truth!