Part 2
ARNA BONTEMPS The Return 163 A Black Man Talks of Reaping 165 To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country 165 Nocturne at Bethesda 166 Length of Moon 168 Lancelot 169 Gethsemane 169 A Tree Design 170 Blight 170 The Day-breakers 171 Close Your Eyes! 171 God Give to Men 172 Homing 172 Golgotha Is a Mountain 173
ALBERT RICE The Black Madonna 177
COUNTEE CULLEN Lines to Our Elders 179 I Have a Rendezvous with Life 180 Protest 181 Yet Do I Marvel 182 To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning 182 From the Dark Tower 183 To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime 184 Four Epitaphs 186 Incident 187
DONALD JEFFREY HAYES Inscription 188 Auf Wiedersehen 189 Night 189 Confession 190 Nocturne 190 After All 191
JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS The Resurrection 193 The Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year 195 Paean 195
GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD Nativity 197 Rainy Season Love Song 198 The Serving Girl 200 Baby Cobina 200
LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS Northboun’ 201
GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN To Melody 204 Portrait 204
RICHARD BRUCE Shadow 206 Cavalier 207
WARING CUNEY The Death Bed 208 A Triviality 209 I Think I See Him There 210 Dust 210 No Images 212 The Radical 212 True Love 213
EDWARD S. SILVERA South Street 214 Jungle Taste 214
HELENE JOHNSON What Do I Care for Morning 216 Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem 217 Summer Matures 217 Poem 218 Fulfillment 219 The Road 221 Bottled 221 Magalu 223
WESLEY CURTWRIGHT The Close of Day 225
LULA LOWE WEEDEN Me Alone 227 Have You Seen It 228 Robin Red Breast 228 The Stream 228 The Little Dandelion 229 Dance 229
INDEX 230
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Paul Laurence Dunbar. Born, Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Educated in public schools, and graduated from Dayton High School, where he achieved some distinction. Editor of school paper, and noted as a versifier, from his grammar-school days. Printed his first book, _Oak and Ivy_, in 1893.
Two friends of his early manhood helped most to shape his career, and to encourage him in his days of struggle--Dr. H. A. Tobey, the celebrated alienist of Toledo, Ohio, and Frederick Douglass. The former helped him to bring his second book, _Majors and Minors_, before the public; the latter, with whom he was associated in the Negro Building at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893, was the hero of the poet’s dreams, the one to whom he dedicated two of his most serious poems.
Although Dunbar is remembered largely for his dialect verse, it was never his intention to concentrate on dialect. His poems in pure English constitute the greater bulk of his verse, and that to which he was most passionately devoted. The tragedy of his life was that the world “turned to praise the jingle in a broken tongue.” His friendship for Booker Washington and a visit to Tuskegee inspired him to write the Tuskegee School Song, which is sung to the tune of “Fair Harvard.”
The famous criticism of _Majors and Minors_ by William Dean Howells in _Harper’s Weekly_, June 27, 1897 established Dunbar’s prestige as an important figure in American literature. From that time his success was assured.
He was married to Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans, a teacher in Brooklyn, N. Y., in March, 1898.
He was as indefatigable a writer of prose as of poetry; short stories, novels, criticism, essays and some short plays poured from his pen. His published works, exclusive of the two volumes of verse mentioned above, are: _Lyrics of Lowly Life_, _Lyrics of the Hearthside_, _Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_; several smaller volumes, illustrated editions of poems in the preceding volumes; short stories, _Folks from Dixie_, _The Strength of Gideon_; novels, _The Uncalled_, _The Fanatics_, _The Love of Landry_, _The Sport of the Gods_.
He died in Dayton, Ohio, February 9, 1906.
_Alice Dunbar Nelson._
ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES[1]
Ere 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 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.
DEATH SONG[2]
Lay 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’ If I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed.
LIFE[3]
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!
AFTER THE QUARREL[4]
So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, To-night must lay our friendship by; Your wrath has burned your judgment up, Hot breath has blown the ashes high. You say that you are wronged--ah, well, I count that friendship poor, at best A bauble, a mere bagatelle, That cannot stand so slight a test.
I fain would still have been your friend, And talked and laughed and loved with you; But since it must, why, let it end; The false but dies, ’tis not the true. So we are favored, you and I, Who only want the living truth. It was not good to nurse the lie; ’Tis well it died in harmless youth.
I go from you to-night to sleep. Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve? I have no fund of tears to weep For happenings that undeceive. The days shall come, the days shall go Just as they came and went before. The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow Though you and I are friends no more.
And in the volume of my years, Where all my thoughts and acts shall be, The page whereon your name appears Shall be forever sealed to me. Not that I hate you over-much, ’Tis less of hate than love defied; Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch, We’ll go our ways, the world is wide.
SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT[5]
Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.
O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?
WE WEAR THE MASK[6]
We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-- This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise, We wear the mask!
SYMPATHY[7]
I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- I know why the caged bird sings!
THE DEBT[8]
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!
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[2] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[3] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[4] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[5] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[6] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[7] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
[8] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.
“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, on a farm owned by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, a tanner. In 1829 he bought himself and a part of his master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, Lucinda, my mother’s mother.
Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned by her English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior to my birth she lived in Bardstown and was a servant at “My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to Bardstown soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my fourth week, and here I have lived ever since.
I attended a private school and could read before my fourth year. Conditions were such that my attendance at school was very irregular. I quit school in my eighth year, having completed the third grade, and did not return until my twenty-second year.
During this time I picked up rags in the streets and worked in tobacco factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth year found me a distiller in one of the largest distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me a teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my mind to enter the prize ring. Another turn of fortune put me into a Louisville public night school. Here I began in the third grade where I left off in my eighth year.
At the end of two school sessions of five months each I was promoted to the high school. I keep this diploma under lock and key, for it is the only one I have ever received.
The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to night school and then to school teaching, and who discovered my knack for writing verses, was Dr. W. T. Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest benefactor.
My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my mother. She was poet, story-teller, dramatist and musician. My published works are: _A Rhyming_, _Links of Friendship_, _Caleb, the Degenerate_, a poetic drama, _A White Song And A Black One_ and _Negro Tales_. My unpublished works are: _Life’s Dawn And Dusk_, poems, _Caesar Driftwood and Other One Act Plays_ and _My Mother And Her Family_.”
THE TRAGEDY OF PETE
There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he was a buck From his head to his feet.
He loved a dollar, But hated a dime; And so was poor Nine-tenths of the time.
The Judge said “Pete, What of your wife?” And Pete replied “She lost her life.”
“Pete,” said the Judge, “Was it lost in a row? Tell me quick, And tell me how.”
Pete straightened up With a hic and a sigh, Then looked the Judge Full in the eye.
“O, Judge, my wife Would never go To a Sunday dance Or a movie show.
“But I went, Judge, Both day and night, And came home broke And also tight.
“The moon was up, My purse was down, And I was the bully Of the bootleg town.
“I was crooning a lilt To corn and rye For the loop in my legs And the fight in my eye.
“I met my wife; She was wearing a frown, And catechising Her Sunday gown.
‘O Pete, O Pete’ She cried aloud, ‘The Devil is falling Right out of a cloud.’
“I looked straight up And fell flat down And a Ford machine Pinned my head to the ground.
“The Ford moved on, And my wife was in it; And I was sober, That very minute.
“For my head was bleeding, My heart was a-flutter; And the moonshine within me Was tipping the gutter.
“The Ford, it faster And faster sped Till it dipped and swerved And my wife was dead.
“Two bruised men lay In a hospital ward-- One seeking vengeance, The other the Lord.
“He said to me: ‘Your wife was drunk, You are crazy, And my Ford is junk.’
“I raised my knife And drove it in At the top of his head And the point of his chin.
“O Judge, O Judge, If the State has a chair, Please bind me in it And roast me there.”
There was a man Whose name was Pete, And he welcomed death From his head to his feet.
THE WAY-SIDE WELL
A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on. It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread? It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being. I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it. Ah, it is dry. Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til you question their depths. Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.
JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
James Weldon Johnson was born in Jacksonville, Fla. He graduated from Atlanta University with the degree of A. B., and he received the degree of A. M. from the same University in 1904. He spent three years in graduate work at Columbia University in the City of New York. The honorary degree of Litt.D. was conferred upon him by Talladega College, Talladega, Ala., in 1917, and by Howard University in 1923.
For several years Mr. Johnson was principal of the colored high school at Jacksonville. He was admitted to the Florida bar in 1897, and practiced law in Jacksonville, until 1901, when he moved to New York to collaborate with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the light opera stage.
In 1906, he was appointed United States Consul at Puerto Cabello, Venezuela, being transferred as Consul to Corinto, Nicaragua, in 1909. 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 revolution against Diaz.
His knowledge of Spanish has been put to use in the translation of a number of Spanish plays. He was the translator for the English libretto of _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera produced by the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915.
Mr. Johnson was for ten years the Contributing Editor of the New York _Age_. He added to his distinction as a newspaper writer by winning in an editorial contest one of three prizes offered by the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ in 1916. His poems have appeared in the _Century_, the _Independent_, the _Crisis_ and other publications.
In the spring of 1920, Mr. Johnson was sent by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People to the black republic of Haiti, where he made an investigation of U. S. misrule. The charges which Mr. Johnson published in _The Nation_, of New York, upon his return were taken up by Senator Harding, and as a consequence a Naval Board of Inquiry was sent to Haiti and a Congressional Investigation promised. The articles published in _The Nation_ have since been republished in a pamphlet entitled, “Self-Determining Haiti.”
Mr. Johnson is Secretary of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, a member of the Board of Directors of the American Fund for Public Service (The Garland Fund), and a trustee of Atlanta University.
Mr. Johnson’s works include:
_The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man_ _Fifty Years and Other Poems_ _English Libretto of “Goyescas”_ _The Book of American Negro Poetry_ _The Book of American Negro Spirituals_ _Second Book of Negro Spirituals_ _God’s Trombones (Seven Negro Sermons in Verse)_
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND
Three students once tarried over the Rhine, And into Frau Wirthin’s turned to dine.
“Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine? And where is that pretty daughter of thine?”
“My beer and wine is fresh and clear. My daughter lies on her funeral bier.”
They softly tipped into the room; She lay there in the silent gloom.
The first the white cloth gently raised, And tearfully upon her gazed.
“If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!”
The second covered her face again. And turned away with grief and pain.
“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier! And I have loved thee so many a year.”
The third drew back again the veil, And kissed the lips so cold and pale.
“I’ve loved thee always, I love thee to-day, And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!”
THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE
The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes. And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part. And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart.
And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.
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!_”