Chapter 8

And men repent and then forget That heavenly wrath they ever met, The band of Gideon yet will come And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. Each black cloud Is a fiery steed. And they cry aloud With each strong deed, "The sword of the Lord and Gideon."

RAIN MUSIC

On 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.

Chords of earth awakened, Notes of greening spring, Rise and fall triumphant Over every thing.

Slender, silvery drumsticks Beat the long tattoo-- God, the Great Musician, Calling life anew.

SUPPLICATION

I am so tired and weary, So tired of the endless fight, So weary of waiting the dawn And finding endless night.

That I ask but rest and quiet-- Rest for days that are gone, And quiet for the little space That I must journey on.

Roscoe C. Jamison

THE NEGRO SOLDIERS

These truly are the Brave, These men who cast aside Old memories, to walk the blood-stained pave Of Sacrifice, joining the solemn tide That moves away, to suffer and to die For Freedom--when their own is yet denied! O Pride! O Prejudice! When they pass by, Hail them, the Brave, for you now crucified!

These truly are the Free, These souls that grandly rise Above base dreams of vengeance for their wrongs, Who march to war with visions in their eyes Of Peace through Brotherhood, lifting glad songs, Aforetime, while they front the firing line. Stand and behold! They take the field to-day, Shedding their blood like Him now held divine, That those who mock might find a better way!

Jessie Fauset

LA VIE C'EST LA VIE

On summer afternoons I sit Quiescent by you in the park, And idly watch the sunbeams gild And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk And chaffer in the grassy lane; And all the while I mark your voice Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give Her chance of heaven to take my place; To see the love-light in your eyes, The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word Can set my chilly blood afire; Fulfilment of his least behest Defines my life's desire.

But he will none of me, Nor I Of you. Nor you of her. 'Tis said The world is full of jests like these.-- I wish that I were dead.

CHRISTMAS EVE IN FRANCE

Oh little Christ, why do you sigh As you look down to-night On breathless France, on bleeding France, And all her dreadful plight? What bows your childish head so low? What turns your cheek so white?

Oh little Christ, why do you moan, What is it that you see In mourning France, in martyred France, And her great agony? Does she recall your own dark day, Your own Gethsemane?

Oh little Christ, why do you weep, Why flow your tears so sore For pleading France, for praying France, A suppliant at God's door? "God sweetened not my cup," you say, "Shall He for France do more?"

Oh little Christ, what can this mean, Why must this horror be For fainting France, for faithful France, And her sweet chivalry? "I bled to free all men," you say "France bleeds to keep men free."

Oh little, lovely Christ--you smile! What guerdon is in store For gallant France, for glorious France, And all her valiant corps? "Behold I live, and France, like me, Shall live for evermore."

DEAD FIRES

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing, Then better far the hateful fret, the sting. Better the wound forever seeking balm Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache, The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake, Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath Than passion's death!

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. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!'"--_Sojourner Truth_.

I 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!

OBLIVION

_From the French of Massillon Coicou (Haiti)_

I hope when I am dead that I shall lie In some deserted grave--I cannot tell you why, But I should like to sleep in some neglected spot Unknown to every one, by every one forgot.

There lying I should taste with my dead breath The utter lack of life, the fullest sense of death; And I should never hear the note of jealousy or hate, The tribute paid by passersby to tombs of state.

To me would never penetrate the prayers and tears That futilely bring torture to dead and dying ears; There I should lie annihilate and my dead heart would bless Oblivion--the shroud and envelope of happiness.

Anne Spencer

BEFORE THE FEAST OF SHUSHAN

Garden of Shushan! After Eden, all terrace, pool, and flower recollect thee: Ye weavers in saffron and haze and Tyrian purple, Tell yet what range in color wakes the eye; Sorcerer, release the dreams born here when Drowsy, shifting palm-shade enspells the brain; And sound! ye with harp and flute ne'er essay Before these star-noted birds escaped from paradise awhile to Stir all dark, and dear, and passionate desire, till mine Arms go out to be mocked by the softly kissing body of the wind-- Slave, send Vashti to her King!

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame The marbled towers of Shushan: So at each day's wane, two peers--the one in Heaven, the other on earth--welcome with their Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen.

Cushioned at the Queen's feet and upon her knee Finding glory for mine head,--still, nearly shamed Am I, the King, to bend and kiss with sharp Breath the olive-pink of sandaled toes between; Or lift me high to the magnet of a gaze, dusky, Like the pool when but the moon-ray strikes to its depth; Or closer press to crush a grape 'gainst lips redder Than the grape, a rose in the night of her hair; Then--Sharon's Rose in my arms.

And I am hard to force the petals wide; And you are fast to suffer and be sad. Is any prophet come to teach a new thing Now in a more apt time? Have him 'maze how you say love is sacrament; How says Vashti, love is both bread and wine; How to the altar may not come to break and drink, Hulky flesh nor fleshly spirit!

I, thy lord, like not manna for meat as a Judahn; I, thy master, drink, and red wine, plenty, and when I thirst. Eat meat, and full, when I hunger. I, thy King, teach you and leave you, when I list. No woman in all Persia sets out strange action To confuse Persia's lord-- Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment; I, thy King, so say!

AT THE CARNIVAL

Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, I desire a name for you, Nice, as a right glove fits; For you--who amid the malodorous Mechanics of this unlovely thing, Are darling of spirit and form. I know you--a glance, and what you are Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. My Limousine-Lady knows you, or Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. The bull-necked man knows you--this first time His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health And thinks not of his avocation. I came incuriously-- Set on no diversion save that my mind Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds In the presence of a blind crowd. The color of life was gray. Everywhere the setting seemed right For my mood. Here the sausage and garlic booth Sent unholy incense skyward; There a quivering female-thing Gestured assignations, and lied To call it dancing; There, too, were games of chance With chances for none; But oh! Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free The gaze you send the crowd, As though you know the dearth of beauty In its sordid life. We need you--my Limousine-Lady, The bull-necked man and I. Seeing you here brave and water-clean, Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, I am swift to feel that what makes The plodder glad is good; and Whatever is good is God. The wonder is that you are here; I have seen the queer in queer places, But never before a heaven-fed Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! Little Diver, Destiny for you, Like as for me, is shod in silence; Years may seep into your soul The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!

THE WIFE-WOMAN

Maker-of-Sevens in the scheme of things From earth to star; Thy cycle holds whatever is fate, and Over the border the bar. Though rank and fierce the mariner Sailing the seven seas, He prays, as he holds his glass to his eyes, Coaxing the Pleiades.

I cannot love them; and I feel your glad Chiding from the grave, That my all was only worth at all, what Joy to you it gave. These seven links the _Law_ compelled For the human chain-- I cannot love _them_; and _you_, oh, Seven-fold months in Flanders slain!

A jungle there, a cave here, bred six And a million years, Sure and strong, mate for mate, such Love as culture fears; I gave you clear the oil and wine; You saved me your hob and hearth-- See how _even_ life may be ere the Sickle comes and leaves a swath.

But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, Hoarding the heart's plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share-- So long but outlives a smile and A silken gown; Then gaily I reach up from my shroud, And you, glory-clad, reach down.

TRANSLATION

We trekked into a far country, My friend and I. Our deeper content was never spoken, But each knew all the other said. He told me how calm his soul was laid By the lack of anvil and strife. "The wooing kestrel," I said, "mutes his mating-note To please the harmony of this sweet silence." And when at the day's end We laid tired bodies 'gainst The loose warm sands, And the air fleeced its particles for a coverlet; When star after star came out To guard their lovers in oblivion-- My soul so leapt that my evening prayer Stole my morning song!

DUNBAR

Ah, how poets sing and die! Make one song and Heaven takes it; Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I-- Ah, how poets sing and die!

Alex Rogers

WHY ADAM SINNED

"I heeard da ole folks talkin' in our house da other night 'Bout Adam in da scripchuh long ago. Da lady folks all 'bused him, sed, he knowed it wus'n right An' 'cose da men folks dey all sed, "Dat's so." I felt sorry fuh Mistuh Adam, an' I felt like puttin' in, 'Cause I knows mo' dan dey do, all 'bout whut made Adam sin:

Adam nevuh had no Mammy, fuh to take him on her knee An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him Things he ought to see. I knows down in my heart--he'd-a let dat apple be But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my.

He nevuh knowed no chilehood roun' da ole log cabin do', He nevuh knowed no pickaninny life. He started in a great big grown up man, an' whut is mo', He nevuh had da right kind uf a wife. Jes s'pose he'd had a Mammy when dat temptin' did begin An' she'd a come an' tole him "Son, don' eat dat--dat's a sin."

But, Adam nevuh had no Mammy fuh to take him on her knee An' teach him right fum wrong an' show him Things he ought to see. I knows down in my heart he'd a let dat apple be, But Adam nevuh had no dear old Ma-am-my.

THE RAIN SONG

_Bro. Simmons_

"Walk right in Brother Wilson--how you feelin' today?"

_Bro. Wilson_

"Jes Mod'rate, Brother Simmons, but den I ginnerly feels dat way."

_Bro. Simmons_

"Here's White an' Black an' Brown an' Green; how's all you gent'men's been?",

_Bro. White_

"My health is good but my bus'ness slack."

_Bro. Black_

"I'se been suff'rin' lots wid pains in my back."

_Bro. Brown_

"My ole 'ooman's sick, but I'se alright--"

_Bro. Green_

"Yes, I went aftuh Doctuh fuh her 'tuther night--"

_Bro. Simmons_

"Here's Sandy Turner, as I live!"

_Bro. Turner_

"Yes, I didn' 'spect to git here--but here I is!"

_Bro. Simmons_

"Now, gent'mens, make yo'selves to home, Dare's nothin' to fear--my ole 'ooman's gone-- My stars; da weather's pow'ful warm-- I wouldn' be s'prised ef we had a storm."

_Bro. Brown_

"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say-- 'Tain't gwine to be no storm to-day Kase here am facts dat's mighty plain An' any time you sees 'em you kin look fuh rain: Any time you hears da cheers an' tables crack An' da folks wid rheumatics--dare jints is on da rack--"

_All_

"Lookout fuh rain, rain, rain.

"When da ducks quack loud an' da peacocks cry, An' da far off hills seems to be right nigh, Prepare fuh rain, rain, rain!

"When da ole cat on da hearth wid her velvet paws 'Gins to wipin' over her whiskered jaws, Sho' sign o' rain, rain, rain!

"When da frog's done changed his yaller vest, An' in his brown suit he is dressed, Mo' rain, an' still mo' rain!

"When you notice da air it Stan's stock still, An' da blackbird's voice it gits so awful shrill, Dat am da time fuh rain.

"When yo' dog quits bones an' begins to fas', An' when you see him eatin'; he's eatin' grass: Shoes', trues', cert'nes sign ob rain!"

_Refrain_

"No, Brother Simmons, we kin safely say, 'Tain't gwine tuh be no rain to-day, Kase da sut ain't fallin' an' da dogs ain't sleep, An' you ain't seen no spiders fum dare cobwebs creep; Las' night da sun went bright to bed, An' da moon ain't nevah once been seen to hang her head; If you'se watched all dis, den you kin safely say, Dat dare ain't a-gwine to be no rain to-day."

Waverley Turner Carmichael

KEEP ME, JESUS, KEEP ME

Keep me 'neath Thy mighty wing, Keep me, Jesus, keep me; Help me praise Thy Holy name, Keep me, Jesus, keep me. O my Lamb, come, my Lamb, O my good Lamb, Save me, Jesus, save me.

Hear me as I cry to Thee; Keep me, Jesus, keep me; May I that bright glory see; Keep me, Jesus, keep me. O my Lamb, my good Lamb, O my good Lamb, Keep me, Jesus, keep me.

WINTER IS COMING

De winter days are drawin' nigh An' by the fire I sets an' sigh; De nothe'n win' is blowin' cold, Like it done in days of old.

De yaller leafs are fallin' fas', Fur summer days is been an' pas'; The air is blowin' mighty cold, Like it done in days of old.

De frost is fallin' on de gras' An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"-- De air is blowin' mighty cold Like it done in days of old.

Alice Dunbar-Nelson

SONNET

I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.

Charles Bertram Johnson

A LITTLE CABIN

Des a little cabin Big ernuff fur two. Des awaitin', honey, Cozy fixt fur you; Down dah by de road, Not ve'y far from town, Waitin' fur de missis, When she's ready to come down.

Des a little cabin, An' er acre o' groun', Vines agrowin' on it, Fruit trees all aroun', Hollyhawks a-bloomin' In de gyahden plot-- Honey, would you like to Own dat little spot?

Make dat little cabin Cheery, clean an' bright, With an' angel in it Like a ray of light? Make dat little palace Somethin' fine an' gran', Make it like an Eden, Fur a lonely man?

Des you listen, Honey, While I 'splain it all, How some lady's go'nter Boss dat little hall; Des you take my ban' Dat's de way it's writ, Des you take my heart, Dat's de deed to it.

NEGRO POETS

Full many lift and sing Their sweet imagining; Not yet the Lyric Seer, The one bard of the throng, With highest gift of song, Breaks on our sentient ear.

Not yet the gifted child, With notes enraptured, wild, That storm and throng the heart, To make his rage our own, Our hearts his lyric throne; Hard won by cosmic art.

I hear the sad refrain, Of slavery's sorrow-strain; The broken half-lispt speech Of freedom's twilit hour; The greater growing reach Of larger latent power.

Here and there a growing note Swells from a conscious throat; Thrilled with a message fraught The pregnant hour is near; We wait our Lyric Seer, By whom our wills are caught.

Who makes our cause and wrong The motif of his song; Who sings our racial good, Bestows us honor's place, The cosmic brotherhood Of genius--not of race.

Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, Of fame's immortal few Would still be deathless born; Frail Dunbar, black or white, In Fame's eternal light, Would shine a Star of Morn.

An unhorizoned range, Our hour of doubt and change, Gives song a nightless day, Whose pen with pregnant mirth Will give our longings birth, And point our souls the way?

Otto Leland Bohanan

THE DAWN'S AWAKE!

The Dawn's awake! A flash of smoldering flame and fire Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, The torch of gold is borne.

The Dawn's awake! The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. And music singing in the hills A paean of eternal spring Voices the new awakening.

The Dawn's awake! Whispers of pent-up harmonies, With the mingled fragrance of the trees; Faint snatches of half-forgotten song-- Fathers! torn and numb,-- The boon of light we craved, awaited long, Has come, has come!

THE WASHER-WOMAN

A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, And all day long the rub and scrub With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? In silence she rubbed... But her face I had seen, Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean.

Theodore Henry Shackelford

THE BIG BELL IN ZION

Come, children, hear the joyful sound, Ding, Dong, Ding. Go spread the glad news all around, Ding, Dong, Ding.

_Chorus_ Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong, Ding.

I've been abused and tossed about, Ding, Dong, Ding. But glory to the Lamb, I shout! Ding, Dong, Ding.

My bruthah jus' sent word to me, Ding, Dong, Ding. That he'd done set his own self free. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ole massa said he could not go, Ding, Dong, Ding. But he's done reached Ohio sho'. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, Ding, Dong, Ding. Den I'll run away myself nex' week. Ding, Dong, Ding.

_Chorus_

Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong Ding.

Lucian B. Watkins

STAR OF ETHIOPIA

Out in the Night thou art the sun Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, The faith-high height whereon they see The glory of their Day To Be-- The peace at last when all is done.

The night is dark but, one by one, Thy signals, ever and anon, Smile beacon answers to their plea, Out in the Night.

Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; Give them a hope to rest upon, A dream to dream eternally, The strength of men who would be free And win the battle race begun, Out in the Night!

TWO POINTS OF VIEW

From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, There on yon mountain-throne--that sun-gold crest!

From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: How bright and still and warm and soft and green Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest!

TO OUR FRIENDS

We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams Untouched by bondage and its rod, Burn on! and on! and on! It seems We shall have FRIENDS--while God is God!

Benjamin Brawley

MY HERO

(_To Robert Gould Shaw_)

Flushed with the hope of high desire, He buckled on his sword, To dare the rampart ranged with fire, Or where the thunder roared; Into the smoke and flame he went, For God's great cause to die-- A youth of heaven's element, The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow, Of which the sages tell; On such devotion long ago The benediction fell; And never nobler martyr burned, Or braver hero died, Than he who worldly honor spurned To serve the Crucified.

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere May pass beyond the pale, And wander over moor and mere To find the Holy Grail;

But ever yet the prize forsooth My hero holds in fee; And he is Blameless Knight in truth, And Galahad to me.

CHAUCER

Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; Ten 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 wile away The tedious hours with stories of old things; Or might some shining eagle claim These lowly numbers for the House of Fame!

Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.

TO A SKULL

Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, Why your smirk and empty smile As the hours away you wile? Has the earth become such bore That it pleases nevermore? Whence your joy through sun and rain? Is 't because of loss of pain? Have you learned what men learn not That earth's substance turns to rot? After learning now you scan Vain endeavors man by man? Do you mind that you as they Once was held by mystic sway; Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, Lolled and with the minutes played? Sighed for honors; battles planned; Sipped of cups that wisdom banned But would please the weak frail flesh; Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? Now that you are but a skull Glimpse you life as life is, full Of beauties that we miss Till time withers with his kiss? Do you laugh in cynic vein Since you cannot try again? And you know that we, like you, Will too late our failings rue? Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull What deep broodings, o'er you mull? Tell me why you smirk and smile Ere I pass life's sunset stile.

APPENDIX

PLÁCIDO'S SONNET TO HIS MOTHER

DESPIDA A MI MADRE

_(En La Capilla)_

Si la suerte fatal que me ha cabido, Y el triste fin de mi sangrienta historia, Al salir de esta vida transitoria Deja tu corazon de muerte herido; Baste de Ilanto: el ánimo afligido Recobre su quietud; moro en la gloria, Y mi plácida lira á tu memoria Lanza en la tumba su postrer sonido.

Sonido dulce, melodioso y santo, Glorioso, espiritual, puro y divino, Inocente, espontáneo como el llanto Que vertiera al nacer: ya el cuello inclino! Ya de la religion me cubre el manto! Adios, mi madre! adios--El Peligrino.

FAREWELL TO MY MOTHER

_(In the Chapel)_

The appointed lot has come upon me, mother, The mournful ending of my years of strife, This changing world I leave, and to another In blood and terror goes my spirit's life. But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping And let thy soul her wonted peace regain; I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping Across my lyre to wake its dying strains. A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing All glorious and holy, pure, divine, And innocent, unconscious as the wailing I uttered on my birth; and I resign Even now, my life, even now descending slowly, Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy. Mother, farewell! God keep thee--and forever!

_Translated by William Cullen Bryant._

PLÁCIDO'S FAREWELL TO HIS MOTHER

(_Written in the Chapel of the Hospital de Santa Cristina on the Night Before His Execution_)