Chapter 18

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. Cose 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.

DOUGLASS

Ah, Douglass, we have fall'n on evil days, Such days as thou, not even thou didst know, When thee, the eyes of that harsh long ago Saw, salient, at the cross of devious ways, And all the country heard thee with amaze. Not ended then, the passionate ebb and flow, The awful tide that battled to and fro; We ride amid a tempest of dispraise.

Now, when the waves of swift dissension swarm, And Honor, the strong pilot, lieth stark, Oh, for thy voice high-sounding o'er the storm, For thy strong arm to guide the shivering bark, The blast-defying power of thy form, To give us comfort through the lonely dark.

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' 't was 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 Wen 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.

BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

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

THE MONK'S WALK

In this sombre garden close What has come and passed, who knows? What red passion, what white pain Haunted this dim walk in vain?

Underneath the ivied wall, Where the silent shadows fall, Lies the pathway chill and damp Where the world-quit dreamers tramp.

Just across, where sunlight burns, Smiling at the mourning ferns, Stand the roses, side by side, Nodding in their useless pride.

Ferns and roses, who shall say What you witness day by day? Covert smile or dropping eye, As the monks go pacing by.

Has the novice come to-day Here beneath the wall to pray? Has the young monk, lately chidden, Sung his lyric, sweet, forbidden?

Tell me, roses, did you note That pale father's throbbing throat? Did you hear him murmur, "Love!" As he kissed a faded glove?

Mourning ferns, pray tell me why Shook you with that passing sigh? Is it that you chanced to spy Something in the Abbot's eye?

Here no dream, nor thought of sin, Where no worlding enters in; Here no longing, no desire, Heat nor flame of earthly fire.

Branches waving green above, Whisper naught of life nor love; Softened winds that seem a breath, Perfumed, bring no fear of death.

Is it living thus to live? Has life nothing more to give? Ah, no more of smile or sigh-- Life, the world, and love, good-bye.

Gray, and passionless, and dim, Echoing of the solemn hymn, Lies the walk, 'twixt fern and rose, Here within the garden close.

LOVE-SONG

If Death should claim me for her own to-day, And softly I should falter from your side, Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay, And would my image in your heart abide? Or should I be as some forgotten dream, That lives its little space, then fades entire? Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream, To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire?

I would not for the world, love, give you pain, Or ever compass what would cause you grief; And, oh, how well I know that tears are vain! But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief; So if some day before you I should go Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea, 'T would give my spirit stronger wings to know That you remembered still and wept for me.

SLOW THROUGH THE DARK

Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race; Their footsteps drag far, far below the height, And, unprevailing by their utmost might, Seem faltering downward from each hard won place. No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace A devious way thro' dim, uncertain light,-- Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight Of that our Captain's soul sees face to face. Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep, Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry? Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky? Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep; The clouds grow thickest when the summit's nigh.

THE MURDERED LOVER

Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it, Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother, Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.

Dark were her eyes as the sloe and they called me, Called me with voice independent of breath. God! how my heart beat; her beauty appalled me, Dazed me, and drew to the sea-brink of death.

Lithe was her form like a willow. She beckoned, What could I do save to follow and follow, Nothing of right or result could be reckoned; Life without her was unworthy and hollow.

Ay, but I wronged thee, my brother, my brother; Ah, but I loved her, thy beautiful wife. Shade of our father, and soul of our mother, Have I not paid for my love with my life?

Dark was the night when, revengeful, I met you, Deep in the heart of a desolate land. Warm was the life-blood which angrily wet you Sharp was the knife that I felt from your hand.

Wept you, oh, wept you, alone by the river, When my stark carcass you secretly sank. Ha, now I see that you tremble and shiver; 'T was but my spirit that passed when you shrank!

Weep not, oh, weep not, 't is over, 't is over; Stir the dark weeds with the turn of the tide; Go, thou hast sent me forth, ever a rover, Rest and the sweet realm of heaven denied.

Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother, Say a mass for my soul, I need it. Sin of mine was it, and sin of no other, Mine was it all, but I pray you not heed it.

PHILOSOPHY

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

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

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

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

A PREFERENCE

Mastah drink his ol' Made'a, Missy drink huh sherry wine, Ovahseah lak his whiskey, But dat othah drink is mine, Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Wen you git a steamin' hoe-cake On de table, go way, man! 'D ain but one t'ing to go wid it, 'Sides de gravy in de pan, Dat 's 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'en hit 's 'possum dat you eatin', 'Simmon beer is moughty sweet; But fu' evahday consumin' 'D ain't no mo'tal way to beat Des' 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

W'y de bees is allus busy, An' ain' got no time to was'? Hit's beca'se dey knows de honey Dey 's a makin', gwine to tas' Lak 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah.

Oh, hit 's moughty mil' an' soothin', An' hit don' go to yo' haid; Dat 's de reason I 's a-backin' Up de othah wo'ds I said, "Des 'lasses an' watah, 'lasses an' watah."

THE DEBT

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

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

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

ON THE DEDICATION OF DOROTHY HALL

TUSKEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1901.

Not to the midnight of the gloomy past, Do we revert to-day; we look upon The golden present and the future vast Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn.

Nor shall the sorrows of departed years The sweetness of our tranquil souls annoy, The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears, And clears our eyes to see this later joy.

Not ever in the years that God hath given Have we gone friendless down the thorny way, Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven By flashes from His own eternal day.

The women of a race should be its pride; We glory in the strength our mothers had, We glory that this strength was not denied To labor bravely, nobly, and be glad.

God give to these within this temple here, Clear vision of the dignity of toil, That virtue in them may its blossoms rear Unspotted, fragrant, from the lowly soil.

God bless the givers for their noble deed, Shine on them with the mercy of Thy face, Who come with open hearts to help and speed The striving women of a struggling race.

A ROADWAY

Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray: For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way.

BY RUGGED WAYS

By rugged ways and thro' the night We struggle blindly toward the light; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out.

"Deliver us, oh, Lord," we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder's peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. "Oh, give us now thy guiding light;" Our sole reply, the lightning's blight. "Vain, vain," cries one, "in vain we call;" But faith serene is over all.

Beside our way the streams are dried, And famine mates us side by side. 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.

LOVE'S SEASONS

When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine And the summer days are in their bloom, Then my love is deepest, oh, dearest heart of mine, When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine.

When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray, And the land is dim with winter gloom, Then for thee, my darling, love will have its way, When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray.

In the vernal dawning with the starting of the leaf, In the merry-chanting time of spring, Love steals all my senses, oh, the happy-hearted thief! In the vernal morning with the starting of the leaf.

Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear, When the days are sighing out their grief, Thou art still my darling, dearest of the dear, Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear.

TO A DEAD FRIEND

It is as if a silver chord Were suddenly grown mute, And life's song with its rhythm warred Against a silver lute.

It is as if a silence fell Where bides the garnered sheaf, And voices murmuring, "It is well," Are stifled by our grief.

It is as if the gloom of night Had hid a summer's day, And willows, sighing at their plight, Bent low beside the way.

For he was part of all the best That Nature loves and gives, And ever more on Memory's breast He lies and laughs and lives.

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, 't is 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 wind-swept 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 bekoned 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!

ROSES

Oh, wind of the spring-time, oh, free wind of May, When blossoms and bird-song are rife; Oh, joy for the season, and joy for the day, That gave me the roses of life, of life, That gave me the roses of life.

Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night, When flutters my heart like a dove; One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight, And gave me the roses of love, of love, And gave me the roses of love.

Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief, I hear thy compassionate breath; I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf, He gave me the roses of death, of death, He gave me the roses of death.

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?