Poetic Gems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Benjamin, Robert C. O.

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THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SPOT ON EARTH.

There's a nook far over the sea,
Where the lady I love was born,
It's the dearest spot on earth to me.
And as sweet as the first of May morn.
Methinks I can see it now,
The picture is fixed on my mind,
And although I searched all the wide world o'er
It's equal I never could find.

Had she never been born to grace
The most beautiful spot on earth.
Its beauty would have been naught to me
And its sweetness nothing worth.
I love it for her sweet sake,
But I love her a thousand times more,
I'd have blessed the spot where e'er she was born,
Had it been on a desolate shore.

And the day she was born is to me
The most blessed of all the year;
The world would ne'er any brightness contain
Unless that lady was near.
Her presence is with me now,
She's the fondest loved wife in the world,
Her love and her life, are endeared to me,
And her worth in my heart is unfurled.

Then, forever most blessed be the day,
And the spot where my love was born,
Ah, had it not been for that time and place,
My life would be sad and forlorn.
The sum of my joy has no end,
No tongue can my happiness tell,
No words can my thankfulness ever express,
Her presence casts round me a spell.

ANXIOUSLY WAITING.

Lonely and cheerless, the drear days are passing,
No home and no comfort, they bring to my mind;
Sadly and hopeless, the dark nights surround me,
No ray of comfort in this world I find.

Weary and sad, I await the dread summons,
Which sooner or later will bring me sweet rest,
After the toils of the dreary world's over
Then shall they lay me to sleep with the blest.

Careworn with sorrow, I'm anxiously waiting,
Endless relief, in the sleep of the grave,
Sorrow and anguish, all will be over,
When the green grass, on my last bed shall wave.

Anxious I wait, for the touch of the death King,
In his embrace. truest bliss I shall find,
He will afford me the peace, which I lack now,
Comfort and rest to my wearysome mind.

Weary and sad, I await the dread summons.
Sleep which is endless will bring me relief,
Hope in the future, beyond this I need none,
None other ask in this my belief.

MEN OF COLOR, DO YOUR DUTY.

POLITICAL.

Oh! ye men of color, wake to glory!
Too long have you been the serfs of wealth;
Too long have you been their willing slaves,
And the fruits of your toil they've got by stealth.

Oh, ye noblemen of nature, claim your own,
And no longer submit to tyrant's rule;
'Tis your labor and your strength that made the wealth;
Yet you starve in adversity's cold school.

Then awake to your rights, and don your armor,
And ne'er longer be trampled in the dust
By the rings and bosses who rob you
To gratify their taste and sensuous lust.

They misnamed this place a land of freedom,
Yet command you to submit to your cursed lot;
But the coward who bows down to class oppression
Is a dastard in your ranks, and should be shot.

Oh! ye men of color, do your duty;
The wretches who oppress you fear your might;
If you stand like men, and fight the battle,
Grand victory will crown your noble fight.

DEAREST.

I have loved thee fond and truly,
In years that have passed away,
And I love thee now as dearly
As upon our bridal day.

Yea, my heart is more thine own, dear,
For I know thy priceless worth;
Of all, thou art the dearest,
On this beautiful, bright earth.

In time of fiercest struggling,
When cheerless was my life,
Thy, loving smile has armed me
To conquer in the strife.

Thy voice of sweet encouragement
Has nerved my fainting soul.
And brought me sweet contentment,
And saved and made me whole.

So I love thee fond and truly, dear,
And shall ever love thee so,
Until the messenger of death
Has struck his fatal blow.

'TIS BUT A LITTLE DYING FLOWER.

'Tis but a little dying flower,
But ah, how beautious fair,
Its sweetness gains a hundred fold.
By twining in her hair.
Methinks its beauty in its death,
Increased from where it lay,
Ah, did I claim it for mine own,
My secret I'd betray.

'Tis but a fading, dying flower,
But with what bliss it dies,
Reclining on her lovely brow
Before its fragrance flies.
Methinks if I could die like thee,
Clasped in her fond embrace,
'Twould be more sweet than living on,
Could I not see her face.

'Tis but a little dying flower,
Ah, better thus to die,
Than live uncared for by her smile,
That's loving, pure and shy.
Methinks the loveliest flowers that grow
May envy thee thy bliss,
Expiring thus within her hair,
Whilst thou her tresses kiss.

MY LADY LOVE.

There are none so happy as my love and I,
None so joyous, blythe and free;
The reason is, that I love her,
And the reason is, she loves me.

There are none so sweet as my own fond love;
None so beautious or true;
Her equal I could never find,
Though I search the whole world thro'.

There's no love so true as my lady sweet;
None so constant to its troth;
There's naught on earth like her so dear,
No queen her equal in her worth.

So there's none so happy as my love and I;
None so blissful, blythe and free,
And the reason is that I am hers,
And she, in truth, belongs to me.

HADES.

Darkest clouds of blackest Hades,
Whirling onward into space;
Full of forms of ghostly horrors,
Madly join the phantom chase.

Earth below is lost in darkness,
Waves like mountains strike the sky,
Whilst the lurid lightning flashes,
And lost spirits shriek and cry.

Ne'er on earth was such dread darkness,
Ne'er such horrors, ghostly forms;
Ne'er such strokes of sulphurous lightning,
Ne'er such hellish terror storms.

And each vaporous home of thunder
Changed to aspect yet more dark;
And their crashing loud artillery
Followed close the 'lectric spark.

And each cloud with spirits damning,
Teemed till mountains filled their spheres,
And their hideous, ghostly laughter
Seemed devoid of hope and fears.

And their aspect seemed unnatural,
Devilish was their face and form;

Peals of shrieking, ghostly laughter
Quick increased, as did the storm.

Then that ghostly throng of spirits,
Each with death's marks on its brow,
Danced and kept tune to the thunders,
To the lightning's lurid glow.

Hark! the thunder crashes louder,
'Tis the ghostly spirits' band;
But above the deafening echoes
Are the curses of the damned.

Shuddering I, the scene beholding,
Felt my breast with horror swell;
For along the clouds in fire,
It was written—“This is Hell!”

CHANGED? NO, NEVER!

Changed? Nay, I'll ne'er confess that I have changed.
My heart still loves you, in its old fond way,
The only change that in my breast finds room,
Is that I love you better, day by day.

Changed? Nay, my very life is all thine own,
Bound unto thee, my love, while it shall last,
The sacred ties which blissful make us one,
Will never end until all my days are past.

Changed? Yes, all nature speaks in varying moods,
The earth, the seas, the ever changing time.
There is but one thing which is constant dear,
And that—my love—for it is ever thine.

Changed? Nay, it ne'er shall be, the love I feel,
Has found its resting place in thy dear breast;
Most priceless is the jewel it has found.
And I am most content, and truly blest.

THE COLORED PRESS.

Whilst perusing exchanges their dispositions I've traced,
I've paid some attention to their mode of embrace;
None to me opes his bosom, in language unplanned,
Like the “Globe,” with his good honest shake of the hand.

The “Advocate” has columns of fashion and jest,
And quite overpowers the “Gate City Press.”
They are “Family Guides,” but aught I demand,
How unlike the “Conservator's” rough shake of the hand.

The “Review” takes the unfortunate out of the mire,
Whilst the “Progress” is calling the “Citizen” higher,
The “Bee” is saying we need never fret,
For the “News” can be found in the Huntsville “Gazette.”

In the “Leader” good breeding is quite at its height,
Look at him if you wish to “Advance” in the right.
The “Era” and “Tribune” is of the same clan,
But “Echo” says give me the “Bulletin” man.

If the “Freeman” will “Herald” the “American's” traits,
Five hundred subscribers will boom the “Three States,”
Then every “Item” of interest the “Journal” will rout,
And make it quite warm for the “New South.”

The “Afro-American” is the latest on hand,
Like the “Times,” its “Guide” is a very young man,
They are both as “Industry” as the “Banner” is keen,
The “ British Lion” is truly a talking machine.

Even the “Enterprise” with his grave plodding face,
Would fail to imitate the “Monitor's” grace.
If we repent we will all reach the “Mansion” on high,
Or the “Christian Recorder” has told us a lie.

In trying to “Chronicle” I did not “Express,”
That the “Devil” once tried on the “Sentinel's” vest.
If I did, why the “Star” and the “Pilot,” you know,
Would conduct me to his majesty's regions below.

A Canadian paper, whose editor has been lecturing on “The Sun do Move.”

HOPELESS.

I am all alone in the world;
How sad and dreary my way;
No kindly smile, or loving word,
To wish me return of the day.

Whilst others sweet gifts receive,
To mark the love of a friend,
There's none who cares sufficient for me
A kind word ever to send.

The years may come and may go,
But none others note the day;
The date of my birth is naught to them,
For such is the worlds cold way.

So sitting alone by myself,
To suffer in silence I learn.
And it matters not very much to me,
Should my birthday never return.

A DREAM.

I dreamed that I loved a sweet maiden,
With hair of bright rippling gold;
And the story I told of my love to her
Is the same one that's ever been told.

I dreamed that her eyes, bright and gladsome,
Were dark as the raven's black wing;
And I thought that upon her third finger
I placed a plain gold wedding ring.

I dreamed that her lips, red as cherries,
Were dangerously close to my own;
And the kiss that I gave her whilst dreaming,
Awoke me, so loud was its tone.

But when I awoke I remembered
The cause of my fancy's sweet flight,
And the reason of happy dreaming,
Which made blissful the visions of night.

'Twas a picture which looked from the canvas,
Painted though perfect to life,
And so sweet was the face and the tresses,
I dreamed that I made her my wife.

LOVE IS VICTOR, LOVE IS KING.

Ambition, wealth, yea, life itself,
All stand for naught when love is crowned,
It reigns supreme in human hearts,
Its valient deeds are world renowned.

Its potent spell hath worked a charm
Which makes the world a paradise;
No efforts for its sake too vast,
No lost too great a sacrifice.

No princely peer, how highly born,
Or woman sweet and beautious fair,
E'er lived, but in their various lives
Have felt its passion, feared its cares.

Yea, for its sake most noble deeds
And acts of damning, bitter sin,
Alternate fill the page of life,
For love is victor, love is king.

As for myself, its chains are wreaths
Of sweet flowers, of beautious hue.
It binds my life and heart to one
Who's ever constant, ever true.

COLORED HEROES, HARK THE BUGLE.

POLITICAL.

Colored heroes seek your standard,
Know you not the foemen's near,
Know you not how they'll enslave you,
You and yours, who are so dear.
Gather then, combine for freedom,
Fight for that and bravely die,
Only cowards turn their faces.
Cowards they, who turn and fly.

Colored heroes, hark, your masters
Have combined and are as one,
They have sworn they will enslave you,
Will you now the battle shun?
Gather then, combine for freedom,
Wealth would claim you 'till you die,
Only cowards turn their faces,
Cowards they, who turn and fly.

Colored heroes, get your armor,
Each be worthy of the name,
Better far than be a coward,
You be numbered with the slain.
Gather then, combine for freedom,
They would crush you till you die,
Only cowards turn their faces,
Cowards they, who turn and fly.

Colored heroes, hark the bugle.
O'er the land sounds the alarm,
Bravely charge the foemen's trenches,
On each breast there is a charm.
Gather then, combine for freedom,
Predjudice will have to die,
'Tis but cowards turn their faces,
Cowards they, who turn and fly.

This poem was written for the Pittsburg, Pa., “Citizen,” and published during the political campaign of 1882; the author being an active member of the Independent Party at that time.

THE FARMER'S SOLILOQUY.

“Oh! for a thousand tongues to sing
My great Redeemer's praise;
The glories of my Lord and King,
The triumphs of His grace.”

Oh! for a thousand cedar posts
To fence my garden 'round,
To hinder the neighbors' pigs and goats
From rooting up my potato ground.

Oh! for a thousand hickory rails,
To make my fence secure;
A thousand patent locks and keys,
To lock my stable door.

Oh! for a thousand bricks and stones,
To build my chimney higher,
To keep the neighbors' boys and girls
From putting out my fire.

Oh! for a thousand old shot guns,
That I might be a match,
For all the tramps that I can find
In my watermelon patch.

Oh! for a thousand pumpkin seeds,
To plant for my son John;
He says that pumpkin pies are good
When the winter time comes on.

Oh! for a thousand cribs of corn,
Filled chuck up to the beam;
And a thousand pails that's good and strong,
To keep the milk and cream.

Oh! for a thousand turnip beds,
Placed all into a row;
Lord! please send a little rain,
To make the 'tatoes grow.

Oh! for a thousand tongues to ask
My maker, who's on high,
To keep my smoke-house filled with meal,
Fat bacon, rock and rye.

Now, Lord, I close my humble prayer,
Which (to some) may seem a vision;
Numbers ask for all I've named,
Whilst few ask for religion.

LOVE FOREVER.

Though we love, yet we must part, dear,
And 'tis perhaps best thus to be;
Whilst you keep with you my heart, dear,
Leave your own in charge of me.

Though my absence be forever,
And the seas between us roll,
Yet our love, ending never,
Is beyond the world's control.

And though ne'er again I see thee,
Nor can clasp thee to my breast,
Yet my soul is ever near thee,
And with thee will find its rest.

LET ME DIE AND DREAM OF THEE.

Sweetest lady, beautious, fair,
Thou alone my heart shall share,
Or if that can never be,
It shall be untrammeled free.

Sweetest lady, time may roll,
But it never can control
That true love, which is thine own,
Thine it is, and thine alone.

Sweetest lady, though we part,
You may take with you my heart,
For without thy presence nigh
It would, faint and weary, die.

Sweetest lady, ah, the bliss,
Could I but salute thy lips;
But since that can never be,
Let me die, and dream of thee.

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.

A pretty little maiden
Had a pretty little dream,
A pretty little wedding
Is this pretty little theme;
A pretty little bachelor thought he
Would win her favorite pride,
And ask her how she would like to
Be his pretty little bride.

With a pretty little blush
From her pretty little eye,
And a pretty little glance
And a pretty little sigh,
She hid her pretty little face
Behind her pretty little fan
And smiled at the proposal
Of the pretty little man.

A pretty little parson
With his pretty little clerk
Met the pretty little bachelor
And his pretty little spark;
The pretty little parson
United them for life,
So this pretty little bachelor
Had a pretty little wife.

HENRY HIGHLAND GARNETT, D. D.

Into the great unknown,
Bravely he departed,
Loved ones, left behind,
Drooping, broken-hearted,
But though he has passed away;
Turned again to nature's clay,
His bright deeds and noble worth
Are not blotted from the earth.

Into the darkness drear,
Unfaltering he advances;
Bitter tears, breaking hearts,
Cannot stay death's lances.
But the record he has made
Is not touched by death's sharp blade;
His example yet will live—
To fainting hearts true courage give.

In death's unending sleep,
Calmly, he reposes;
Loving hands gently strew
Sweetest flowers and roses.
But no flower upon his breast
Purer is, or more at rest;
They will wither, die and fade,
Whilst he endless fame has made.