University of Virginia Library

PREFACE.

The cordial reception given the first edition of this poem by the American people, prompts me to change my former address, by adding a word to the public.

Youth thinks extravagantly and often speaks more so, but sober experience comes on to correct us. I have found that I need not quarrel and that complaining is unmanly. Going among the people for myself, I have seen that the whites have cheerfully vied with my own race in putting me before the public. Kindness is a law unto herself, and in her dominions all subjects are willing. She opens her hand with benefits, and forgets not the humble in passing. This beautiful truth has been taught me by the many who have heard my singing. The wise, the good, and great have heard me, and said that they heard a poet. And saying so much of me, an obscure young man, it causes me to hope afresh, and feel that life is worth living.

I am in active sympathy with the progressive colored man. I have a mind to think that he has a calling among his fellow-men. It may be noticed here that I use the words, colored man, instead of the word Negro. I do this because my feelings decide in favor of colored man by a vote of eight to seven. I am in active sympathy with America's coming colored man. I have yielded to the firm belief that he has a future. I abhor the doctrine that he is but a cipher in the world's greatness

—a captive in the meshes of dominating influences. I abhor it because it is arrogantly asserted on the one hand while it is too often tacitly admitted on the other. Yet I confess that living instances of real merit only will correct the world's judgment and force its respect. To this end I have laid out my life. Modest enough to be patient, I am not too tame to assert that I have some hope of ultimately reaching the ears of my countrymen.

I am a colored man, and as such, I accept the situation, and enter the lists with poised lance. I disdain to whine over my “previous condition.” I despise the doctrine of the slave's allowance. Petition and complaint are the language of imbecility and cowardice— the evidences of that puerile fear which distinguishes the soul. The time has come when all “Uncle Toms” and “Topsies” ought to die. Goody goodness is a sort of man worship: ignorance is its inspiration, fear its ministering spirit, and beggary its inheritance. Genius, in a right good soul, is the highest impress of the Divine Image on clay. It alone can have the respect of God and man. Dumb endurance is the stamp of heroism and mortal greatness. To it, all earth is place, all time opportunity, heaven companionship and God a friend.

As for myself, I was “bred to the plow.” Amid the rugged hills, along the banks of Green River in Kentucky, I enjoyed the inestimable blessings of cabin life and hard work during the whole of my early days. I was in bondage,—I never was a slave,—the infamous laws of a savage despotism took my substance—what of that? Many a man has lost all he had, except his manhood. Adversity is the school of heroism, endurance the majesty of man and hope the torch of high

aspirations. Acquainted with adversity, I am flattered of hope and comforted by endurance.

As to the merits of this poem, I shall not venture a word. If merit there be, it will be found. If none, palliating words will not soften criticism. I simply present Atlassa, Ewald and Palmecho, with their associates, to the public, and “bow out.”

Of poetry in general, however, I will say: I am not of those “who think a poet and a bell-ringer to be equals.” I do not believe poetry is on the decline. I do not believe that human advancement extinguishes the torch of sentiment. I can not think that money-getting is the whole business of man. Rather am I convinced that the world is approaching a poetical revolution. The subtle evolution of thought must yet be expressed in song. “Poesy,” says one, “is the language of the imagination.” Campbell said, “it is the eloquence of truth.” As we understand it to-day, I think poetry is the language of universal sentiment. Torch of the unresting mind, she kindles in advance of all progress. Her waitings are on the threshold of the infinite, where, beckoning man to listen, she interprets the leaves of immortality. Her voice is the voice of Eternity dwelling in all great souls. Her aims are the inducements of heaven, and her triumphs the survival of the Beautiful, the True, and the Good. In her language there is no mistaking of that liberal thought which is the health of mind. A secret interpreter, she waits not for data, phenomena and manifestations, but anticipates and spells the wishes of Heaven.

Poesy is fair, and to her all things are fair: the rain prophesies, and seasons and soil give testimony that God is a friend of all His creatures, and man is His

delight. In great forests she sees temples reared and hears the sounds of praise. The dumb rocks are silent, but express all real prayer.

Poesy is free, and knows not of hire. Beauty is her inspiration,—her creed is Truth, and Goodness her Divinity. The first she praises, magnifies the second, and adores the third. And to end all, in her divine right a teacher, she brings benefits even to the lowly.

Of myself in this matter, I will add: I began to try sayings of poetry before I knew what writing was. Before I could write a letter, I was trying to scribble down what the birds and bees and cows were saying and what even the dumb rocks were thinking. Nature has ever had a speech for me, and in listening to her voice, lies my satisfaction. Finally: in essaying the “stately verse,” mastered by only Spenser, Byron, and a very few other great poets, I may seem to have “rushed in where angels fear to tread.” To this view of the matter, I will say by way of defense: some one of my race is sure to do everything that any one else has ever done, and as none of my race have ever executed a poem in the “stately verse,” I simply venture in.