Coffin's Poems with Ajax' Ordeals

Coffin, F. B.

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II.

III.

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Preface.

Brief is our life here, precious is the time, and great the work to do, and a few thoughts in print has the possibility of a longer life than a man. “The night cometh when no man can work.”

How sweet, if it might be, that when the day is ended, we may have left some watch words still ringing in the ears of those who come after us. And I may be permitted to hope that these meditations may have such power, in their modest way. They will be easily passed by but may have a message for hearts that will look and listen.

There is, certainly in this age, a want of writing that shall rest and brace the mind. It is well to extend natural and spontaneous thoughts, especially that which the heart has laid by in store. We must be militant here on earth, militant against every form of error.

If, during the period of American Slavery, any Anglo-Saxon raised his voice or moved his pen in the interest of the stolen and oppressed African, that man was marked, reviled and ostracised as if he was affected with the leprosy. No historian could write a true record

of the sons of Ham in the hope of finding a market for his book. The press, the pulpit, the writer and publisher were all against the Negro and suppressed the fact of his ancient greatness. In those days the white man wrote for the white man, and now the black man must write for the black man, and give them proper and merited rank among the historic people of earth. It requires quite an amount of courage for a colored man to write, standing with his heels rubbing against the hardships and degradations of slavery while his toes are leading off into ostracism, prejudice, mob violence and the blood-chilling horrors of southern lynching. But we must build up breastworks for the coming generations. To do that we must swell the list of Coopers, Harpers, Wells-Barretts, Simmons, Majors and other Negro authors.

A few poems now offered differ from other works of natural sentiment, in asmuch as it is not a compilation but a collection original. These may be but little worthy of appreciation, yet have that value which the simple philosophy recognizes: “A poor thing, sir, but mine own.”

F. B. Coffin.

Preamble.

PAST

“Were Africa and the Africans to sink tomorrow, how much poorer would the world be? A little less gold, ivory, and coffee, a considerable ripple, perhaps, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans would come together—that is all; not a poem, not an invention, not a piece of art would be missed from the world.”

Henry Ward Beecher.

PRESENT.

“What have you produced, what consumed? What is your real value in the world's economy? What do you give to the world over and above what you have cost? What are you worth? In the final reckoning do you belong on the debit or the credit side of the account? Show up your cash account and balance sheet, and what's the result?

It is by this standard that society estimates individuals; and by this standard finally and inevitably the world will measure and judge nations and races.”

Anna Julia Cooper.

FUTURE.

In this age ideal frivolity supersedes stern reality. In most of our large cities in the South—outside of the college societies—there are no permanent, genuine literary organizations among our so called intelligent people for elevation.

They meet socially with no definite purpose to social elevation. They meet religiously with their souls on fashion and God as secondary. They never meet intellectually. These talents grow up in thorns and thistles. Nothing to inspire our youths to merit. Position, irrespective to character or ability, reigns supreme. Thousands of youths grow up under this poisonous atmosphere in the large cities. But it is encouraging to see that, from the smaller towns, the college walls (our safeguards) are filled with youths preparing themselves to meet the demands of future times.

What is the worth of fashion, style, and social ethics if it does not add to the world better, nobler, truer, sounder, more reliable men from its factory? Time will not attempt to test their logic but will, eventually, weigh the results.

Author.

At My Mother's Grave.

I never see the burial place,
Where my dear mother lies;
But that I think I see her face,
Peak at me through the skies.

I stand around her sacred mound,
And think she knows I'm there;
I kneel upon the sacred ground
And lisp her evening prayer.

Her fav'rite hymn I then repeat,
With accents all her own;
We seem to meet at Jesus' feet,
And linger near His throne.

She sleeps within her narrow cot,
Safe “tucked in” from the night;
Resigned, I leave the solemn spot,
“God doeth all things right.”

Memory of Mother.

The last time mother walked with me,
October skies were blue;
The grape-vine on the cherry tree,
Had found its autumn hue.

Her low combed hair was just the shade
Of ripened hazel burs;
The cheeks of yellow astrackans,
Were not more ripe than hers.

It seemed the mushrooms showed their caps,
To win her eyes of black;
And for one look into their depths,
The orchard boughs bent back.

A stalwart of the days gone by,
That soon the days should chill;
Dear ma, somewhere those eyes must wear
A gleam of summer still.

Our Country.

This star spangled banner country,
Is styled as the “Land of Free;”
And yet our race here suffers wrong,
Mixed with great humility.

We try to live by both the laws,
Of righteous God and man;
And on all public questions,
For right we try to stand.

And yet to suit the appetites,
Of other wicked men;
Our race is lynched, our race is mobbed,
O! what a wretched sin.

Can men of church and men of state,
Who detest human strife,
Carry a Christian conscience clear,
And still take human life?

That awful day is sure to come,
“The appointed hour make haste,”
When they must stand before their God,
And pass that solemn test.

We know not if the dark or bright,
Is going to be our lot;
If that wherein our hopes delight,
Be best, indeed, or not.

It may be ours in future years,
To live with all in peace;
If those who now despise our race,
Let hostile outrage cease.

What an hour it must have been
For a woman's tender heart,
When the pityless, rough lynchers,
Tore she'nd her husband apart.

And while the mother clasped her hands
And the children wept and prayed;
The whole family made struggles,
And shrieked to heaven for aid.

The atrocities of Russia
Against the thriving Jew,
And the horrors of Liberia,
Would disappear from view.

Mob violence against China,
And all the heathen lands;
Is far surpassed by lynch law,
In this, our Southern land.

If we ask ourselves the question
“Why do they lynch the Negro?”
Our hearts respond full sadly,
“They, nor we, do not know.”

We've asked the wise in every age,
And searched the universe around;
But neither scientist nor sage,
An answer to the quest has found.

Is it God's will, what seer can tell?
(Thus do our anxious thoughts revolve)
Or is there not some oracle,
That can or will the problem solve?

Are we but phantoms, with no cause,
But chance from cradle to the grave;
Or those inexorable laws
Of which agnostics boast and rave?

Or are we orphans with no home,
With none whom we can father call;
As outcasts here a while to roam,
And then pass off with “death ends all?”

No! let us not discouraged be
But hope and every pray
That wrong and inhumanity,
May cease to be some day.

While the storms of life are raging
Lynching wild in our land,
Can we find a better refuge
Than the shadow of God's hand?

But what shall cleanse our country
From all this painful guilt,
The blood of freemen shed by freemen,
Upon her bosom spilt?

When the pilgrim fathers came
From far across the sea;
Their purposes were nobler than
The lynching of the free.

When Washington at Valley Forge
Endured the winter's pain,
And when he crossed the Deleware
'Twas all for freedom's name.

He knew not that a cent'ry hence,
The flag for which he fought;
Would be disgraced by lynching men,
By taking life for naught.

When Lincoln gave that mighty stroke,
When Sherman reached the sea,
When Grant took Appomatax,
Their cry was liberty.

When John Brown laid his body down
And his soul went marching on,
He knew not that his cause would be
Disgraced by this great wrong.

Could these great men speak back today
From their resting domain;
They'd whisper all in one accord,
“Our blood was spilt in vain.”

Dear native land, a newer page
Must turn as time moves by;
Shall that page be brighter,
Or shall thy greatness die?

Thou hast a noble government,
And 'tis with trembling heart,
That we see what thou appearest
And look on what thou art.

We've wept till we could not weep,
And the pain of our burning eyes
Has gone into our aching hearts,
And now the nation cries.

Earth uplifts a general cry,
For all this guilt and wrong;
And heaven's ears are listening
To the suff'rers' wailing song.

Who'll interpret this mystery?
Even the common dust
Under the feet of the guilty
Cries out “this crime's unjust.”

But we shall see the day,
When right shall surely reign;
When at the bar of conscience,
The guilty shall be slain.

It may be when Ida Wells' lessons have been learned
The lynchers sun forever more has set,
The things which our weak judgment here have spurned,
The things o'er which we've grieved with lashes wet,
Will flash before them out of life's dark night
As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue.
And they shall see how all her plans were right
And how what seemed reproof was love most true;
And when those nations far across the sea
Begin to point o'er here the finger of shame,
And show our state the depth of all these crimes,
I think she will take steps to stop the same.

You know that prudent parents disallow
Too much of sweet to craving babyhood;
So God, perhaps, is holding from us now
Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good,
And they shall shortly know that lengthened breath
Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friends,

And that sometimes the sable pall of death
Conceals the fairest boon His love can send.
And if through all this strife we live to stand
Where our minds from lynching news may rest,
Then we shall clearly know and understand;
I think that all will say “God knew the best.”

Only.

Only Afric's jungles
Satisfied his mind,
While the happy Negro
On his couch reclined.

Only a human trading ship
Coasting along the shore,
The Negro knew not whither
Still he had to go.

Only a “Star Spangled banner,”
The Negro saw it wave,
But he saw not “land of free”
Neither “home of brave.”

Only slavery's hardships
The Negro bore for years,
On through the wilderness
With headaches and tears.

Only John Brown's body
Is moulding in the clay,
Yet his soul is marching,
Showing us the way.

Only Bull Run's battle,
Up sprang General Grant,
Four long years of bloodshed,
Freedom was the chant.

Only Abraham Lincoln
Gave the mighty stroke,
And four million Negroes
Lost the slavish yoke.

Only an education,
That is what he wants,
And to be a citizen
But they say he can't.

Only abiding by the law
Of our God and man,
And on all public questions
For the right, he tries to stand.

Only to suit the appetites
Of other wicked men,
Our race is mobb'd and lynch'd
Isn't that a sin?

Only proud America
Detests human strife,
Still has not courage to
Protect human life.

Only that coming day,
'Pointed hour make haste,
She must stand 'fore her God,
Past that solemn test.

Mother's Songs.

The summer's sun was beaming hot,
The boys had played all day;
And now beside a rippling stream,
Upon the grass they lay.

Tired of games and idle jest,
As swept the hours along,
They called on one who mused at times,
“Come pard, give us a song.”

“I fear I cannot please,” he said,
“The only songs I know
Are those my mother used to sing
To me long years ago.”

“Sing one of those,” a rough voice said,
“There's none but true men here;
To ev'ry mother's son of us
A mother's song is dear.”

Then sweetly rose the singer's voice,
Amid unwonted calm:
“Am I a soldier of the cross
A follower of the lamb.”

“And shall I fear to own his cause”
Every heart seemed stilled,
And hearts that never throbbed with fear,
With tender thoughts were filled.

As the singer closed he said,
“Boys, we must face the foes”
Then thanking them for their invite
Upon his feet he rose.

“Sing us one more the young men said,
The singer hung his head,
Then glancing 'round with smiling lips,
“You'll join with me,” he said.

We'll sing that old familiar air,
Sweet as the bugle call;
“All hail the power of Jesus name,
Let Angels prostrate fall.”

And wondrous was the old tune's spell,
As on the singer sang;
Man after man fell into line,
And loud their voices rang.

One cried out “my mother sings
‘Just as I am though tossed about;’”
And the crowd picked up the anthem—
“With many a conflict, many a doubt.”

The next said “I seem to hear,
‘It's rock of ages cleft for me,’”
And the boys joined in with feeling
“Let me hide myself in thee.”

Another said “I'm an outcast,
But when I've nowhere to roam,
I think of mother and the city
Which, long since she's made her home.”

The next one said with tearful eyes
“My mother's in eternity,
Her song was ‘O rock of ages
In thy cleft hide thou me.’”

Hush'd are her lips, the song's ended,
The singer sleeps at last;
While I sit here in deep wonder,
And think of days, long past.

The room still echoes with music,
As singing soft and low,
Those grand sweet Christian carols,
They rock her too and fro.

Safe hidden in the “Rock of Ages”
She bade farewell to fear;
Sure that her Lord'd always lead her
“She read her title clear.”

Dear Saint in mansions long folded,
Safe in God's fostering love,
She joins in the blissful chorus,
Of those bright choirs above.

There she knows not pain, nor sorrow,
Safe beyond Jordan's roll
She lives with her blessed Jesus
The lover of her soul.

These boys are men, the stream still runs,
Those songs, they still are heard;
And oh! the depth of every soul,
By those old hymns is stirred.

And up from many a bearded lip,
In whispers soft and low;
Rises the songs the mother taught
The boy long years ago.

Spotless.

(James 1:21)

Spotless, spotless, spotless, spotless,
At the sounding of that word,
All my soul turned up to heaven,
All my heart within me stirred.

Would that I could stand out spotless,
Lord, I know that Thou hast died,
Thou hast stood for ages spotless
Bidding men come and abide.

Lord, build up for me a ladder,
Reaching into perfect day,
That my hopes this word may grapple,
Showing me the right of way.

Blooming flowers all seem spotless,
On the spotless hill and dell,
Oh, how beautiful they all are,
And how fragrant too they smell.

The spotless birds, they spring along,
And chirp the song of jubilee;
I like to hear their spotless songs,
They make my melancholy flee.

I wish that I could so be found,
While traveling life's brief way,
A spotless light to every one,
Where'er my footsteps stray.

Once a woman tried to show me
Something spotless, bright and new,
And she pick'd for illustration
Objects of the dirtiest hue.

“Lady” said I, eager, anxious,
“Why do you choose things so vile?”
“Just to show the cleansing process,”
Said the lady with a smile.

Then she said “these dirty colors,
Hardest to remove of all,
Can be made by constant rubbing
White as snowflake in its fall.”

These words struck my heart with power,
Made my soul within me throb,
“Dirty colors”—“white as snowflake”
Can this woman? Cannot God?

Lord, I long to be made spotless,
What lack I to make me thine?
Not in name but spotless truly,
Would I have thy ways, not mine.

Is there anything not spotless
That I cherish more than Thee,
Loved ones, money, fame or talent?
Lord reveal them now to me.

Lord I think how Thou, though spotless,
Left thy Heavenly home on high,
Gave up all Thy spotless glory,
Came to earth for us, to die.

Jesus spoke from out His mansion:
“Thou, as I, can spotless be,
Vilest hearts have been made precious,
Simply trust and follow me.”

Then I cried, “O Jesus take me,
Give me spotless, crimson wings,
Stamp my name upon thy roll book,
Take it to the spotless King.”

Oh, what spotless, rapturous music!
Heaven's gates seemed open wide,
And I stood there clear and spotless,
Near the Saviour's spotless side.

Spotless in God's spotless mansions!
Spotless in His spotless light!
God's own love, majestic, spotless,
Made me crimson, spotless white!

Motherly Emotions.

A mother came passing by my door,
Her son was near by my side;
“Howdy mama” was her son's adore,
“Howdy my son” she replied.

And as I gazed upon that mother,
The tears rushed to my eyes;
My heart's affections began to swell,
My mind went to paradise.

While there it found that one model,
Who, sixteen long years ago,
By the blessed Saviour's command,
Left all earth's sorrows below.

“What word is sweeter than mother,
What place is dearer than home?”
These words are our associates
Wherever in life we roam.

Napoleon was a worldly man,
Yet one great thing he uttered,
When from conscience clear he said,
“What France most needs is mothers.”

Home, that sanctuary of love,
That stamps impressions for life,
Who's the heart of affection there?
It is the mother, the wife.

A mother's love! oh, no one knows
How much of life's feelings lies,
In those sweet words, the fears, the hopes,
And daily strengthening ties.

It wakes ere yet the infant dreams
It's earliest vital breath;
And fails but when the mother's heart
Chills in the grasp of death.

Who knows the worth of mother?
Not those who see her daily;
But those who watch that vacant chair
Whose days are dark and dreary.

But when I am tossed and driven,
And feel like I'm all alone;
I think of mother and that city,
Which long since she's made her home.

Mother, while playing at thy knees,
Within my youthful heart;
There dwelt no secret consciousness,
That thou would e'er depart.

Since thou hast gone I now have learned
To bow my stubborn will,
The power that calms the raging sea
My rebel heart has stilled.

So I can look with fearless eyes
On all these earthly fates,
But how coulds't thou afford to die
And leave me desolate?

I should not weep for thee, dear one,
While with the saints thou art,
But how can I in coldness check
The burning tears that start?

My thoughts to thee must ever turn
As in my infant days,
While in my heart thine image shall
Lead me through life's rough ways.

Rest, dearest one, may angel host
Their vigils o'er thee keep,
How can I breath thy saintly name
And yet forbear to weep?

I stand heartbroken on dull earth
And gaze on the vacant skies,
Mother I cannot see thy face,
Dost thou hear thy son's cry?

If in God's likeness I may awake
And shine in pure image by thee,
I'll be satisfied when I can break
The fetters of flesh and be free.

Mrs. L. E. S.

Consolation.

Friends can't you tell me something?
I am weary and worn tonight.
The day has gone like a shadow
And only the evening is light.

Tell me about the Master,
Of the burdensome hills he trod,
When the tears and blood from his anguish
Dropped down on Judea's sod.

Tell me about the Master,
Of the wrongs he freely forgave,
Of His love and His tender compassion,
Of His love that is mighty to save.

For my heart is restless and weary
Of the woes and temptations of life,
Of all the treacherous conflicts
Of falsehood, and malice, and strife.

So tell me the sweet old story
That falls on each wound like a balm,
And my heart now bruised and broken,
Shall grow patient, strong, and calm.

Life What We Make It.

My life is a wearisome journey;
I'm sick with the times and the heat,
The rays of the sun beat upon me;
Life's briars are wounding my feet.

There are so many hills leading upwards
It keeps me a longing for rest,
But he who appoints me my journey,
Knows just what is needful and best.

He loves me too well to forsake me,
Or give me one trial too much,
And the toils of my road will seem nothing
When e'er I receive his kind touch.

When the last feeble step has been taken
And the gates of the city appear,
The beautiful songs of the angels
Will float out on listening ears.

Though now I am foot-sore and weary,
I'll rest when I'm safely at home,
I know I'll receive a glad welcome
For the Saviour Himself has said: “come.”

So when I am weary in body
And sinking in spirit, I say,
All the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.

Then I'll try to press hopefully onward,
Thinking often through each weary day,
The toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of my way.

Frances E. Harper.

Tribute

Dear friend, to me one vision craved,
Alas! has been denied;
But thy strong words on page of book
My mind anew inspires,
Thy noble soul has lifted mine,
As rippling waves are drawn;
My spirit heard thy words sublime,
About the woman's dawn.

Some mysteries of Afric's race,
Were left for thee to prove;
Thy lucid voice, thy pen of grace,
Filled up with hope and love—
Woke the dead pulse of joy supreme,
In our discouraged hearts,
Dispells the long delusive dream,
Makes new ambitions start.

The rebels who pronounce us brutes,
With conscience all at rest;
Feel the great throb of Afric's truth,
That stirs from out thy breast;
Maid of a higher, nobler cause,
Thou queen of ancient night;
Defender of the virtuous laws
Of our young woman's rights.

Thy name has spread like night's domain,
When all her glittering lamps
Illume the vast and level plains
Into the peaceful camps—
Where martyrs keep the righteous post
Doubting our freedom yet,
And speed the faithful, onward host,
With eyes on justice set.

They are not dead, those who have died,
Like holy angels come
To mortals in their faithful strides
For country, love and home;
Thou knowest the psalms by sages wrought,
Through shaky, mythic phrase;
Thou nobler psalms than they have taught,
Yet they have all the praise.

The time will come when this great state,
With conscience clear and true,
Will feel the strain of human fate,
Revealed to them by you;
And from her high esteemed estate,
She will throw open wide
The portal of her royal gate,
So long to us denied.

Continue in thy noble work,
O, faithful sister great,
Until thy mind redeeming words,
Are spread in every state;
Bring womanhood her honors due,
Heal up these long disgraces;
The time has come when woman must
March out and lead the races.

Cain and Abel.

“To thine ownself be true,
And it must follow as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

Cain was not true to Abel,
Neither true to himself,
Because Abel was true to both,
He put his brother to death.

I think how many a hundred
Of innocent Negro men,
Each trying to do like Abel,
Have died his death since then.

Voice From The South.

To Mrs. Annie Julia Cooper.

I read that book, “Voice from the South,”
I read it o'er again;
I re-read, heart leaped up to mouth
At its triumphant aim.

It 'rouses those noble feelings,
Which partly are obscure;
It makes us see as we are seen,
And fits us to endure.

It pictures a steadfast purpose,
A brave and daring will,
A human-needed promise that
We hope the years will fill.

Noble woman, grandly gifted,
Sent to tell the world true facts;
Sure the race will be uplifted
By thy words, thy deeds, thy acts.

Thy dauntless words are great and bold,
At times they seem to be—
Like John Brown's in dark slavery's days,
While battling for the free.

Earth's grandest hearts uplift to thee,
They feel thy spreading fame;
And children that are yet to be
Will “hallowed be thy name.”

From thy book, those worthy pages,
All our anxious hearts entreat;
All true trophies of the ages,
Are enshrined at thy dear feet.

Oh! wished for, hoped for, happy time,
When I can have the grace,
To grasp thy hand, and more sublime,
Upon thy statue gaze.

When e'er I 'tempt to write of thee,
Love takes my thoughts away;
Thy dazzling fame makes all that flee,
Which most I long to say.

If thou hadst hearing in thy heart,
To know how others beat;
Then thou shouldst walk where'er thou art,
Where throbbing millions greet.

O ye whose noble, lucid pen,
Forever filled with ink;
To touch the hearts and minds of men,
And make whole nations think.

It may be that in this cold world,
You will be ostracised
For noble truths which you have hurled
At those who right despise.

But Christ was ostracised by men,
He conquered every one;
Brave Luther faced the Papal den,
And he the victory won.

So while within this vale of tears,
Where sins and woes are rife;
Thy words will prove, in coming years,
The gift of mortal life.

Since we are scattered as a race,
And thou hast power to write;
While God prolongs thy days of grace,
Cry to the race “unite.”

Thou hast been writing, noble one,
Thou dost not write in vain;
Thy words, methink, are pressing on,
They shall be entertained.

Thy writing has a dwelling place,
Above this lynching ken;
We hope thy spirit will never trace
Such wicked haunts of men.

In some far off diviner land,
There stands a giant Mast;
It waves to you a cheering hand,
From heroes of the past.

Thy 'lectric voice, whose strong control,
As with an angel's breath
Can stir the fountain of the soul,
And cheer the long bereft.

Write on, and may thy words still strike
The conscience of the nation;
And show that all men are alike,
And have been since creation.

Bishop Daniel A. Payne.

(Deceased).

He has gone forth in the light of light,
Out of the long watch and the heavy night,
Out of the life that was so hard to bear,
Crowded by sorrow and perplexed by care.

Love was the life which pulsed his being through,
No task too hard, if set by love to do,
No pain too sharp, if love called to endure,
No weariness he knew if love was true.

Heaven has received him as a welcome guest,
Balming earth's tie with compensating rest,
Healing earth's grievous wound with sure content,
The sense of home after long banishment.

But more to him than smile of vanished kin,
Or hands outstreched to greet and draw him in,
Or “bonded walls” of amethyst unpriced
Is the clear vision of the face of Christ.

The face divine, which, in his boyhood days,
Seeing he loved and never looked away,
Which, like a star in the dim firmament,
Guided his steps and moved where'er he went.

Out of the life that was not always sweet,
Out of the puzzle and the day's defeat,
Out of earth's hindering and alien zone,
The Lord of love has led him to his own.

Douglass Dead?

Across the nation's broad domain,
On every hill, and every plain,
Peals out the muffled, sad refrain,
That Douglass is dead.

O no, not dead! for every heart
In every state must surely start
As freedom's great, uprising mart,
If Douglass is dead!

And far across the deep blue sea,
Those nations that love liberty,
Their minds will be a mournful lea,
For Douglass' death.

Once freedom's great, uprising host,
From Maine to California's coast,
Of this great man could truly boast,
And now he's dead!

In every heart of all the race,
He'll ever have a sacred place,
His name can never be erased,
He is not dead!

He's with Lincoln, John Brown, Grant,
With Bishop Payne and Price he chants,
With such surrounding host we can't
Say he is dead!

The Easter Man.

So crushed by sinful oppression,
Through the ages long and drear,
Men began to doubt and question,
Whether Shiloh would appear.

The Jewish doctors pondered,
And Gentile sages dreamed,
While on their weary vision
No assuring light yet gleamed.

But while time's dial was still moving,
God, in a mysterious way,
Let man go in his wonder,
He knew the time and the day.

And the Watchman he stood mourning,
Over Judah's seer that day;
As up on Bethlehem's hillside,
They wound their weary way.

And the watchman cried “O Israel,
How long are we to stand,
Under the great oppressor's yoke,
To be moved by Shiloh's hand?”

When heaven and earth were silent,
When the Lord's will would be done,
The cry went from out Bethlehem,
“A man child there is born.”

Then burst the rapturous anthem;
“Glory to God be given,
Good will among the sons of Men
Peace on earth and in heaven.”

While there in his manger cradle,
The unconscious monarch lay,
The babe of Bethlehem now born,
To have universal sway.

The human sea became restless,
Earth's kingdoms began to shake,
And the universal cry was
“Never man like that man spake.”

When He began his active work,
For three long toilsome years,
He climbed degradation's mountain,
Wading through heart-aches and tears.

But Jesus buried these sorrows,
Knowing the world had its share;
He opened a crystal fountain,
To wash away sinful snares.

The more he spread his mission,
The more he became despised,
He forgave men this wickedness,
And yet he was crucified.

Nineteen centuries have passed and gone,
Since “it is finished” was cried,
Every day during that time,
The Savior's been crucified.

If we ask ourselves the question,
“Why crucify one so dear?”
Our hearts will respond full sadly,
“The answer is not here.”

The still, small voice from Calvary
Cries “I did all this for thee,”
And from the ear of faith we hear,
“What art thou doing for me.”

Silence reigned in Jerusalem,
Men became bothered in mind,
Questions were asked about Jesus,
To answer wise men declined.

On that lovely Easter morning,
Mary and others came near,
The angel solved the mystery,
“He's risen, He is not here.”

He spent forty days sojourning,
To many he made himself known,
He told of a city called Heaven,
Entreated them to make it their home.

He melted down satan's mansions,
He made intercession for man,
He gave his peace to the nations,
And gave the disciples command.

And then along the silent path,
By viewless spirits trod,
He left the blights of this sad earth,
And went to dwell with God.

Gates of Heaven all stood ajar,
Bells of Heaven were ringing,
Angels stood around the gate,
Waiting, watching, singing.

And as the Savior entered in,
They did not close the view,
But left the gate standing ajar
That we might enter too.

Heaven's orchestra uttered aloud,
“Worthy the Lamb that was slain
To receive honor, glory, power,
Blessings, world without end.”

For every thorn that gave a wound,
A rose in Heaven was given,
And joy, that there no roses found
With rosy wreaths were riven.

In paradise where breezes blow,
To cool the heart's hot fever,
The pangs and pain He felt below,
Were waft away forever.

To look at Thee, O Lord, as Thou art,
From this mortal perishing clay,
The spirit immortal in peace would depart,
And joyous mount up her bright way.

I know our stained tablets must first be washed white,
To let Thy bright features be drawn.
We know we must suffer the darkness of night,
To welcome the coming of dawn.

But we shall be satisfied when we can cast
The shadow of nature all by,
When the cold, heavy world from our vision has passed
To let the soul open her eye.
We come together in Easter service,
To sing praises unto His name.
Let every day be Easter in which
We will sing His praises the same.

Man's Imperfections.

O life why so imperfect?
And life cried in elation,
Don't fault my God nor me correct,
But man and his ovation.

The little bird enjoys his life,
The ant improves his time;
Its only man's abusive strife,
That wrecks this holy clime.

The rippling stream goes swiftly by,
The plants grow undistubed;
And only man fills life with sighs,
And makes crime reign superb.

The sun and moon and stars are bright,
This earth's a paradise;
But man stands in his own sunlight,
As imperfection's vice.

My Sweetheart.

I went to bed the other night,
My sleep was sweet in part;
I dreamed I saw a lovely sight,
It was my dear sweetheart.

She sat in the window watching,
As I went down the street;
I threw a kiss back to her,
Her face seem'd blossom sweet.

My sweetheart's image was with me,
Whichever way I went,
It banished all temptations,
And gave me good intent.

When the world seems full of trouble,
When things seem to go wrong:
My sweetheart's image is with me,
And makes me brave and strong.

I return'd by early twilight,
And as I latched the gate;
I saw from the shaded window,
My sweetheart still did wait.

I hastened toward the window,
I saw my sweetheart's eyes
Sparkle with a smiling welcome,
As the stars up in the skies.

“I'm back again, dear sweetheart,”
I said, and stoop'd to kiss
My sweetheart's face that was lifted,
It seem'd that all was bliss.

You all have sweethearts like this one.
Babies, sisters and brothers;
This sweetheart gives us lots of fun,
My sweetheart was my mother.

What do you think of my sweetheart?
I shall not go any further;
Can you blame a boy my size because
He's dead in love with mother?

[The angel who unfetter'd St. Peter]

The angel who unfetter'd St. Peter,
When bound in Jerusalem's jail;
Is no greater than the angel Lincoln
Who heeded the Negro's wail.

And never in all ages,
Since John on Patmus wrote;
Have words been put on pages
As great as Lincoln spoke.

Lincoln's Call.

You know 'twas eighteen sixty-one,
The civil war had just begun,
The ship of state was at the place,
To picture up the South's disgrace;
And Lincoln quickly saw the point,
Where he could knock things out of joint;
And all the sight which he had seen,
Before his mind began to gleam.
He thought of countless human slaves,
Murdered, buried without a grave;
He thought of the wicked overseer,
Whose cruelty could have no peer;
He thought of the master's snarling cry—
“That Negro's worthless, let him die.”
He thought of the Southern auction block,
Where human beings sold as stock;
He thought of mother's wailing cry,
When wicked men her child would buy;
He thought how cruel they could be,

To counteract the mother's plea;
He thought how men were sold like mules,
And left their wives with wicked fools;
He thought of Christian mother's weep,
To see her child drove off like sheep;
He thought of mother's vain distress,
To have a babe sold from her breast;
And worst of all since God's creation,
He thought of that abomination—
Amalgamation of the races,
On terms that give us blushing faces;
He thought of masters who had slaves,
Whose virtue they would often crave;
And she, no matter how she feel,
To master's wicked lust must yield;
These sights as dark as dark midnight,
Made angels shudder in their flight;
The goddess of the angry deep,
These horrors made her conscience weep;
The gladiator drop'd his sword,
At sight of Southern festive boards.
Diana said with heart aglow,
Such sights have never reign'd before;
These things weighed Lincoln's heart with grief,
And when the nation made him chief—

He gave a long, tremendous call,
From out the nation's senate hall,
And all the North heard his appeal,
And marched out on the battle field;
The Pilgrim Fathers, dead and gone,
Pushed brave New England in the throng,
Good William Penn said from his grave:
“My Quakers join the Lincoln wave.”
The father of the country said—
“March on, it is the rightful tread!”
The heroes of Thermopylæ
Heard Lincoln's call for liberty,
And cried from out their distant graves,
“If you must die, men's freedom save.”
Crispus Attucks, whose blood ran down,
When Washington was in renown,
His blood cried out “if you'd be free,
All strike at once for liberty!”
Sojourner Truth, her voice was heard,
“March on!” was the commanding word,
Nat Turner screamed out from the sod;
“I would thou precious, allwise God,
Had spared my life upon the land
To follow Lincoln's brave command,
Then I could quickly do my part,
For poor down-trodden, human hearts,

I'd help to strike that mighty blow,
To let my bondaged people go!”
John Brown's bleeding body cried:
“This is the cause for which I died!”
Frederick Douglass, grand old man,
Who aided John Brown in his plans,
Who stood with Lincoln and conversed,
Was ready now to stand the worst.
He used his voice, his pen, his mind,
And men who heard him fell in line.
These voices echoed Lincoln's sound.
And stirred the people all around;
From Maine to California's coast,
Rose freedom's great advancing host.
Men speaking in the senate hall,
Responded to the noble call;
The Gov'nors left the state affairs,
The writer left his easy chair,
The lawyer quit the city bar,
And left his office door ajar;
The bus'ness man went out his store,
Perhaps to enter there no more;
The teacher left his tutorship,
And gave his gun a lasting grip.
The student left his study desk,
And marched with teacher breast a breast,

The hunter left the stag at bay,
For Lincoln's call he must obey;
“The plow was in the furrow staid,
The herds without a keeper stray'd,”
The fish'man left his pole and line,
The blacksmith drop'd his red hot iron,
The artist let go paint and brush,
And to the army made a rush.
Husbands kissed their wives good-bye,
Left the children, went to die;
Mothers told sons to heroes be,
In the cause of liberty;
The young man in the prime of life,
Left his newly wedded wife;
The lover left his loved one's side
Whom he had vowed to make his bride,
He loved his girl with all his heart,
But country's love was now his part;
Each son and father rushed to arms,
At Lincoln's signals of alarm.
The war began, brave Lincoln stood,
As pilot in the human flood;
Again he made a long appeal,
More men were needed in the field.
His voice was heard all o'er the land,
A million men obeyed command.

At Gettysburg, brave Lincoln stood,
And he was in a better mood;
He saw the cause for which he fought,
Was plain before the people brought;
And on that bloody battlefield,
The enemies began to yield;
And Lincoln, with his God push'd pen,
Wrote these words on the hearts of men:
“All human beings claimed as slaves—
Are placed upon great freedom's wave.”
And angels echoed around the throne;
“Rejoice thy freedom is thy own!”
The Negro left his master's farm,
For he had heard the last alarm,
But half in doubt and half in stress,
He wondered which would be the best—
“If massa ketch me gwine away,
He'll kill dis nigger shur as day;
But whats de use to stay back herr,
He's killing niggers ebry yerr,
Boss Lincoln says dat I am free,
I'll strike a blow for liberty!”
He marched out like a soldier man,
And joined the host of freedom's van.
The war moved on for two more years,
And brave men fought without a fear,

Till Sherman's host had reached the sea,
And Grant had captured noble Lee,
Then men laid down their arms of yore,
And peace did reign from shore to shore,
Now Lincoln's work was bravely done,
The confidence of Men he'd won,
His enemies he'd conquered well,
And they before him prostrate fell.
He'd kept the faith, he'd fought his fight,
And in the stillness of the night—
When he least look'd for any strife,
A demon struck him for his life.
He fell a corpse to mortal man,
In this down trodden, sinful land;
His soul had heard the angel's cry;
“Thy work's complete, thy home's on high,”
So when the general roll is called,
Including, Wickliffe, Luther, Paul;
Men who have died to set men free,
Lincoln's name on the list will be.
And men who dwell upon the earth,
Will yet concede to Lincoln's worth,
And burn his birthday in the minds,
Of children 'till the end of time.
As long as there remains a trace

Of Afric blood in mortal face,
So long will Lincoln honored be,
His virtues sung from sea to sea.

Hurrah for McKinley!

Hurrah for McKinley!
Hurrah for Hobart!
And the St. Louis convention
That didn't mind revolts,
We have rallied round the flag boys,
Rallied once again,
Hear the cry of freedom and McKinley.

Hurrah for New England!
Hurrah for Illinois!
New York, Pennsylvania,
And all the other boys
Who have rallied, etc.

Hurrah for sound money!
Hurrah for protection—
That sends free silver
Where there'll be no resurrection,
We will rally, etc.

Hurrah for the nation!
How it rings from sea to sea,
That McKinley is elected
Which insures prosperity.
We have rallied, etc.

Hurrah! how McKinley
Broke the Mason-Dixon line,
Boys, the solid South is broken,
And shall be till end of time.
We have rallied, etc.

Hurrah for McKinley!
Who's in Abe Lincoln's track,
Who believed that a gentleman,
Can be either white or black.
Let us rally, etc.

Hurrah for McKinley!
Who called upon his state,
To help keep a Negro
From the dreadful lynching fate.
Negroes rally, etc.

Hurrah for McKinley!
Who said he'd have no wine,
And those at the inaugural
To drink had to decline,
Temperance rally, etc.

The Call All Must Obey.

A voice whispered to an infant,
Sitting on its mother's knees,
“Leave that place for a moment,
I want you to go with me,”
“How can I leave my mamma's lap,
And do without her sweet smiles,
How can I live without her aid?”
Replied the innocent child.

The same voice whispered to a child,
Who knew not the right from wrong,
“Come child, leave your play for awhile,
And join this mighty throng,”
The child replied in earnest tones,
“I cannot go with you now—
You see what I have here to do,
My play house is all torn down.”

“Come,” said the stern voice to a youth,
While plodding along his way,
And many youths were with him there,
All cheerful and full of play.
“How can I come,” replied the youth,
“I'm hastening on to school,
And if I'm late,” my mother says,
“Its against the teacher's rule.”

“Come,” the voice said to a maid,
Just in her twentieth year,
While men were passing too and fro,
Some in hope and some in fear;
“How can I come,” replied the maid,
“While all of life's temptations
Surround my head, and I must be
A factor to the nation.”

The voice approached a bright young man
Just entering the prime of life,
“Come,” said the voice, the young man stopped,
As if in a human strife.
“How can I come? My days are brief,
The responsibility
That rests upon my shoulders,
Is spread from sea to sea.”

The voice then sought a poet's abode,
Who was seeking after a rhyme,
And the poet had an answer
Both elusive and sublime.
“How can you ask for me to come,
Leave me to myself I pray,
For the verse which I am writing
The hearts of men will sway.”

“Come,” said the voice to a songster
As she raised her alto voice,
And the music sent forth by her,
Made the hearts of men rejoice.
“How can I come,” said the songster,
“This world is sinking in sin,
And I am to sing God's mercies
Into the hearts of men.”

“Come,” said the voice to a statesman,
While speaking in the senate hall,
And his voice aroused the senate
Like troops at a bugle call.
“How can I come,” said the statesman,
While our dear ship of state,
Is hanging, trembling, weakening,
At the sight of future fate?”

“Come,” said the voice to a mother,
With her children at her side,
And she made the home a haven,
For her husband to abide.
“Oh, I can't come,” the mother said,
“I pray you let me stay,
For how can I leave my darlings
To wander from me astray?”

The voice sent out no more appeals,
The baby left its mother,
The child with a torn down play house
Didn't stop to build another;
The youth, returning home from school,
Responded to the call,
And the maiden with her beauty
Had to enter in the thrall.

And the young man meditated,
For he was just in his prime,
But he joined the great procession
When the voice called, it was time;
And the poet, with his meekness,
Had to quit his composition;
For the voice had called him hither,
It was due a recognition.

The songster's voice was heard no more,
The world still had its sins,
The statesman left the senate floor,
And was heard no more by men;
And the mother left her children,
And they cried with sobbing breath.
But the voice which spoke—men must obey,
It was the voice of death.

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Works.

“Uncle Tom's Cabin.”

That grand and noble woman dear,
Called Harriet Beecher Stowe,
The book she wrote without a fear
Drove slavery from our shore.
To know her works, to feel her worth,
Go read that noble book
And see what dauntless words she wrote,
What fearful risks she took.

It struck a blow to slavery's tree,
That burned its very life;
It scorched the undergrowth around,
And left it in a strife;
It parched the branches to a crisp,
Withered the leaves in twain,
It drove the sap into the ground
To never rise again.

Dark slavery rested on the base,
That Africans were brutes,
That they should be a white man's slave
Or dwell in destitute;
It said his sensibility
Was not of human kind,
And if he loved, 'twas not the love
Which with the heart combines.

And hence the children could be sold,
Husband and wife untied,
And with a mind all full of glee,
In distant parts abide;
No matter what the master did
To slaves who were akin,
'Twas just the same as with a mule,
The master didn't sin.

These doctrines were supported by
Religion, law and science,
The preacher who preached otherwise,
Was held up in defiance;
The surgeon taught that Negro flesh
Under the whip and knife,
Was not affected like white men,
Hence 'twas not human strife.

Politicians said that it was
Fixed as the lasting hills,
And God considered it as pure
As nature's rippling rills;
The statesman, judge and governor
Said that it was a rule,
The Negro slave should have the same
As oxen, horse and mule.

Men divine, wrote book upon book,
Forcing restitution,
And tried to prove that slavery was
A God sent institution.
To speak, to write, to think against
This inhumanity,
Was nothing but a case of what
Was called insanity.

It was at such a time as this
That Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Called “Uncle Tom” upon the scene,
And made him walk before
The gaze of all the countries 'round,
She made him speak and cry,
In twenty diff'rent languages
She made him pray and sigh.

She then asked all the world who heard
His wild distressing prayer,
If 'twas not likely that a heart
Humane is stationed there;
She brought forth George and showed his grand
Affections for his wife,
His love for liberty, and how
He fought the slavish strife.

She brought Haley, the Negro trader,
Who had no human heart,
Who stole the virtue of his slaves,
And then the lash impart;
Who took a newly wedded wife
Before her husband's gaze,
Could the devil have seen all this,
He would have stood amazed.

She then showed forth the Christian heart
Of Mister Shelby's wife,
Who sympathized with all the slaves
In their discouraged strife;
Who wept when she first heard the news
From her dear husband bold,
When she asked where was Uncle Tom,
He said “the brute is sold.”

These things and hundreds, thousands more,
This noble book had shown,
And there stood Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Between pulpit and throne;
She stood nearer the Throne of God,
Than all false priests before,
And turned the search light on to show
The heartache and the woe.

She wrote brave words and spead them,
Upon the human breeze,
That made pro-slav'ry clergymen,
Draw in their breath and sneeze;
Her shafts were sent hilt deep into
The tender, human heart,
Just like the shepherd boy who smote
The giant with his dart.

This book had made the world grow mad,
With slavery and its crime,
Before the bloody battlefield,
With marching tread did chime;
Before John Brown had died to save,
Before great Lincoln's call,
Before brave Sherman reached the sea,
Before Grant captured all.

She called from out its slumb'ring tomb,
Affections of the soul,
She armed them with eternal light,
And sent them forth so bold
Against the greed, the gain, the lust,
That these two forces fought,
Like Wolfe and Montcalm on the plain,
Till right had error wrought.

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Monument.

She has builded a human monument
The walls of which will stand,
Long after she's departed from
The dwellers in the land,
Long after buildings have crumbled,
That are planted on the sand.

She decided to build for others,
And the building sheltered her not,
And some who dwell within there,
Through all time shall know her not,
And beneath the roof of the building
She'll have no lot or part.

And yet when the days shall have ended,
And beneath the roof tree's shade,
The children and grand children,
In childish ways have played,
And passed from under the building,
And vanished into the shade;

Some dweller beneath the building,
Thinking of when it was new,
May say as his heart turns backward,
Keeping his age in view,
The woman who built this building,
Builded better than she knew.

And she, though she has passed onward,
Hearing the Master's call,
May say, though it may not matter
To her what the building befall,
That it's better to build for others,
Than to have no building at all.

Sonnet, October.

Here in sweet Nature's lonely gale,
The leaves are gone;
The autumnal woods, all 'round our vale,
Have glory on.

I roam these woods that nature crowns
With splendor's glow;
Where the company of trees look down
On fields below.

This month is the gloomiest and saddest
Of all the year;
For in it nature's summer gladness
All disappear.

Nature all around serene elates
Us from the sod;
And points the heart and mind of man,
Towards the throne of God.

Maceo—Cuba's Liberator.

While Washington at Valley Forge,
Endured the winter's pest;
And while he was taking Yorktown
Dear Cuba was oppressed.

When England tried the second time,
To rule this country great;
Brave Cuba, although in her prime,
Had not a ship of state.

When Winfield Scott took Mexico,
And captured Vera Cruz,
Brave Cuba and young Maceo
Were punished and abused.

When John Brown died that we might live,
When Lincoln called for men;
Brave Cuba was surrounded with
The untold Spanish sins.

When Grant and Meade fought for dear life,
When Lincoln said “you're free,”
Brave Cuba, under Spanish strife,
Said “give me liberty?”

Thus time moved on, God was invoked,
And year succeeded year;
Brave Cuba fought—sometime with hope,
And sometime full of fear.

But God who's always here with men,
Had Him a man in store;
And at the heights of Spanish sins,
He called forth Maceo.

When Maceo with courage strong
Took charge of battle fields;
Like withered leaves in wintry storms,
The enemies did yield.

He gave this dauntless, brave command,
“We must have liberty—
And in the name of God and man,
Our Cuba must be free!”

At this appeal the Island shook,
The natives said they would;
And Maceo with anxious looks,
As firm as fossils stood.

The natives all were 'lectrified,
At sight of Maceo's form;
And they would stand and do or die,
At Maceo's alarm.

The Spaniards, anxious to succeed,
Discarded warring rules;
Resorted to the foulest deeds,
Of all the crim'nal schools.

They used man's wicked, cunning ways,
They gave him friend's salute;
They falsified to ambush him,
They took his life like brutes.

But e'er he died he told his men,
That Cuba must be free;
The death he died has given them
The price of liberty.

Arnold became his country's foe,
Judas betrayed his Christ;
The Spaniards entrapped Maceo
At manhood's sacrifice.

They crucified the Son of man,
His cause still moves the world;
They burned John Huss and yet he stands,
Before us as a pearl.

They killed good Abr'am Lincoln,
The cause for which he died
Still moves the world, still cheers men's hearts,
With men he still abides.

They killed the noble Maceo,
The world's in sympathy;
It says that foul act implores
That Cuba must be free.

The God of Israel's Maceo,
Of Lincoln's liberty,
Has written “let my people go,”
Dear Cuba shall be free.

Dear Cuba, for a host of years,
“Queen of the Antilles,”
Thy Maceo without a fear,
Has died to set thee free.

Y. M. C. A. Founder.

Sir Geo. Williams.

Sir George Williams, noble man,
Half 'cent'ry 've passed away,
Since thou first didst raise thy hand
To start the Y. M. C. A.

One little room marked the spot,
A few common chairs therein;
And now all o'er the universe,
Its sifting the souls of men.

A few young men, only a few,
Paid any heed to thee,
Today thou'rt heard in all the lands,
Thou'rt spread from sea to sea.

I think how many a thousand,
Of reckless, wayward men,
Have caught the inspiration,
And moved off from their sins.

I think of countless mothers,
Whose hearts have leaped with joy,
Because this, thy noble work,
Has saved their reckless boy.

I think of unborn millions,
Who yet must take the stage,
Who, only through this noble work
Can face the future age.

“Forever and forever,
As long as life has woes,”
Thy name shall be re-echoed
On time's terrestrial shores.

If only I might see thee,
To gaze upon thy face,
To grasp thy hand, to hear thee speak,
Then I could be embraced.

I think I could go forward,
With brave and joyful heart,
Though every step should pierce me,
With untold fiery dart.

But I must be contented,
With thy likeness and thy name,
For countless millions now rejoice,
Upon thy spreading fame.

And I am left to wonder, such
That I may stretch my hand,
To some still wearier traveler
In this same shadow land.

I gaze upon thy likeness,
As young men's earthly sage,
Thy work is old and thriving,
But thou show'st not thy age.

Dear sir, thou art not old,
Though half a century now,
May write its ragged wrinkles,
Up and down thy brow.

And even sorrow may with
A shroud thy heart enfold,
Thou art not now, and no,
Thou never will be old.

Best Thing in the World.

What is the best thing in the world?
This question to a crowd was hurled.

A preacher said “that grand old Book
Which beats all men e'er undertook.”

The monk, he said, “the best of all,
Is time alone within my walls.”

The sage, he whispered in a chime,
“The best is the right use of time.”

The fool and idler both did sing,
“Pleasure is the best of things.”

Then the soldier cried aloud, “fame,”
Spoke the statesman, “mine is the same.”

Then a maid told her selection,
“Why of course its my complexion.”

Said a young man, “there are two things,
A woman's beauty, and how she sings.”

A mother, playing with some curls,
Said that “the best thing in the world;

Is this darling here in my arms,
Which we and angels hold as charms.”

Then the wee baby gave its choice,
And it seemed like an angel's voice;

“The bes ting dat eber was or is,
Is when my mama dives me a tiss.”

Conscience whispers and this is heard,
“Kindness, kindness, that is the word.”

From Degradation Through Supplication to Education.

The Negro.

I was once far from civilization,
As vile as a Negro could be;
I wondered if all the creation,
Could save a poor Negro like me.

I wandered on in the darkness,
Not a ray of light could I see;
And it filled my heart with sadness,
No hope for a Negro like me.

But by the wondrous work of God,
The world's second Moses came;
And through the sea of civil strife,
Brought liberty instead of shame.

From then I started out in life,
To make a race pride mark;
But prejudice from my enemies,
Kept holding me in the dark.

And yet within that self same race,
There are some valiant men;
Who gave both their time and means,
To remove this dreadful sin.

My enemies both reared and kicked,
I could only wait and trust;
But good men defended my cause,
Like Doctors Hartzell and Rust.

“Shall the Negro be educated?”
Is being discussed by some;
But while they are discussing,
The good work's being done.

No longer in darkness I wander,
Education is shining on me;
And unto my brothers I'm trying,
To give an education free.

Dear Lord, I'll e'er give thanks to Thee,
For Thy unspeakable gift,
In bringing me out of darkness,
And allowing a chance to lift.

And with my thanks I ask Thy aid,
For those in degradation,
That they may share e'en with me,
In Christian education.

The Model Girl.

To S---

A model girl, pure from her birth,
No one can estimate her worth,
And on this dark and sinful earth—
She's needed.

She goes to church and Sunday school,
The Bible is her vestibule,
And fam'ly prayers, her mother's rule—
She loves them.

She always tries to do the right,
And if you try to blur and blight,
She'll hit you with the Christian light—
She's candid.

Sometimes, before she thinks, she speaks,
You know in this a woman's weak,
But if you will explain the freak—
She'll listen.

And if she sees immoral trash,
She treats it very cool and rash,
And all her soul seems in a flash—
She shuns it.

She knows the evils of the land,
She knows the wicked ways of man,
She takes a high and lofty stand—
She dreads them.

She knows if woman stands aloft,
The wicked men will scorn and scoff,
And yet when they desire betroth—
She charms them.

She knows that if she mingles low,
The evil class will treat her so,
And those who try to upward soar—
Will shun her.

She's never wrecked herself at all,
At these low dissipating balls
Where women dance and virtue falls—
She scorns them.

She never goes in public places,
Where men and women's evil faces
Are ever looking for disgraces—
She fears them.

She never strolls the streets alone,
Whene'er the sun has ceased to roam
And all the stars so brightly shone—
She waives it.

When men put on an outside show,
To see if woman won't adore,
While to virtue his heart's a foe—
She's vex-ed.

She gives pleasure a reverent touch,
She never tries to know too much
Of foolishness, gab and all such—
She's seen these.

Pure literature attracts her eyes,
Trash novels she detests, despise,
She sees the future, hears its cries—
“Protect us!”

She knows contentment is decay,
That discontent brings brighter days
By men and women's thriving ways—
She's busy.

She knows that early fragrance flees,
The deepest cup hath still its lees,
And she thinks there's a “yet to be”—
She's hopeful.

She sometimes walks in slip'ry places,
But pride with all its charming graces,
Makes all the evil-minded faces—
Respect her.

Sometimes her mind is fluctuation,
Sometimes her soul is detestation,
Sometimes her heart is admiration—
She usurps.

You see her as she skips along,
She has not thought of any wrong,
She's firm for right, well tried and strong—
She's dauntless.

She never has that vain belief
That someone's watching her as chief
And asking every one in brief—
“Who is she?”

There's a secret she calls her own,
A myst'ry to most young girls unknown,
And 'gainst the outside worldly tone—
It cheers her.

She knows the rock once cleft for all,
She stands where'er its shadows fall,
And when she leans upon its walls—
She's strengthened.

It makes the blessed Savior smile
To see a trusty, faithful child
Go through the world pure, undefiled—
She knows it.

The eye may try to be a charm,
But from the heart's imperial throng,
Come penciled lines of right and wrong—
She's cautious.

Time's etching gives her tone of thought,
God's etching shows divinely bought
Soul stenciled by the spirit taught—
She's fix-ed.

Her sisters all should imitate,
Her brothers should appreciate,
Her father should reconsecrate—
And mother.

I hope her Christian spirit bold
Will dwell where summer seasons roll,
And cheerful hearts will ne'er grow old—
She'll like it.

And when time's clouds have all gone by,
And she has quit the world of sighs,
I hope the place beyond the skies—
Will take her.

Now some of you who read these lines,
May try to form within your minds,
The reason why I write this rhyme—
I like her.

Well I guess that it must be true,
And if you knew her as I do,
I think you'd kinder like her too—
She earns it.

Oh, somewhere in this shadowed land,
A host of shining angels stand;
Somewhere the sun is shining bright,
And hearts are made of burdens, light;
Somewhere the little children shout
And walk the streets, their hearts are stout;
Somewhere the evil hearts of men
That tempt the little ones to sin
Are counted as a wicked shame,
And wicked men will be refrained—
From doing evil, dirty work,
Which, from the young ones, virtue jerk;
Somewhere good people congregate
And leave off those who dissipate
And make them have a strong desire
To quit their ways and come up higher;
Somewhere young men appreciate
The girl who shuns all future fates;
Somewhere good deeds are recognized,
And virtue counted as a prize;

Somewhere the angels hover 'round
To dedicate the earthly town
Because it tries to do the right
And keep the Lord's will e'er in sight;
Oh, somewhere there's security
To live a life of purity,—
Not our town.

Love's Labor Lost.

Sweetheart, you know what true love is,
You know we have loved each other,
You know that we have sometimes felt
As near as sister and brother.

You know, my dear, the time has been
When to be in each other's sight
And to talk, and hear each other talk
To both our hearts was delight.

You know it has not been so long
Since we, in saying good night
Would fondly hug and kiss each other,
Oh my! what a change tonight!

Can it be true that some one else
Has entered into your heart,
And tells me that from this time on
I shall have no lot or part?

Can it be true that all my love,
Of which I so proudly boast,
Is drift-wood on the restless sea
And my task, “Love's labor lost?”

Deception.

Well, dearest one, I hope my heart
Will stop its bitter sigh,
Because it never more can share
Thy glorious destiny;
My love has never sought reward,
'Twas joy enough for me
To dwell alone at certain times
And cherish thoughts of thee.

My mother to her child once gave
Affection's untold wealth,
Since then I've seen the swift decay
Of hope, and joy, and health;
I murmured not, at heaven's decree,
Though thus of all bereft,
When you and I began to love
A world of bliss was left.

Though other ties thy heart now bind
While we but drift apart,
Yet, am I sinning if I hide
Thine image in my heart?
So sweet, so holy was the spell
By love around me cast
That I am blinded to all love
Since this, my charm, has past.

I feel that you another love,
Yet there's a heavy trace,
And all the love of others
Those bright tints can't efface.
I hope his lot a joyous one
If you his fate control,
I'll try to seek a higher fate—
The union of the soul.

The time was, when I looked on thee
As God sent future bride,
And had a longing in my heart
To thus be satisfied;
But it is best for you and I
If we are not to wed,
To know before we go too far
Upon the lover's tread.

Farewell, beloved one, when thy brow
The cupid crown shall bind,
And when, somewhere in life's abode
You and someone combine,
Then think of one who looked on thee
With more than human pride,
And glories in the thought that you
Are someone's rightful bride.

Love Regained.

If it is really true that I have grieved thee,
You whom my soul has always loved the best,
Can you not come to me once more forgiving,
And lay your head again upon my breast?

Last night when I in grief and sorrow left you,
And heard the rapid slam of your screen door;
I felt that I toward my doom was going,
And love and joy would be mine nevermore.

The thought that caused my heart to bleed most freely:
I've always tried to go the true love's route,
And then to think my only heart's affection,
Myself and word did disbelieve and doubt.

And then I felt that all my earthly efforts,
Were wasted—and what we call human life,
Was nothing but a sea of disappointment,
Of myth and pain, of sorrow, grief and strife.

But since I have received from you a letter,
Which says that you have called me back again,
A heavy mist has gathered up before me,
When it is gone I hope there'll be no pain.

If I had known how sadly I should grieve you,
If I had thought that it was the last,
There's nothing in the world had made me leave you,
And now, dear heart, I hope the gloom is past.

Can you not see how I have missed you, dearest,
How I regret I ever gave you pain;
How heretofore I held you first and nearest,
O love, may I say you are mine again?

I will be kinder to you. I was fretful;
Life had so much that was too hard to bear,
I did not understand how self-forgetful,
Your love had lightened every pain and care.

We grow too sure of those who never give us
A single anxious thought; they are our own:
I did not dream how much I really loved you,
Until I thought my priceless treasure gone.

I hate to think of sorrow's painful palace,
I could not stand to think that you were there;
I felt that you were passing, while I love you,
Beyond me, among men that you could bear.

Yet, if 'tis true that you are still my lover,
Your own pure life no mocking chance has known;
Can you not now sweet consolation give me,
For grief and doubt that have so bitter grown?

Can you not just for my sake once more kiss me;
And we'll forget the words that gave us pain,
They haunt me now,—and that you love and miss me,
May we now call our doubts true love regained?

Love and Fear Contest.

They say that in each human heart,
There is an unseen battle-field,
'Pon which two fighting forces meet,
And neither one consents to yield.

I don't know who those forces are,
There's love and hatred, hope and fear,
There's laughter with his great bazaar,
There's sorrow with its bitter tear.

Once love stepped out upon my breast,
And gazing at the vacant skies;
Had thoughts of one it thinks the best,
And this is what, aloud it cried:—

Just thoughts of her is music sweet,
Dear A. V.: Oh be still my heart;
And darling with what joy it speaks,
Oh, how it makes my senses start.

I must confess it rolls along,
In scintillating streams of bliss;
Until it mingles with my song—
And thrills me like a pulsing kiss.

Then fear came forth upon the scene,
And said “beware of passive bliss;
For things are not just what they seem,”
Then love replied in words like this:

I recognize the Christian plan,
This earthly life is built upon;
It gives a wife to ev'ry man,
And I'll be satisfied with one.

Yes surely I'll be satisfied,
If I can get the one I love;
The one who's taken away my heart,
And carries it where'er she roves.

But fear, I trembled at one thought;
If she consents to be my bride,
What, oh what, if I can't supply
The things to make her satisfied.

Could I be happy? No, not I,
I'd rather be adrift at sea,
With the storms around me raging,
And no one there to care for me.

But I will do the best I can,
The noblest precepts to obey;
But sometimes tides of fierce desires,
Around my heart doth surge and sway.

I must restrain the thoughts I feel,
Now glowing in my fervent breast;
They're not conducive to my weal,
Simply a love and fear contest.

Fixed Love.

You know that I love you, yet bid me adieu,
Can happiness live when absent from you?
Will sleep on my eyelids e'er sweetly alight
When greeted no more by a tender good night?

Oh, never, for deep is the record enshrined,
Thy look and thy voice will survive in my mind;
Though age may the treasure of memory remove
Unshaken shall flourish the thought that I love.

Through life's winding valley, in anguish, in rest,
Exalted in joy, or by sorrow depressed;
Just place in the mirror that lies on my heart
Thine image shall never one moment depart.

When time, life, and all that we mortals hold dear,
Like visions, like dreams, shall at last disappear,
Though raised among seraphs to realms above,
Unshaken shall flourish the thought that I love.

New Year's Greeting.

To a loved one.

As this is the first of the year,
And I am all alone,
I thought I'd try to draw me near
To thee, my dear, my own.

Yes, I'm alone, and don't you know
I do not like to speak,
Yet I will, as 'tis fitting now,
My wanted silence break.

There is a love that in my soul
Burns silent and alone;
It kindles flames around my heart,
You know that heart's your own.

The dearest idol I have known
Is my dear Lord above;
The next one which I long to own
Is you, my precious love.

I call myself both chaste and pure,
And free from passions low;
Hence I know what I say is true,
For conscience speaketh so.

Thy Christian spirit I do prize,
For this I've surely seen;
For this thou'rt precious to my eyes
As gold and jewels sheen.

Thy sweet face I esteem indeed,
So modest and so kind;
Its presence I forever need,
May I call that face mine?

I've never written such a poem
To mortal girl before,
Because I've never loved a woman
As the one I now adore.

During the year that's past and gone,
I've launched in a new field;
That tender chord broke with a song,
And now to love I yield.

As I review my past year's work,
Some things I've left undone;
And yet I feel that I have gained,
If your confidence I've won.

I hope that I have not done that
To bring thee any pain;
For all I've done was done in love,
Dear, is my love in vain?

Throughout the year of ninety—
If lovers still we be;
Let's have that love that warms both hearts
And let our minds be free.

Miss Snow Flake and the Lovers.

Little Miss Snow Flake came to town
All dressed up in a velvet gown;
And nobody looked so fresh and fair
As little Miss Snow Flake, I declare.

Out of the cozy cloud she stepped,
Where most all of the snowflakes slept;
She thought her beauty would ne'er be known
If in a crowd, so she came alone.

All alone from the great blue sky
Where the swift clouds went scudding by,
All the way from the bright abode
Down somewhere near the city road.

There she rested near out of breath,
And there she speed'ly met her death;
And nobody could exactly tell
Just where little Miss Snow Flake fell.

But a very prominent young man,
Both for love and his heart's command
Was out that night to see his girl,
When the Miss Snow Flake gave her twirl.

So when the young man said he'd go,
He op'd the door and cried out “O!”
And he fell back most out of breath
And almost scared his girl to death.

That Miss Snow Flake of whom we speak,
Had struck the young man on the cheek;
His shoes were of the patent kind,
His overcoat he'd left behind.

And she says: “What's the matter dear?”
He says, “See how it snows out here,”
And if I have to go out doors,
I'll get frost bitten on the nose.”

These two did love from depth of heart;
In danger's realm they could not part;
And now I ask both men and maids,
Whether this man went home or stayed.

The Trip I Would Like to Take.

Man has a curious appetite,
He's all the time wishing to go;
And if he had the wings of a kite,
He'd travel this wide world o'er.

Sometime I'd like to go away,
Far over the Rocky Mountains;
Where the rainbows dance on silvery rays,
Of California's fountain.

In the rocks below, in the trees above,
In the brooklet and the river
I could read and know that God is love,
And of all good things the giver.

100

I would like to go to the Yellowstone,
And witness the giant geysers;
To see its grandure there alone,
Would surely make me wiser.

For in the roar the hissing stream,
As it issues from the crater;
I could there learn more of the boundless theme,
Of a kind and wise Creator.

Then I would go to the great Black Hills,
Across the plains of Dakota;
And take a stroll to the rippling rills,
And lakes of Minnesota.

I would sit on lake Itaska's shore
Where the Mississippi rises;
And Minnehaha's laughing roar
Would fill me with glad surprises.

I'd go to the “Dreamy city,”
Well yes, and while I was there;
I'd make myself a committee,
To witness the ruins of the fair.

I would journey then to Southern climes,
'Mid Florida's blooming bowers;
There to see God's work sublime,
In the beautiful, fragrant flowers.

101

From there I'd make a flying trip,
To the gateway city of the east;
And from its great exhibits,
And Negro arts I'd feast.

And then a little cruise I'd take,
Along the Atlantic Ocean;
To where the earth with a powerful quake
Put Charleston in wild commotion.

I would still continue on my way,
Through the Shenandoah valley,
Where the “boys in blue and the boys in gray,”
Would waver again to rally.

Then I'd go to Niagara's Falls,
And there I would learn and wonder,
For God can teach in a voice that calls
From the cataract's deafening thunder.

I'd wander over into Texas,
To visit a loving sister,
I'd talk of the days gone and past,
And tell her how I had missed her.

I would then cross into Mexico,
And visit those ancient mounds;
That were built hundreds of years ago,
Whose mystery man has not found.

102

I'd go to Italy's sunny climes,
To the “city of seven hills,”
And from its structure of ancient times,
And grandure I'd be filled.

I'd go to the unspeakable Turk,
Among the Armenian strife;
And ask them how from conscience clear,
They still took human life.

I'd go before the courts of France,
Where Waller was in jail;
I'd prick their ears with facts, and make
Their conscience go his bail.

Then I would journey to the North,
To see that Shakespearian land;
Where Hamlet said from conscious wrath
“What a piece of work is man.”

I would then go to the Holy Land,
Where the Saviour was crucified,
Then I could better keep His commands,
Seeing the place where He died.

I'd traverse all the paths of Paul,
Among the various nations;
Then I'd go where man had his fall,
And view the land of creation.

103

I'd then go into Egypt land,
Where Joseph was sent by God,
I'd stand where Moses gave command,
I'd tread where Israel trod.

I'd go into Africa's Jungles.
Where the Bible has never been,
And attempt God's word to mumble,
In the hearts of heathen men.

I'd visit then the Isles of the sea,
And view those novel scenes,
I'd tell the people what to be,
And not what they should seem.

If I was able Christian friends,
To travel this journey through,
It would not be for sights or scenes,
But teaching men to be true.

And if I could on this journey roam,
My trip would not be ended;
I'd like to view the eternal home,
And there be recommended.

104

Alone with Jesus.

Over the hills and dales, Jesus, that I strolled in the long ago,
I am wandering once again my Lord, where dame nature's teaching glow;
And I pause by the way to whisper, Lord, to the blossoms sweet and fair,
A poor little faded sorrow, Lord, there's nobody else to care.

Springtime with all its joys, Jesus, is out on the old highway,
But the breezes sigh as they pass me by and over the meadows stray;
Mournfully sigh the breezes, Lord, as they pass me standing there,
By the pine tree row where the daises grow, and nobody for me cares.

Standing alone with the trees, my Lord, I am lost in a pensive dream,
I am floating away through the happy day, when my youthful conscience gleam,
The conscience that shared my love for you, The conscience that smiled as fair,
As the promise true I was glad to view, with nobody else to care.

105

Over the hills and dales, Jesus, in the shadowing cool of day,
Comes the echo low of long ago the tenderest things to say.
And I smile anew as the twilight comes to banish my long despair
With a thought of You that is sweet and pure and wonder if You will care.

Something speaks to me, Jesus, the breezes are singing low,
Something that thrills the conscience, Lord, and gives them a brighter glow;
Something that soothes the pinching pain I have patiently learned to wear,
Through the endless day on the sweet highway, it seems, Lord, that you are there.

Then Jesus said “I'm with you now, and will be with you always,
We'll go together and make things better along the sweet highway,”
We strolled through the meadows together, the days seemed endless fair,
He told me of His home on high and the many mansions there.

106

My Bible.

From Santa Claus' most sacred nook,
Came forth this little prayerful book,
On Christmas day.

As the old year is past and gone,
And the new year begins with song,
I'll read its ray.

As we look back o'er our past lives.
And see from whence blessings derived,
We all should pray.

Oh! who so brave with earthly care,
As not to give an humble prayer,
Some part of day?

What heart so clear, so pure within,
That needeth not some check from sin,
Needs not to pray?

Mid each day's anger, what retreats,
More needful than the mercy seat,
On that last day?

What thoughts more dear than that our God, His face should hide
And say through life's swelling tide,
No time to hear?

107

You have launched your boat on life's giddy sea,
And your all is afloat for eternity,
When you have no time to pray.

You have chosen the world, with its misnamed pleasures;
You have chosen the world before heaven's own treasures,
If you have no time to pray.

When the stars are concealed, the rudder gone,
Heaven will be sealed to the wandering one,
Who has no time to pray.

The grave shall yield its prize when from the wondering skies,
Christ shall with wondering angels come, to wake those sleeping in the tomb,
Then you'll have no time to pray.

Oh! may it ever be said, that this book, by us, shall be read,
And, may we all together meet, Embracing the Redeemer's feet,
For we have time to pray.

108

Fashion.

Master of the woman's kingdom,
What is this men say of thee?
Thou art what the woman honors,
Thou art all some care to be!

And they say, you're loved by many,
Loved too often, loved too well,
Just as if there could be any
Over loving in thy swell.

Sir, no doubt these dear good people,
Were you not their earthly God,
Could build them a Christian steeple
Up to heaven, without a hod.

You and Solomon the wise man,
Are two fellows of a kind,
Just to please the wants of woman,
You would leave your soul behind.

And those sisters that can't catch you,
What a plight they must be in!
For the song you sing oft leads them
To commit an awful sin.

Now all wicked aspirations,
Do not spring from souls depraved
Into fashion. Its elation
Is the sanctity it craved.

109

In the world's long reign of struggles,
Thou hast played an active part;
Hast thou during all thy journey,
Mended up a broken heart?

Thou hast found some so despondent,
Who the name of God despise;
Hast thou tried to once control by
Pointing over to Paradise?

When thou findest men and women,
Struggling for the higher life,
Dost thou lend a hand to help them?
No, thou causest human strife!

Woman tries to be thy servant,
Disobeys dame Nature's laws,
Ere she reaches thirty summers,
Shattered frame and sunken jaws.

Ere she comes to age of duty,
Her own grave she's quickly dug,
Simply 'cause thy longing beauty,
Keeps her body in a shrug.

You go with them to the church house,
They do not hear the preacher;
You are all their heart's elation,
You are their Sunday teacher.

110

Thou hast seized the cross of Jesus,
Loaded it with new born sins;
Overloaded it with folly,
Placed it on His back again,

Thou, in thy domain of pleasure,
Crush the thorns through Jesus' crown;
Making men laugh at His passions,
And the blood that's trickling down.

Thou art in the great theatres,
Thou art on the ball room floor;
Thou art in the gambler's dungeon,
Thou dost all men's sorrows know.

Thou hast severed many fam'lies,
Children off from home have strayed;
Father sits there broken hearted,
Mother joined thy great parade.

Well, no doubt you had your troubles,
Devils blue that fought your hopes;
But you have it back in double,
Woman's kingdom in a lope.

If your lady love stuck by you,
In the mediaeval day,
Ah! dear fashion, here is to you,
In these times that is the way.

111

Always sure you have your glory,
It increases and takes well;
What the end is of thy story,
There's no paragraph to tell.

At thy feet a million people
Lie today without a breath;
Who, in worshiping thy steeple,
Found an everlasting death.

Strong Drink.

There is a crime upon this land,
That works both night and day,
It gives its wicked, dark command,
The hearts of men it sways.

It brings men from all ranks of life,
Down to the brutish tribe,
Where everything is war and strife,
And wickedness abide.

It goes into the sacred homes,
Where peace and love should be;
It makes the children long to roam,
And home affections flee.

112

It knocks the noble mother down,
It kicks her on the floor,
And makes her husband give her frown,
Which follows with a blow.

Sometimes it curses mother dear,
And stabs her bleeding heart,
And, filled with sorrow, love, and fear,
From husband's face departs.

It strips the children naked and
Leaves them without their food;
It breaks the fam'ly coral strand,
And leaves things dark and rude.

It takes the young man in his prime,
And makes him curse his mother,
But this is the beginning crime,
It takes him even further.

It makes him take the spotless heart
Of some bright, prosperous maid,
And take it to the demon mart,
And there has it arrayed.

It makes her break the marriage vow,
While in her honey moon,
And long from his demoniac rows,
To roam and cure her swoons.

113

It makes the young man poison all
The tissues of her system,
And various diseases make
This maid their deathly victim.

He soon vacates this world himself,
And leaves a weeping widow,
With mind, and soul, and heart bereft,
A past all dark and bitter.

He leaves with her an infant child,
With an intemperate birth;
To, if it lives, go and defile
Some other one of worth.

This demon takes a million youths
In every passing year,
And makes them disregard the truth,
And give to right a jeer.

It strikes a million mothers' hearts,
That should be filled with joy,
And makes their inner senses start
With “Where's my precious boy?”

It takes a million mid-life men,
From out the state and church,
And takes them to its wicked den
Where conscience walks with crutch.

114

It takes the old retiring sage,
Who should give good advice,
And makes him, in his ripe old age
Detest the living Christ.

It makes the leaders of the state
Forget that man needs limit,
And names this crime industry great,
Because there's money in it.

It fills our penitent'ry walls,
It runs the county farms;
It overflows the prison stalls,
With all its death-like charms.

Its fruits are the asylums, and
Poor-houses, and hospitals,
The gambling hell, the illfamed house,
Where satan plays the fiddle.

It wrecks the system of a man,
Promotes arterial action,
Inflames the liver and it stands
Amidst diseases' factions.

This preys upon the active lungs,
Which paints the hectic cheek,
And prophecies a sepulcher
For a consumptive freak.

115

This follows on the fatal train,
Promoting untold sadness,
Until it strikes upon the brain,
Which brings distressing madness.

The victim feels himself in hell
While he's with living men;
And he could whet the dagger well,
To take the life of friends.

His wicked passions are inflamed,
With crime, with lust, with anger,
And drops his heart in human shame
Beneath all human candor.

He seeks to hold relentless war,
With God, or man, or self;
All men to him are at a par,
His mind is all bereft.

This crime is universal,
It travels this wide world o'er,
It makes men's hearts reversal,
And puts conscience out the door.

It has swallowed generations,
And made whole nations shrink;
Its mission is damnation,
This crime is named “Strong Drink.”

116

Sam Jones.

Who is it for the last two weeks
Has been in our town.
And on the end of every tongue
We hear his name resound?

Who is it every night and day,
Would draw a mighty crowd,
And from the depth of his own heart,
Poured forth God's truth aloud?

Who was it that appealed to all,
To every class of men,
And showed the dreadful wickedness,
In their indulging sins?

Who was it called the children out
And told them what to do,
And told them what they must forbid,
To be God's children true?

Who touched that little tender chord
Within their youthful hearts,
And deep down in their youthful souls
Did God's own word impart?

117

Who called the mothers out one day
And opened to their view,
The way they must through life's conflicts
Lead their dear children through?

Who told them that their mission was
More sacred than them all,
That they built up a platform where
The child would stand or fall?

Who told the wives that selfsame day
What was their sacred duty,
And told the daughters, young and old,
That character was beauty?

Who told the young men that the world
Was hanging on its fate,
And waiting for some noble men
To fill the church and state?

And then who told the fathers dear
That they too had a hand,
That on the fam'ly's record book
Were traces of their hands?

Who told them that the faithful wife,
Who was the queen of home,
Were due all his affections, that
He had no time to roam?

118

Who told them that those children dear
Now playing at mother's knee,
Depended on their father's strength,
They'd be what father'd be?

Who called men from the gambling hell,
And told them that the cards,
That they had pushed from day to day
Would their own child retard?

Who called men from the low saloons
And told them that the cup
Would cause their sons to be like them,
No better than a pup.

Who drew the tears to Christian eyes,
And caused their souls to weep;
Who made some sinners cry aloud,
“I'll try God's word to keep?”

But time is brief and I must stop,
Do you all understand;
Excell and Steward both were there,
But Sam Jones was the man.

A Human Artist.

Would that I were an artist
And while I stand in time
I could show our youths eternity,
While they are in their prime.

119

Would that I were an artist,
And to this American nation
I'd picture out the lynching crime
And show its revelation.

Would that I were an artist,
I would draw a human heart,
I'd show to men and women
The effects of corrupted parts.

And then I'd outline Paradise,
And give a celestial view,
I'd show to men their future home,
If while on earth they're true.

Maid and Mosquito.

A maiden sat at midday hour,
Beneath a shady tree,
She heard a noise within her bower,
“My soul, what can it be?”

She looked around, but looked in vain,
For nothing met her gaze,
She quieted down to read again,
Its voice again was raised.

120

Hark! hush! I know it can't be far,
'Tis clearer than before,
Is it the whistle of the car,
Or distant thunder's roar?

Ah! soon I'll know for here it comes,
My nerves quake in their bud,
For with its long and pointed tongue
'Twill pierce and drink my blood.

My doom is sealed, I know my fate,
O! would that I were a man,
He darts from his ærial state
And lights upon her hand.

She screamed for help and raised a stick
And fought, for she could not hide,
The great mosquito gave a kick,
Fell from her hand and died.

She could not read because she had
Deep meditating thoughts,
She stood and gazed upon the spot
Where she'nd the skeeter fought.

But presently she heard a noise
Circling around her head,
And there was a score of skeeters,
Singing songs of the dead.

121

She closed her book and sat upright,
The skeeters increased their mew,
She saw she could not stand it long,
So she grabbed her book and flew.

Magna est Veritas.

I want to be a soldier,
From realms of heavenly light,
Be pure in soul, and bold in heart,
And guide all mankind right.

I want to serve the weary,
And cause a light to shine
In every path that's dreary,
To cheer when strength declines.

I want that meek and tender glory
That fills the soul with life,
So dear to youth, to age and hoary,
To all so dear and free from strife.

Our lives are unincumbered
By depressing want and woe,
And the days fly by unnumbered,
Smoothly down time's path they go.

122

I'm trying to forge a key
To ope the gates of heaven;
That key's in the hearts of men,
And back its bolts are driven.

Lord strengthen me, that while I stand
On the rock, and strong in Thee,
I may stretch out a loving hand
To wrestle a troubled sea.

Lord, teach me, that I may teach
The things thou dost impart,
Help me and my wants to reach
The depths of many a heart.

“To place my thoughts in one line,”
In a decoration of beauty,
And get behind my conscience,
My whole life's work is duty.

These words come to my mind,
“The work of the world is done by a few,”
These words come from my conscience,
“God looks for a part to be done by you.”

123

Just Married.

You've launched in a new vessel,
And down life's stream you're going,
Remember that life's tides will rise,
And life's winds will be blowing.

But while the storms are raging,
Stand by each other's side,
And just as 'tis when all is calm,
Your boat will stem the tide.

Eternal love and wisdom drew
The plan of earth and skies,
Let His great love be e'er your guide
Throughout your married lives.

May your lives be prosperous,
And always full of love,
And may you both be led by Him
Whose home's in heaven above.

All earthly good we wish thee,
All good for thee and thine,
And still not only earthly,
But all that is divine.

May heaven and earth both mingle,
May earth and heaven be one
All through your earthly journey,
Till set your earthly sun.

124

The heart that you have given,
The heart that's given to you,
May both be joined together,
May both be good and true.

In shadow and in sunshine,
In sighing and in song,
May heaven bless your union,
Throughout your whole life long.

Woman in Congress.

Well, a woman went to congress,
Because she was elected;
She lived in a woman's era,
Hence she was not objected.

All of the leading problems
Of the country's weal or woe,
Were discussed while there at congress,
And her mind was all aglow.

And a lady friend said to her;
“Did you catch the speaker's eye?”
“I sure did, and I'll tell you
The simple reason why!”

125

“I wore my navy blue bloomers,
And heliotrope skirt waist;
And his eyes were ever on me,
I dressed to suit his taste.”

This woman was a congressman
She had the states at heart;
Of course she had to dress that way,
For that's a woman's part.

Life Pictures.

One little look from mother,
Has caused the innocent child,
To go into spasmodic shame
Or a distillation of smiles.

Just one little word when spoken,
In a soft and gentle tone,
May send reviving spirits
Into a heart of stone.

Sometimes a soul that's frigid,
Though frozen up for years,
May, by an act of kindness
Be melted into tears.

126

So we, whose lives are lighted
With all the world holds dear,
Should give to those less favored
A kindly word of cheer.

These little things we count for naught,
Hold all our greatest power,
The dewdrop on the thirsty bud
Opens the fragrant flower.

Quietude.

When my daily toil is ended
And the sun begins to wane,
O, if I could find some quietude,
To dispel my care and pain.

What a peaceful change I'd witness,
How my heart with rapture'd glow,
While the murmurs of the quietude
Lull my soul in sweet repose.

Quietude while I am busy,
Calmly on the bustling shore,
Better hearts than mine can love thee,
Purer lives thy peace adore.

127

Should perchance someone enjoying
Residence within thy shrine,
Bury in thy placid bosom,
All his cares along with mine.

A Christmas Gift.

(Bible.)

Do you know that this is Christmas,
And this little book is sent
As a messenger of One who
Came to earth with good intent?

Came to earth, left home in glory,
On that first cold Christmas day,
And He's left this as a token,
Showing us the right of way.

When you ponder o'er its pages,
Think of how the Savior died,
How He suffered men's outrages,
Loved them, yet was crucified.

Can we count redemption's treasure,
Scan the glory of God's love?
Such shall be the boundless measure
Of His blessings from above.

128

When the Christmases are over,
And the Savior comes again,
May you join the happy chorus,
And in glory be ordained.

The Negro's “America.”

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Would I could sing;
Its land of Pilgrim's pride
Also where lynched men died
With such upon her tide,
Freedom can't reign.

My native country, thee
The world pronounce you free
Thy name I love;
But when the lynchers rise
To slaughter human lives
Thou closest up thine eyes,
Thy God's above.

Let Negroes smell the breeze,
So they can sing with ease
Sweet freedom's song;
Let justice reign supreme,
Let men be what they seem
Break up that lyncher's screen,
Lay down all wrong.

129

Our fathers' God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing;
How can our land be bright?
Can lynching be a light?
Protect us by thy might,
Great God our King!

Fleeting Spring.

Friends, my dear friends, do you know
That Springtime's April is gone,
And lovely May with all its show,
Has nature's spring coat on?

Birds, little birds, yes you know
That it is beautiful spring;
From tree to tree, the birdies go,
On fleeting wing!

Quaker, quaker, do you know
That the yellow is going?
More than that do you know
That the green is growing?

Singer of songs, do you know
That youth is flying?
That age, at the lock of your life,
Will soon be prying?

130

Lover of life, do you know
That youth's hue is going?
More than that, do you know
That the gray is showing?

Time—Eternity.

The Saint's Departure.

I had a dream the other night,
I saw some strange and mystic sights
That puzzled me;
Some things I saw resembled time,
And some resembled more sublime—
“Eternity.”

The oriental Persian scenes,
The tropics with their bright sunbeams,
Could not compare.
And even Italy's soft'ning hills,
Pleasant dales and rippling rills,
Would stand aglare.

I saw the sun rise in the East,
And watched to see its Western feast,
It never set;
I wandered 'round among the throng,
To see if any soul was wronged,
But none I met.

131

They all had on their bright attire,
It seem'd they never would retire
To workman's garb;
I wondered how they could exist,
Forever in a pleasure mist,
My senses throbb'd.

I strolled around the city's limit,
To find the tombstones that were in it,
And as I went
I saw towers and castles high,
But not a white slab to my eye
Said monument.

I sought to find the destitute,
And wondered why they were so mute,
I felt for them;
I could not get a single sigh,
Nor even see a tearful eye,
No face was grim.

I went into a chapel grand,
Its walls were gold. I saw a man
Stand by the door;
“There's no place for the poor I see!”
And he this answer made to me:
“We have no poor.”

132

I was perplexed, so I sat down,
Beneath a shade tree's springtime sound
And this implied:
“Sir! whence come all these loving scenes,
This landscape to our eyes serene,
Sir! where am I?”

And then out from among the leaves,
And from the pathway's flower wreathes,
And 'cross the stream;
There came a thronging band of saints,
With countenance above complaints,
Joy reigned supreme.

At first I thought I knew their voices,
Their greetings to me were the choicest,
I made a start;
But they, arrayed in shining gold,
Appeared as strangers in the fold,
I knew them not.

And when they saw me puzzled stand,
The mighty throng did clap their hands,
Saying “welcome.”
And all the mystery passed away,
The band cried out “you're here to stay,
This is heaven!”

133

I found that time had gone its trip,
Eternity had fixed its grip
On human hearts;
The rich and poor together stood,
Upon one solid brotherhood—
Never to part.

And some one said from out the throng,
“Are all here who have conquered wrong?”
He was a seer;
And voices from all generations,
Sent forth in loudest exclamation:
“We are all here.”

An angel cried “Time why depart?”
And Time replied with cheerful heart,
I used to be;
But God, the maker of mankind,
Said some day I should be defined
“Eternity.”

Class Valedictorian.

To A. R.

The struggles you have made in school,
Today are crowned with honor;
You stand now in a vestibule,
That causes you to ponder.

134

School days and childhood days must end,
And life's tempestuous storms;
From every part are coming in,
Be firm! Be true! Be calm!

In conversation once you said
The highest human standing
Would be your goal. And you'd be led
By all your rights demanding.

No matter what the world may say,
Adopt this as an omen—
That you will go the right of way,
And make yourself a woman.

A gentle voice is calling thee,
The future calls for aid;
And those stern ones in death made free,
Tell you the price they paid.

Stand forth for God and liberty,
Stand forth for human rights;
In one strong effort, worthy thee,
Soul stenciled, be a light.

Enter the field of life to do.
Not just to work for gain;
For such mottoes make men untrue,
Narrowing the heart and brain.

135

Enter not in a feverish strife,
Nor in a giddying whirl,
For these dry the fountain of life,
And gulfs the soul in a swirl.

Enter not in a dull routine,
He who was meant to be king,
Thus will be made a dull machine,
Grinding down to a thing.

Your classmates have their eyes on you,
Your kindred watch your motion,
Your friends have all your acts in view,
Your ship is on the ocean.

And world-wide Christendom at large,
Stands waiting for your action;
And God, who shaped your fleeting barge,
Has with you a transaction.

Thus environed move forward brave,
Surmount all opposition,
And on this restless human wave,
Make better man's condition.

Go forth, thou leader of the class,
With brain ahead of brawn;
Strive e'er to gain the foremost place,
Let no man take thy crown.

136

As you move off into life's sea,
With skill to use the pen;
Be thou a messenger of peace,
A beacon light to men.

Press on, you have the class's hope,
Be brave and watch your course;
Success is on ahead and you
Shall gain the wished for shores.

Should I fail, not skilled in writing,
Best advise here to produce;
From the world's great pictures view it,
Put it to the best of use.

University of Virginia Library

Preface.

Preamble.

PAST

PRESENT.

FUTURE.

At My Mother's Grave.

Memory of Mother.

Our Country.

Only.

Mother's Songs.

Spotless.

(James 1:21)

Motherly Emotions.

Consolation.

Life What We Make It.

Frances E. Harper.

Tribute

Cain and Abel.

Voice From The South.

Bishop Daniel A. Payne.

(Deceased).

Douglass Dead?

The Easter Man.

Man's Imperfections.

My Sweetheart.

[The angel who unfetter'd St. Peter]

Lincoln's Call.

Hurrah for McKinley!

The Call All Must Obey.

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Works.

“Uncle Tom's Cabin.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe's Monument.

Sonnet, October.

Maceo—Cuba's Liberator.

Y. M. C. A. Founder.

Sir Geo. Williams.

Best Thing in the World.

From Degradation Through Supplication to Education.

The Negro.

The Model Girl.

Love's Labor Lost.

Deception.

Love Regained.

Love and Fear Contest.

Fixed Love.

New Year's Greeting.

Miss Snow Flake and the Lovers.

The Trip I Would Like to Take.

Alone with Jesus.

My Bible.

Fashion.

Strong Drink.

Sam Jones.

A Human Artist.

Maid and Mosquito.

Magna est Veritas.

Just Married.

Woman in Congress.

Life Pictures.

Quietude.

A Christmas Gift.

(Bible.)

The Negro's “America.”

Fleeting Spring.

Time—Eternity.

The Saint's Departure.

Class Valedictorian.