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 WfrM^ 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
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CHARLES FRED. WHITE. 
 
Plea of the Negro Soldier 
 
 AND 
 
 A Hundred Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 CORPORAL CHARLES FRED. WHITE 
 
 CHAPLAIN OF WESLEY S. BRASS CAMP 
 
 NO. 37, UNITED SPANISH 
 
 WAR VETERANS. 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 ENTERPRISE PRINTING COMPANY, 
 EASTHAMPTON, MASS. 
 
Copyrighted 1908 by Charles Fred. White. 
 
This book is lovingly dedicated to my mother 
 and sisters, whose every prayer has been for my 
 success. 
 
 The Author. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Plea of the Negro Soldier - - 140 
 
 Preface 9 
 
 Foreword - 1 1 
 
 I Thank Thee, Lord 17 
 
 Prayer 18 
 
 The South's Ungoiden Rule 19 
 
 Jollity 20 
 
 Meditations of a Negro's Mind. I. 21 
 
 " II. - 23 
 
 Afro-America 25 
 
 Mediations of a Negro's Mind. III. 26 
 
 A Letter to my Sister - 27 
 
 The Holidays 30 
 
 Song of a Summer Breeze 32 
 
 An Easter Morn 35 
 
 An Incident 36 
 
 Love 39 
 Encouragement - 40 
 
 Thoughts of Thanksgiving - 41 
 In Honor of Lincoln - 42 
 
 Spring 43 
 What is Love? - 44 
 
 Past Memories - 45 
 
 Sabbath 47 
 
 Play of the Imagination 48 
 5 
 
Despondency - 49 
 
 War's Inspiration - 50 
 
 To Lillian - 51 
 
 To H. P. L. 51 
 
 To the Girls of Kenwood - 53 
 
 The Eighth Illinois in Ctrba 54 
 
 The Eighth Returning from Cuba - 56 
 
 The Negro Volunteer 58 
 
 A Hymn of Counsel - 60 
 
 December 63 
 
 At Evening - 65 
 
 A Historical Review 66 
 
 Content - 72 
 
 Caution 73 
 
 One Year Ago - 74 
 
 Struggle With Temptation 77 
 
 A Tale of Hearts - 78 
 
 A Blighted Life 80 
 
 A Student's Christmas Parting - 83 
 
 Advice to a Friend 84 
 
 The Minor Chord of Life - 85 
 
 From the Stage of Life 86 
 
 Presentation Poem - 92 
 
 Hallowe'en 93 
 
 As We Should Be - 95 
 
 A Valued Lesson 96 
 
 A Western Reverie - - - 98 
 
Vale Dico 99 
 
 On the Death of Dunbar 101 
 
 Written at the Request of a Skeptic 103 
 
 Written in an Album - - 103 
 
 Fidelity 104 
 
 Satan's Dream - 105 
 
 To the Organ 107 
 
 To a Rose at Williston 108 
 
 The Death of the Leaves 10 
 
 Written on a Christmas Gift - 12 
 
 My Sisters 1 3 
 
 The Day of Rest 1 4 
 
 On the Gift of a Whiskbroom 15 
 
 On the Gift of a Thermometer - 1 5 
 
 On a Clothesbrush 15 
 
 The Hearts of America - 16 
 
 To a Bunch of Carnations - 1 7 
 
 To a Friend - - 19 
 
 The Burial of the Past 1 20 
 
 In May . 121 
 
 Written on a Christmas Card - 122 
 
 A November Sabbath Morn - 122 
 
 To the Wind of the Night - 125 
 
 Desolation 126 
 He Who Laughed Last, Laughed Best 128 
 
 A Tale of a Youth of Brown - 130 
 
 Meditations of a Negro's Mind. V, 132 
 
A Memorial of Childhood - 135 
 
 A November Eventide 136 
 
 Memorial Day in Easthampton 138 
 
 Meditations of a Negro's Mind. VI. 144 
 
 To Chicago - 146 
 
 Happiness is Heaven 149 
 
 A Hero's Deed - 150 
 
 Consolation . 154 
 
 As We Love So Are We Loved - 155 
 
 Our Recompense 156 
 
 To Williston at Parting - 156 
 
 Louise 158 
 
 Woman 159 
 
 The Birdie That Has Flown 159 
 
 Is Macbeth a "God in Ruins?" - 161 
 
 Williston Battle Song 162 
 
 The Latent Thought 1 63 
 
 Shakespeare Modernized 165 
 
 Meditations of a Negro's Mind. VII. 166 
 
 To One Unknown - 166 
 
 A Lover's Proposal 168 
 
 Only the Span of a Life - 1 70 
 
 Our Aim in Life - 171 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 To all who may perchance peruse the pages of 
 this book 
 
 These lines are written. 
 
 To all who may misunderstand their meaning 
 full these lines 
 
 Are dedicated. 
 
 To those of studious nature who are wont to 
 criticise 
 
 They are submitted. 
 
 To those whose comprehension will allow them 
 to enjoy 
 
 They are dictated. 
 
 To those whose curiosity may cause them to ob- 
 tain 
 
 This book to read it; 
 
 To those who in their lonely hours would be 
 consoled awhile, 
 
 Or who may heed it; 
 
 To those who love to read the inmost feelings 
 of a soul 
 
 Lonely and blighted; 
 9 
 
To those whose hearts are kind and good and 
 who with simple things 
 Are much delighted; 
 
 I recommend these unkempt lines with pleasure 
 and good will 
 
 To entertain them: 1 
 
 These murmurings of ill content and 'happiness 
 combined 
 
 With love of nature, 
 
 Encompassing the remnant of ambitions, cir- 
 cumstance 
 
 Of which restrained them 
 From measuring their height, yet have not their 
 persistence lost 
 Nor temperature. 
 
 Charles Fred. White. 
 
FOREWORD. 
 
 If you had been deprived of an education in 
 your early youth; if then you had run away from 
 home to obtain that education and found, after 
 some ten or eleven years of knocking and being 
 knocked about, that you could not save money 
 enough out of your scant earnings to pay for 
 your schooling; if, during those years, you had 
 traveled through nearly every state between Bos- 
 ton and San Francisco and from Virginia,Ten- 
 nessee and Arkansas to the southern part of 
 Canada, being compelled to work, generally, in 
 menial positions if you wished to keep from 
 starving; you would not think you had been very 
 fortunate in life. 
 
 If you had walked the streets of a great city 
 by day, sometimes with only five cents in your 
 pockets and only a scant meal in your stomach 
 for several hours, and all one December night 
 stood in the archway of a church door to rest 
 from a weary day of job hunting; if you had lived 
 upon scant means, compelled to support yourself, 
 11 
 
often being physically hungry in an endeavor to 
 satisfy your mental hunger for knowledge; if, 
 again, you had been compelled to leave school 
 for a year or two because of lack of means; you 
 would think that yours was indeed a hard, rough 
 lot. 
 
 If your dear, grayhaired grandmother, whom 
 you had taught to write while yet you were a 
 child in turn for her reading, self taught, "the 
 Bible to you, had told you how she was cruelly 
 sold from her mother and sisters while but a 
 mere girl and that she had never again seen any 
 of them; if she had pictured to your infant mind, 
 while tears came stealing down her cheeks, the 
 inhuman beating and torture administered to her 
 and her fellow slaves by her "Christian" mas- 
 ters; if she had bared her arm, her back, her 
 breast, and showed unto your childish vision the 
 cruel scars, the heritage of all her life of bonded 
 toil, which she would bear until her death; if she 
 had afterwards told you how beastly, how shame- 
 fully, how disgracefully she had been treated by 
 those Caucasian brutes, who distorted the Holy 
 Word into sponsor for their crime; if your grand- 
 father had described to you as you sat upon his 
 knee the indignity and torture heaped upon him 
 and his while he was a slave; if your own mother 
 12 
 
and father, born in slavery, had related to you 
 the insult, wrong and injustice meted out to them 
 after the war by their good white friends of the 
 South, which they had left never to return; you 
 would hardly feel that any folk but black folk 
 were your friends. 
 
 If you had served your country in the ranks of 
 the volunteer army in foreign war, when that 
 country did not protect your life, nor even your 
 property, at home, when you could not be sure 
 that upon your return you would not find that 
 some friend or relative had been despoiled of life, 
 liberty or property without due process of law; If 
 you had afterwards arrived one day in Denver, 
 Colorado, tired and hungry, and been refused 
 anything to eat in three or four public restaurants, 
 notwithstanding you had offered money to pay 
 for it.especially when you were neatly dressed 
 and well behaved; if you had plodded wearily 
 through the sultry, dusty streets of the business 
 section of St. Louis, Missouri, on a hot summer 
 day, parching with thirst, while not a druggist, 
 confectioner, nor anyone else whom you asked 
 would either give or sell you a drink of water or 
 soda; if then you had walked across the bridge 
 over the Mississippi to East St. Louis, Illinois, 
 and been given a glass of warm dishwater to 
 13 
 
drink by a man who had been kind enough to 
 sell you a sandwich from his lunch cart; if you 
 had been refused a glass of soda phosphate, to 
 relieve a depression, in a drug store in the heart 
 of Cincinnati, Ohio, (the home of Secretary 
 W. H. Taft) or a dish of ice cream at the gate 
 of the United States Army barracks at Fort 
 Thomas, Kentucky, or if you had been "jim- 
 crowed" in Little Rock, Arkansas; if you had 
 been threatened with lynching by a mob of Mis- 
 souri whites because you fought for your own 
 rights; if even in many places in the North you 
 had been proscribed, ostracised and mistreated, 
 refused lodging, or recognition which you un- 
 doubtedly deserved; and all this for no other 
 reason than that your complexion is darker than 
 the hue of those who so misuse you, you would 
 surely think this a wretched and ungrateful 
 country. 
 
 So, while reading the poems on the following 
 pages, if you think that sometimes they are too 
 radical or harsh, turn back to this foreword, read 
 it again, and, taking for granted that the author's 
 own experience is here but briefly told and that 
 these writings are based upon actual facts, con- 
 sider whether they are harsher than that exper- 
 ience. Then consider further that this same 
 14 
 
person has absolutely no prejudice towards any 
 human being on account of race, color or creed, 
 that he thinks as much of one person as of any 
 other, SQ long as he is treated well and justly, 
 for 
 
 The soul has no color but of eyes, 
 Possesses no malice, no disguise: 
 The soul knows no creed but love and faith; 
 It knows only man; it knows no race: 
 consider also that he lives in harmony with every- 
 one who will be congenial to him; and, after all, 
 ask yourself whether he is not partly right, whether 
 you yourself could love a country and a people 
 who had treated you as herein stated. 
 
 C.F.W. 
 
I THANK THEE, LORD. 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast brought 
 Me to this age, that Thou hast wrought 
 Such miracles and wondrous things 
 Beneath the shadow of Thy wings. 
 Forever and anon I'll sing 
 The praise of Jesus Christ, my King. 
 
 Tis Thou who made all things we see; 
 Thou who hast always watched o'er me 
 While in the toils of life entwined; 
 Who ever unto Thee hast bound 
 Me with thy love, so rich and kind, 
 And showed to me the way around 
 All things which blemish or would mar 
 Thy glory, which doth from me bar 
 The sinful fiends of wickedness 
 Which, but for Thee, would me possess: 
 To Thee do I my glad voice raise; 
 To Thee I ever will sing praise. 
 
 Come, all ye lands and join the throng; 
 Sing out His praises loud and long; 
 Walk in the path that He has trod; 
 Give glory to almighty God. 
 Come, join with me, and we will blend 
 Our voices, and we'll heav'nward send, 
 17 
 
Hosanna! Thine the glory be 
 Who died for us and made us free! 
 1898. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Lord, our God and Father up in heav'n, we 
 
 praise Thy name: 
 May Thy kingdom holy on this earth e'er be 
 
 the same. 
 Thou art everlasting through all time .that is 
 
 to come: 
 Thou art ever welcoming us to our heavenly 
 
 home. 
 Holy, holy, holy Lord, we pray Thee keep us 
 
 ever: 
 Guide and keep us in the right and ne'er Thy 
 
 succor sever; 
 For, though we may think we're strong, we; are 
 
 yet very weak; 
 So we lean on Thy great arm the while Thy 
 
 way we seek. 
 1398. 
 
 18 
 
THE SOUTH'S UNGOLDEN RULE, 
 
 OR 
 
 AN AMERICAN RIDDLE. 
 
 Contented, he was lured from homeland; 
 
 Free, he has been captive made; 
 Though human, he was bound in chains and 
 
 Sold like beast in slavery's trade. 
 
 Kind-hearted, he was beat and tortured, 
 Though resentless, he was killed; 
 
 Forgiving, was his wife extorted, 
 Forced to yield to brutish will. 
 
 Obedient, he was made to labor; 
 
 Faithful, he was starved and scarred; 
 Deserving, he was shown no favor; 
 
 Handsome, his offspring was marred. 
 
 Religious, worship was denied him; 
 
 Truthful, he has been profaned; 
 Though grateful, white men have belied him; 
 
 Dead, his corpse was torn and maimed. 
 
 Progressive, was deprived of learning; 
 Though respectful, driv'n to shame; 
 Though innocent, was lynched by burning: 
 
 Has not of his own a name. 
 Sept., 1900. 
 
 19 
 
JOLLITY. 
 
 Ah! You're quite a jolly girl I see. 
 
 Where are you from? 
 You are just the kind I'd have you be; 
 
 You're full of fun;< ,u*i* 
 Always telling jokes, with pretty smiles 
 
 Upon your face. 
 Thus you pass away the tiresome whiles 
 
 With ease and grace. 
 
 .ut-*' psf.,y-!t> ox iiittt* ._;, jaf&stri 
 Ha! Ha! Ha! You say you're always gay, 
 
 Content and free? 
 Well, I know you've been quite so to-day; 
 
 So full of glee. 
 It is better, I suppose* to bear 
 
 Life as it comes, 
 Let it go as best it may, and care 
 
 Not when 'tis done. 
 
 Life is not of such worth that it ought 
 To be the cause* ->'*: j? ^p: 
 
 Of a constant worry* making naught 
 One's pleasant joys. 
 
 Of this short existence we know but 
 Present and past: 
 20 
 
Future lifts her veil not, lingers not, 
 But glides so fast 
 
 That no man has ever felt her wrath, 
 
 Nor heard her speak: 
 So we're blindly stumbling 'long her path 
 
 Each day and week. 
 Thus we go through life at her behest, 
 
 And we should be 
 Happy, with a hope some day to rest 
 
 On Future's knee. 
 Sept., 1900. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND, I. 
 
 [Read at a mass meeting in the state capitol building 
 at Springfield, Illinois, 1899.] 
 
 Had I a land that I might call my home, 
 
 I would be glad; 
 But I'm compelled this cruel world to roam 
 
 With feeling sad, 
 B ecause the Lord, in his wise way, preferred 
 
 To make me black; 
 Therefore the lighter races of this earth 
 
 Would keep me back. 
 21 
 
Methinks, sometimes, it is a hard, rough lot 
 
 The Negro has to bear, willing or not: 
 
 He's scorned and driv'n about from door to door 
 
 Without an open ear to his implore; 
 
 Without a heart's being touched by his sad plight; 
 
 Without a hand to help his way to fight, 
 
 Save that of God, who doth all things aright. 
 
 Two hundred eighty years have past and gone 
 Since first he trod upon this unkind land: 
 
 Two hundred eighty years of basest wrong 
 Pollute this nation's history, to stand 
 
 As long as this creation shall extend, 
 
 Though not recorded by historian's pen. 
 
 The boasted pride sung by this populace, 
 The liberty and freedom talked upon 
 
 Are not enjoyed by this darker race, 
 Although these do by right to it belong. 
 
 A flag which doth enshroud beneath its fold 
 Such deeds of crime unwritten and untold, 
 Save by the hand and tongue of the oppressed, 
 Or by a friend, of whom we few possess, 
 Is not a flag of freedom, nor for right, 
 However long it wave, or to what height. 
 
 Yet, such a flag does now wave o'er our head, 
 Intent our names to hide of martyred dead; 
 22 
 
But no; the Negro's tongue shall not be hushed, 
 Nor his protesting feeling e'er be crushed, 
 Until the hand of dastard crime is stayed 
 And bound by freedom's laws, .by free men made. 
 May, 1899. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND, IT. 
 
 Doth negro claim existence now 
 Who meek to unjust laws would bow 
 Without a protest on his brow, 
 
 And call himself a man? 
 Doth live a member of our race 
 Who dares not coward villains face 
 To drive them from their hiding place, 
 
 And thus for his rights stand? 
 
 Was e'er a dark hued infant born, 
 In childhood from Its mother torn 
 And reared up in this land of scorn, 
 
 And yet doth love this land? 
 Was ever slave upon this soil 
 Contented year by year to toil 
 23 
 
While ne'er, within, his blood did boil 
 To unshackle his hand? 
 
 Did e'er, while this proud nation's slave, 
 A negro's heart within him rave, 
 Yet, never he an utt'/ance gave, 
 
 And claim right to this sod? 
 Did e'er Caucasian trade or bart 
 In human souls with dev'lish art, 
 Nor once was turned his stony heart, 
 
 And claim to serve his God? 
 
 Did e'er one of this paler tribe 
 Despoil his darker brother's bride, 
 Defy the law with threat or bribe, 
 
 And boast an honored name? 
 Did e'er a statesman in this land 
 Boast of his firm and rightful stand, 
 Nor tried to loose the fettered hand, 
 
 And claim a right to fame? 
 March, 1900. 
 
AFRO- AMERICA. 
 
 [Read at a mass meeting in the state capitol building: 
 at Springfield, Illinois, 1899.] 
 
 Oh Country, 'tis to thee, 
 Land of the lynching bee, 
 
 To thee we wail. 
 
 How long shall these base wrongs 
 Pollute thy freedom's songs? 
 To thee the right belongs 
 
 Them to assail. 
 
 Our native country, see 
 How we long to be free 
 
 To live and love. 
 We long to see the time 
 When this most heinous crime 
 Shall change to deeds divine, 
 
 Like those above. 
 
 Let waitings swell on high, 
 Let rocks, trees, hills, all cry, 
 
 "God's will be done:" 
 Let Christian souls arouse, 
 Let all our cause espouse 
 And keep our fathers' vows 
 
 Ere ruin come. 
 25 
 
Now, gracious God, to Thee 
 In Thine all-wise mercy, 
 
 We do appeal: 
 
 May this land soon be brought 
 Out of this doom it's wrought, 
 For long, in vain, we've sought 
 
 Freedom to feel. 
 May, 1899. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND, III. 
 
 I wonder why the Negro should be hated; 
 
 He has done no great wrong unto mankind: 
 He was out of the same crude dust created 
 
 As all the rest of human race, I find. 
 
 He's tried to do the best that he knew how to, 
 Although he was oppressed in shameful bond; 
 
 Persisted not to do what he should not do; 
 To duty's call he always did respond. 
 
 Sept., 19 00. 
 
 26 
 
A LETTER TO MY SISTER, 
 
 Allene, sweet sister, with the blood 
 Of youth yet coursing through your cheeks, 
 I was informed, not long ago, 
 That you had quit attending school. 
 What is the cause that you should act 
 So rashly as to stop your search 
 Through that enormous library 
 Piled up by Time in ages past 
 And guarded with unceasing care 
 By fond Existence? I wish that 
 You might know the full value of 
 An education. I think you 
 Would reconsider soon your act 
 And turn again toward the path 
 Of learning, and would never cease 
 To delve into the depths of things 
 Unthought by others. I suppose, 
 Though, that you have considered all 
 This thoroughly, and have resolved 
 That 'tis as well for you to stop. 
 Yet, I cannot but think that you 
 Have acted wrongly. Surely you 
 Will in some future year regret 
 That you have thought it wise and well 
 To discontinue the pursuit 
 27 
 
Of knowledge. I should you advise 
 
 To get all education that 
 
 Can well be stored within your brain; 
 
 For nothing that you learn will be 
 
 Of any disadvantage to 
 
 You through the life that is to last 
 
 Until your death. If you have learned 
 
 To deeply think upon the things 
 
 Brought up in daily studies, 'twill 
 
 Help you to think more thoroughly 
 
 Into the cares of daily life; 
 
 No matter what their size or weight. 
 
 I was surprised, indeed, and sad 
 To hear you had determined thus 
 To forfeit your good chance to be 
 In future time a person of 
 Great wealth in wit and lore of books. 
 
 Since I was taken out of school 
 I've often wished that I might find 
 An opportunity to go 
 To school again. I'd like to have 
 A college course of quite four years, 
 Which I intend some day to get, 
 E'en though I may be then some years 
 A senior o'er my present age. 
 28 
 
When you and Lilian had begun 
 
 To study music, you recall 
 
 The fact that you cared naught for it, 
 
 While Lilian studied much and learned 
 
 Quite readily to play: so well 
 
 That afterwards you were inspired 
 
 With full desire to be equipped 
 
 To play as well as she? Forthwith 
 
 You then began to practice much 
 
 And study more than you at first 
 
 Did care to; so that now you have 
 
 Succeeded quite in learning well 
 
 To chant the strains of sweetness deep 
 
 And melody upon the keys 
 
 Of the piano, bringing forth 
 
 The deep expressions, beauties and 
 
 The symphonies of art and life. 
 
 So, in the years when Lilian 
 Has graduated from her class 
 At high school, and equipped herself 
 With lore of books, you will regret 
 That you did not advantage take 
 Of time, then past, by draining all 
 The books in reach of their great wealth 
 Of countless treasures, precious gems, 
 And hiding them away within 
 29 
 
Your chest of memory, to use 
 At times when they are needed most. 
 Therefore, I'd be much pleased if you 
 Would continue your term of school 
 And finish honorably and well. 
 Nov., 1900. 
 
 THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 T'ward the last of bleak December 
 When the northern fields are bare, 
 
 When the trees are still and leafless, 
 And the frost flies through the air, 
 
 When the bluebird has flown southward 
 And the robin seeks more warmth, 
 
 When wild-goose and duck have had their 
 Summer outing in the north, 
 
 Then the hare and deer are hunted 
 
 By the jolly city folk 
 Who have left their toil and business; 
 
 Donned their winter cap and cloak. 
 30 
 
Then the farmer has his pleasure, 
 For the harvest has been stored 
 
 In the barns and sheds for winter, 
 And the fruit preserved and lowered 
 
 To the cellar for safe keeping, 
 And the winter meat is cured. 
 
 Squirrel, too, has hid his acorns 
 In some safe spot and secured. 
 
 When the student's mind is wearied 
 
 With the studies of the fall 
 And the melancholy days have 
 
 Settled calmly over all, 
 
 Then begins a week of pleasure 
 Known to us as "Holidays." 
 
 Christmas Eve is first to greet us 
 With its joyous rhymes and lays. 
 
 On this night we hang our stockings 
 
 Side by side along the wall 
 To be filled with toys and sweet things 
 
 By Saint Nicholas, as he's called. 
 
 On the next day, then, we get up 
 When the sun at early morn 
 
 Peeps out on the joys before him: 
 Christmas day, when Christ was born, 
 31 
 
All this day we're gay and mirthful; 
 
 One whole week is spent in glee; 
 Then comes New Year's day with all its 
 
 Vows to be, or not to be. 
 
 So the world begins its journey 
 
 Through the coming year of strife, 
 Mingling all its joys and sorrows 
 To compose what we call life. 
 Dec., 1900. 
 
 SONG OF A SUMMER BREEZE. 
 
 I have come, as it were, from nowhere; 
 
 I have no cherished home: 
 I am welcomed by high and low folk, 
 
 Wherever I may roam. 
 
 Oft I come, as a gust or soft wind, 
 
 With gentleness and glee; 
 For a while I will linger, and then 
 
 I'm gone as silently. 
 
 Though I come over dismal marshland, 
 I bring not its foul air; 
 32 
 
Though I come from the grave, or death bed, 
 I bring not their despair; 
 
 Though I travel o'er plain and mountain, 
 
 I bring not weary hours; 
 Though o'er desert I pass, or rockland, 
 
 I've naught but soft, sweet flowers. 
 
 Though the sunlight forsake my pathway, 
 
 My heart seems light and free; 
 Though the world may be filled with sorrow, 
 
 I bring it not with me. 
 
 Oft on cold snowy days I fly through 
 
 The chilled and frosty air, 
 Causing icicled trees to shed tears 
 
 While worn by winter's care. 
 
 In the spring I revive the flowers, 
 
 The trees, the grass; the bird 
 Sings, the bee and the brook make music 
 
 As sweet as you have heard. 
 
 In the summer I breathe on warm days 
 
 And cause them to withdraw 
 Their intense heat; I make the green fields 
 
 The prettiest e'er you saw. 
 
 As I fly through the land, I gather 
 The sweetest for my store. 
 33 
 
Oft I come in the sad, still autumn 
 To soothe some soul that's sore. 
 
 I have sorrows and cares and troubles 
 
 As deep and great as yours, 
 But I cover them o'er with laughter, 
 
 And bind them up secure 
 
 With the chords of delight and kindness, 
 Then paint them well with smiles 
 
 And distribute them to the lonely 
 To turn away the whiles. 
 
 I invade the repose of sick room 
 
 And fan the fevered brow. 
 In seclusion of love I'm list'ning, 
 
 To mark the sacred vow. 
 
 In the solemnness deep of worship, 
 
 In hour of fervent prayer, 
 Oft I busy myself with wafting 
 
 A breath of solace there. 
 
 I have come, from where?-From the unknown, 
 
 A mystery I seem. 
 I shall pass, and no man shall see me: 
 
 Return but as a dream. 
 Feb., 1901. 
 
 34 
 
AN EASTER MORN. 
 
 Brightly now the sun is shining 
 On this Easter Sabbath morn: 
 
 Voices heav'nward are inclining; 
 And the sky's without a scorn. 
 
 Beautiful white clouds are moving 
 'Cross the broad expanse of blue 
 
 Which o'erhangs the earth, so soothing, 
 Reflecting its azure hue 
 
 In the ponds, the streams and rivers, 
 Lending color to their depth. 
 
 In the breeze the dead grass quivers 
 As if it received fresh breath. 
 
 Mildness hovers in the weather, 
 Gently nursing Easter's form 
 
 As the rich and poor together 
 Nursed the baby which was born, 
 
 Years ago, within a manger 
 In the far East, we are told. 
 
 (Though He was to them a stranger, 
 They took Him fine stones and gold.) 
 
 Warmth and pleasantness are keeping 
 Hand in hand with light and air: 
 35 
 
Through the sod the grass is creeping: 
 Happiness seems everywhere. 
 
 Not more perfect in the springtime 
 Could a day be than is this, 
 
 Stripped of all of winter's cold clime, 
 With a touch of summer's bliss. 
 
 Yet, with all the joy and sunshine, 
 
 There's some rain beneath the sod. 
 Though a life be mirthful, sometime 
 Through a dismal swamp it's trod. 
 April, 1901. 
 
 AN INCIDENT 
 
 A charming maid got on the train 
 With mother and her father, 
 
 Bound for the western hill and plain, 
 Expecting naught to bother. 
 
 But soon there came a trim young man 
 
 Who rushed up to the car, 
 Excited, with expression wan, 
 
 And asked of me how far 
 36 
 
He'd have to go to get some flowers, 
 
 I told him he might find 
 Some at the news stand. All his powers 
 
 Of haste he then aligned, 
 
 In order to return before 
 
 The time the train should leave; 
 
 For at first sight he'd loved her more 
 Than she could well believe. 
 
 He happened to be at the same 
 
 Hotel where she had stayed, 
 And when she in to dinner came 
 
 He saw and loved the maid. 
 
 He had not met this sweet, French Miss, 
 
 (Now formally, I mean,) 
 But he had learned her name was " Thyss," 
 
 When he her face had seen. 
 
 He found the flow'rs, in haste returned, 
 
 And sent them in to her; 
 His mind was wild, his heart had yearned 
 
 Her sympathy to stir. 
 
 She knew him not, nor e'en had thought 
 
 That she was thus admired. 
 She was surprised much and was fraught 
 
 With wonder, and desired 
 37 
 
To see the person who had sent 
 
 This token of respect; 
 So to the vestibule she went 
 
 And asked his name to get. 
 
 I knew him not better than she. 
 
 Impatiently he paced 
 The platform along side of me, 
 
 Until the maid he faced. 
 
 He tried to say something to her, 
 But failed; his voice was weak; 
 
 His lips uttered a faint murmur; 
 But thus his heart did speak: 
 
 "Comme le del est si bleu, 
 
 Pour vous mon pauvre coeur est en feu; 
 Comme mon coeur lest ce jour, 
 
 Je parlerai d' amour toujours." 
 
 " Voulez-vous m' accepter? 
 
 Puis-je mon coeur, en fin, vous laisser? 
 Je vous aime, chere mademoiselle, 
 
 Et la, sans vous, mon coeur est frele." 
 May, 1901. 
 
LOVE. 
 
 tPublished in the Exeter (N. H.) News-Letter, 1904.] 
 
 In the soul is born a feeling, 
 
 Or a sentiment, called love, 
 Which is nursed, caressed and cherished 
 
 With care, tender, from Above. 
 
 By the law of God, who made us, 
 
 By the guidance of its like, 
 It selects a life companion 
 
 From where'er its fancies strike. 
 
 Often does it make an error; 
 
 Oft is deceived in its find; 
 Oft is scorned and turned back coldly; 
 
 Oft brings sadness to the mind. 
 
 By the, law of man 'tis given 
 As a trust, with cupid's seal, 
 
 To be nurtured, fondly cared for: 
 Thus becomes life's woe or weak 
 
 By the law of changeful nature. 
 
 It is made to ill agree; 
 In its haste has oft been blinded 
 
 By some false identity. 
 
 On its whims have hung great fortunes, 
 Or the fates of great careers. 
 39 
 
By the sting of its rejection, 
 
 Lives have been engulfed in tears. 
 
 Hearts have yearned for its fond presence: 
 E'en grim Death has stayed his stroke 
 
 To permit this magic power 
 To repair a heart, once broke. 
 
 For love's sake have lives been ended: 
 From its joy has sorrow fled: 
 
 To its care is honor trusted. 
 
 Souls bereft of love are dead. 
 May, 1901. 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT. 
 
 'Tis not winter time yet, my dear heart, 
 Though autumn has crept through the air; 
 
 Tis not time to be sad and lonely; 
 There's no need to live in despair. 
 
 The birds are yet singing with sweetness; 
 
 The grass is yet growing and green. 
 The streams are yet rippling and merry; 
 
 The snow-clad hills are not yet seen. 
 
 40 
 
The flowers are yet full and handsome; 
 
 The squirrel yet plays in the trees; 
 The sun has lost none of his lustre; 
 
 There's some warmth yet left in the breeze, 
 
 Therefore, dear heart, cheer up, be mirthful; 
 
 Throb not with less vigor and vim; 
 Thy blood flows as freely as ever; 
 
 Thy life is yet nourished by Him. 
 Oct., 1901. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF THANKSGIVING 
 
 Thanksgiving day is coming soon, 
 
 That long remembered day 
 When nature gives her blessed boon 
 
 To all America. 
 
 On that glad day, in all our land, 
 
 The people, in their wake, 
 Give thanks to God, whose mighty hand 
 
 Deals blessings good and great. 
 
 The roast goose, steaming on the plate, 
 The sweet potato cobbler, 
 41 
 
The cranberry sauce, the pudding baked, 
 The seasoned turkey gobbler, 
 
 All these delights and many more, 
 From north, south, west and east, 
 
 Do all the nation keep in store 
 For this Thanksgiving feast. 
 
 Alas, for those who are denied 
 
 This blessed boon of God! 
 May all the needy be supplied 
 
 Like Israel by the rod. 
 Nov., 1895. 
 
 IN HONOR OF LINCOLN. 
 
 Hall! ye heroes who yet stand! 
 Hail the martyr of our land! 
 Hail him who for his country delved! 
 Him who the great rebellion quelled! 
 
 Him who rent our fetters twain, 
 Him who broke the clanking chain 
 Which 'round our lives did e'er entwine, 
 Resounding loud its doleful chime! 
 
 42 
 
On, oh nation, strong and great, 
 Though the world predict thy fate! 
 The future may yet have in store 
 Some deed to test thy strength of yore. 
 
 On, oh nation, in thy might, 
 Ever upward in thy flight! 
 Hail Lincoln, though to rest he's laid, 
 Who freed us by God's mighty aid. 
 Jan., 1896. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The day is mild, the spring is here, 
 The blithest season of the year: 
 Although the ground's o'erlaid with snow, 
 The sun sends forth his warming glow. 
 
 The trees will soon begin to bud 
 And, as the sun dries up the mud, 
 The dandelion may be seen, 
 With yellow head and clad in green. 
 
 The children homeward wend their way, 
 Some hurry on, some stop to play. 
 
 43 
 
Their lessons for the day are done; 
 From school they march out, one by one. 
 
 I see, across yon vacant space, 
 
 As through the trees my visions trace, 
 
 A dairy wagon with its load 
 
 Of milk and butter on the road. 
 
 The geese and chickens all are out 
 And picking at the first green sprout, 
 As through the shallow snow it peeps, 
 While warm, spring wind above it sweeps. 
 
 I sit within my humble wall 
 Reflecting over winter's fall: 
 It seems to me but yesterday 
 With kingly pomp he held his sway. 
 March, 1896. 
 
 WHAT IS LOVE? 
 
 Love: what is love; 
 That fascinating power, divine, 
 Which fills the heart with thoughts sublime, 
 Which causes men to tear their hair, 
 44 
 
Which brings delight and brings despair 
 Into the peaceful mind? 
 
 In vain, in vain, I've delved to find, 
 To fathom from its mystic rhyme, 
 As down the stealthy roll of time 
 It spreads its blessings o'er mankind, 
 Or, laughing wildly at his fear, 
 Sends down its vengeance, year by year, 
 The incantations of this word 
 Which, though I sleep, are ever heard. 
 
 Perchance, some mortal who has found 
 Himself within this magic mound 
 Of uninvited thought can give 
 The explanation of this myth 
 Which has, by its unwonted skill, 
 Defied the universe at will 
 For these long years. 
 May. 1896. 
 
 PAST MEMORIES. 
 
 As I look on the dreary day, 
 
 From which the warmth of sun has flown, 
 My thoughts seem wand'ring far away, 
 
 As though past mem'ries back had blown. 
 45 
 
Yet, while the day is dark and drear 
 
 And I am sitting all alone, 
 A thought, which brings to me good cheer, 
 
 Betakes my mind to home, sweet home. 
 
 I think of all the loved ones there, 
 Of brothers, and of sisters, too, 
 
 Of father, and of mother fair 
 Who guided me my young days through. 
 
 Of grandpa, also, old and gray, 
 In Tennessee's far, southern land, 
 
 Who toils on sadly, day by day, 
 With withered, feebly active hand. 
 
 Cheer up, grandfather, and be gay, 
 For, though this life to sorrow's given, 
 
 You soon will leave and go away 
 To your companion, now in heaven. 
 
 Life is but a mortal casing 
 
 For the soul while here on earth; 
 Ever with an eye upraising 
 
 To our Father's heav'nly hearth. 
 Feb., 1897. 
 
 46 
 
SABBATH. 
 
 Tis a pleasant Sunday morning, 
 
 And the sun is shining clear, 
 Ever giving us a warning 
 
 That our God is always near. 
 
 Now a breeze, as though from springtime, 
 Wafts itself from o'er the lake, 
 
 Bringing with it all the sweet chimes 
 From the church bells in its wake. 
 
 As the golden sunshine cometh 
 Softly through my window pane, 
 
 As the rippling water runneth 
 O'er the pebbles to the main, 
 
 As the trees, in breezes swaying, 
 Gently bow their heads, inclined, 
 
 Seems to me I hear them saying; 
 "Peace on earth to all mankind." 
 
 Now that God is in his Glory, 
 
 Let us praise Him more and more; 
 Let us sing the offertory 
 
 Till to Him on high we soar. 
 Feb., 1898. 
 
 47 
 
PLAY OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Hark! I hear the sound of singing, 
 And of sleigh-bells, gaily ringing, 
 And the sound of steeds fast springing, 
 Fleeting o'er the frozen snow. 
 
 Now are cheers and bursts of laughter! 
 Louder, louder, as though faster, 
 Thinking never of disaster, 
 While adown the lane they go! 
 
 Now the sound of horns and jingles, 
 As a sweet voice with it mingles, 
 Steals upon my ear and tingles, 
 Lingers, while the moon hangs low. 
 
 Now the sounds are growing fainter; 
 Distance makes enchantment daintier 
 As the hour grows still and quainter, 
 Till they die away so low, 
 
 Scarce I hear them in the distance 
 While, intent, my strained ear listens 
 O'er the snow which 'round me glistens: 
 
 Now they're gone.-From memory?-No. 
 Feb., 1898. 
 
 48 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 I care not how soon I leave here; 
 
 Leave this cruel, lonely world: 
 I've a longing to depart to 
 
 Where the flag of peace, unfurled, 
 
 Spreads its grand, celestial tidings, 
 As it waves in silence there, 
 
 Through the realms of the Creator, 
 Far beyond this earthly air. 
 
 As I sit within my chamber 
 Musing o'er my wasted life, 
 
 I can think of naught but sadness 
 Intermixed with toil and strife. 
 
 All the world about seems joyous, 
 Seems to be o'erfilled with glee: 
 
 Nature, with inviting glances, 
 Bids us all her joys to see. 
 
 But, alas! I feel not cheerful, 
 Matters not how bright the day, 
 
 For my thoughts are doleful, dreary, 
 Of the mystic far-away. 
 
 Though betimes I may seem joyful 
 From some outward look or sign, 
 
 49 
 
Yet, within, my heart beats sadly. 
 As with burden on the mind. 
 
 You who read this simple poem, 
 
 Think not as is here expressed; 
 Tis a miserable feeling 
 
 Thus to be in mind distressed. 
 Feb., 1898. 
 
 WAR'S INSPIRATION. 
 
 If God hath willed that I should die, 
 And thus our race name glorify, 
 While fighting amid war's alarms, 
 'Mid crashing shells and cannons' storms, 
 While freedom's flag waves o'er my head, 
 O'er dire remains of martyred dead 
 Who gave their lives and lent their aid, 
 Who faltered not, nor were afraid 
 To die upon the battle-ground 
 With unfurled glory all around, 
 Then, I am full content to die 
 And be upraised to Him on high. 
 Feb., 1898 
 
 50 
 
TO LILIAN. 
 
 I knew not I a sister had 
 
 With intellect so great, 
 Who loves all things of nature's fad 
 
 And handles their great weight 
 
 With such ease and dexterity, 
 Such wondrous grace and skill, 
 
 That warm-hearted posterity 
 With inspirations fill 
 
 When reading o'er her scopic lines 
 
 Of philanthropic trend, 
 Imbibing what her verse defines 
 
 And what her mind doth lend. 
 
 Strive on, dear sister, toward the goal 
 
 And pluck your laurels there: 
 Though sometimes you be on the shoal, 
 
 Steer out, nor linger there. 
 April, 1898. 
 
 TO H. P. L. 
 
 Dear maiden, please accept my thanks, wilt thou, 
 For this kind token of thy loving nature, 
 51 
 
As I in high appreciation bow 
 
 Before thy queenly form of beauteous feature. 
 
 Thy thoughtfulness and kindness in this deed 
 I never shall, through countless years, forget; 
 For, though thou art not of my race nor creed, 
 Thou gavest me this gift without regret. 
 
 The marked simplicity of thy chaste ways, 
 The welcome glow which beams in thy bright eyes, 
 The smile which overspreads thy face for days 
 And weeks alike, make thee a living prize 
 
 For whom the members of the other sex 
 Do well to strive and contrive, day by day, 
 Endeav'ring, while thou dost their brains perplex, 
 Each one to make thee his and win the fray. 
 
 And I would say to him who doth succeed 
 That, had he searched o'er all this universe, 
 He would have found no one to better lead 
 Him through this world of coldness and reverse. 
 
 Thou art a gem of rarity and worth, 
 Of beauteous manner and of winning grace, 
 Who captureth the high esteem of earth 
 With winsome ways and ever smiling face. 
 
 Thou scornest not the thought to stoop so low 
 As to make glad the hearts of sons of toil 
 52 
 
Who are around thee going to and fro 
 About their work, endeavoring to foil 
 
 The shirking fiends of laziness and make 
 Great preparations for commencement day 
 In which thou art to modestly partake 
 And with the wings of knowledge fly away. 
 
 May all good fortune which great God hath given 
 And all success and goodness here on earth 
 Befall thee, and when thou dost reach the heaven 
 May thy seat be before thy Father's hearth. 
 
 This tribute to a heart so great and kind 
 That 'round itself doth welcome all mankind 
 I pay thee. I shall cherish while life last 
 This fond memento of a day soon past. 
 June, 1898. 
 
 TO THE GIRLS OF KENWOOD. 
 
 [Written in Cuba.] 
 
 The pretty emblem of good luck, 
 Presented by brave hearts to me, 
 
 No hand but death from me shall pluck: 
 It shall a fond memento be. 
 53 
 
A picture of the same appears 
 Upon this card of little worth, 
 
 There to remain, perhaps for years, 
 Until 'tis burned on age's hearth. 
 1898. 
 
 THE EIGHTH ILLINOIS IN CUBA. 
 
 [From an essay read before our Sunday School in camp 
 near San Luis, Santiago de Cuba.] 
 
 Camped in Cuba in the mountains, 
 Far away from home and friends, 
 
 From the precious civil fountains, 
 In a land of marsh and fens, 
 
 *In this church of thatch and palm leaf, 
 
 Cut and built by our own hands, 
 We are holding Sunday service 
 As is done in many lands. 
 
 Far away o'er hill and valley, 
 Over marsh and mountain top, 
 
 Over battle-ground where rallied 
 Man and horse at freedom's knock, 
 
 Over ruined mill and city, 
 Over waste of richest loam 
 54 
 
Where the dove of peace once flitted, 
 But was driven from its home 
 
 By the shells of cruel cannon 
 And the swords of treachery, 
 
 Fly our thoughts to home and loved ones 
 Whom we soon expect to see. 
 
 Over barren devastation, 
 
 O'er a land of wasted wealth, 
 
 Over what was once plantation, 
 But now lies untilled, undwelt, 
 
 Far across the stretch of ocean, 
 Far beyond the sunken Maine, 
 
 Pray our friends in deep devotion 
 For our safe return again. 
 
 But, instead of tears of pleasure, 
 
 Some must shed their tears for grief, 
 For depleted is our measure; 
 t Fourteen rest the sod beneath. 
 
 No more reveille shall wake them; 
 
 Taps has blown for them its last; 
 Nor shall ever foe o'ertake them, 
 
 For their fighting all is past. 
 
 Comrades, over our departed 
 We have fired the death salute; 
 55 
 
Let us cheer their broken-hearted 
 
 Loved ones, grieved and destitute. 
 Jan., 1899. 
 
 *Mr. White, who was adjutant of the regimental church 
 organization, planned and superintended the construction of 
 this building, which was said to be the first Protestant church 
 on that part of the island. Several Cubans and soldiers were 
 converted here, and a baptising was held in a stream near the 
 camp by Chaplain Jordan Chavis. 
 
 ISix others afterwards died of disease or accident. 
 
 THE EIGHTH RETURNING FROM 
 CUBA. 
 
 Gaily we ride by the river, 
 
 Rumbling o'er mountains and creeks, 
 Laughing and jolly as ever, 
 
 With warm, red blood in our cheeks, 
 
 Riding through cuts in the mountains, 
 Riding through tunnels in hills, * 
 
 By the fresh, silvery fountains, 
 O'er crystal cascades and rills, 
 
 Through rural towns and collections, 
 Stations of various names, 
 56 
 
High hills in all the directions, 
 Through swamps and pine-covered plains, 
 
 Scenery fine of description, 
 
 Beautiful valleys and vales, 
 Grandeur of wondrous conception 
 
 Portrayed on most gorgeous scales, 
 
 'Round curves alongside the river, 
 Under cliffs hanging with rock, 
 
 Naught from my mind e'er can sever 
 These scenes in memory locked. 
 
 By farms of modern perfection 
 With their storehouses o'erfilled 
 
 With produce, fine for selection, 
 From rich land thoroughly tilled, 
 
 Through forest and broad plantation, 
 
 Hickory, walnut, oak, birch, 
 Cities of large population, 
 
 Districts of value and worth; 
 
 Thus comes the gallant Eighth Regiment, 
 
 Volunteered from Illinois, 
 Back from the Cuban intrenchment, 
 
 Brave band of true-hearted boys. 
 March, 1899. 
 
 57 
 
THE NEGRO VOLUNTEER. 
 
 [Written for the National Standard-Enterprise, 
 Springfield, Illinois.] 
 
 He volunteered his life and health 
 
 To go to cruel war 
 Increasing thus his country's wealth 
 
 In soldier boys afar 
 
 To fight the battles of a land 
 
 Which does not him protect, 
 And, though great danger was at hand, 
 
 He did not e'en object. 
 
 He went, it seemed, to certain death 
 
 By bullet, sword or scourge, 
 Where dry, hot trade winds blow their breath 
 
 And rains the land submerge. 
 
 He knew well when he left his home 
 Though home it did not seem, 
 
 In Cuba's far off wilds to roam, 
 That death raged there supreme; 
 
 That Spanish treachery and hate, 
 
 That fever's dreaded ills, 
 That rain and heat and heavy weight 
 
 While on the march or drills, 
 
 Awaited him his fate to seal, 
 His life-blood's wall to break, 
 58 
 
To laugh in scorn when he should reel 
 And fall, no more to wake. 
 
 Though monsters such did him confront 
 And threaten him with death, 
 
 His bravery they could not daunt, 
 But made him fear the less. 
 
 Of such brave hearts as he does own 
 A land might well be proud, 
 
 Enforce the laws, protect his home, 
 His all, from lawless crowd.. 
 
 The bird doth soar in lofty space; 
 
 The fish doth swim the sea. 
 The beast doth field and forest pace, 
 
 The Negro where hath he? 
 
 The bird at night flies to her nest. 
 The beast's home is his lair, 
 
 The fish in quiet nook doth rest, ' 
 The Negro must despair 
 
 Because, alas, he hath no home,' 
 
 No place to lay his head 
 
 That he can truly call his own; 
 
 " Nor e'en when he Is dead 
 
 Doth his lone grave remembrance gain, 
 In hearts, save of his kind; 
 59 
 
Nor is it marked by tomb of fame, 
 
 Nor wreathed with flower nor vine. 
 June, 1899. 
 
 A HYMN OF COUNSEL. 
 
 [Published in the National Standard-Enterprise-] 
 
 To him who knoweth not the value of his life, 
 Nor careth aught for that which elevateth him, 
 
 Who findeth existence to be a constant strife, 
 Who brings upon himself despair or sorrow dim, 
 
 1 would recite this simple poem of advice 
 
 And beg him to accept without return of price. 
 
 For, though it come not from most learned brain 
 
 of man, 
 
 Nor may of classic nor of cultured language be, 
 This simple lay may cause someone to better scan 
 The prospects of his being, or more plainly see 
 The need of education, or of moral worth, 
 Which two combined bring comfort, peace and 
 joy to earth. 
 
 I would first say to him: be honest, good and true; 
 
 Be faithful to thyself and value self-respect; 
 Do all that is within thy scope and power to do 
 
 To keep thyself and others prudently erect; 
 60 
 
Observant ever be of great and common things, 
 And listen to the songs which reverend nature 
 sings. 
 
 Betake thyself within secluded walls of thought, 
 
 And there, in loneliness, portray thyself to thee, 
 
 Arrayed in all thy foolish waste, so dearly bought, 
 
 Which causeth oft thy heart to droop and 
 
 downcast be, 
 
 And fathom from beneath this mass of malcontent 
 Thy better nature which was downward crushed 
 and pent. 
 
 Then raise it gently up from out its gloomy nest, 
 Support it with the strong arm of thy will and 
 
 sense 
 
 And cherish it with all the life within thy breast, 
 
 And it will grow so rapid and with glow intense, 
 
 'Twill blossom in the springtime of its newer birth 
 
 And bid thee pause to view the goodness of the 
 
 earth. 
 
 If thou, perchance, should find thee restlessly 
 
 engaged 
 In wav'ring contemplation o'er thy changing 
 
 ways, 
 Dislodge these diabolic thoughts from off their 
 
 stage; 
 
 61 
 
Think not of wrong, but of the beauty of these 
 
 lays. 
 
 Beget thee to the avenues of shining light, 
 For danger lurks about in shadows of the. night. 
 
 Go willingly unto the fountain of success, 
 
 Fed by the spring of learning, beautified by love, 
 
 And drink thou of it freely, that thou may possess 
 
 The mighty power of knowledge, sent from 
 
 Heav'n above; 
 
 For education is a wealth of untold worth 
 Which, once acquired, can ne'er be lost by thee 
 in earth. 
 
 Full many kingdoms in himself doth man possess, 
 The thrones of which are oft usurped by evil 
 
 power; 
 Grim indolence, the solemn death-knell to 
 
 success, 
 
 Doth lurk about in ev'ry hidden nookand bower. 
 Simplicity is greatness, born within itself, 
 And plainly marks all greatest deeds and thoughts 
 of wealth. 
 
 I mprove thy time and talent while 'tis yet in reach. 
 Strive hard to grasp a branch of fame's exalted 
 
 tree; 
 
 Take heed to that which doth great elevation 
 teach; 
 
 .62 
 
Mark well each lesson learned, for 'twill of 
 
 value be; 
 Love thou all things which tend to principle of 
 
 right; 
 Keep all good deeds of men always within thy 
 
 sight. 
 
 But if thou thinkest that thou needest counsel not, 
 Or that thou'rt wise enough and strength hast 
 
 to endure 
 These worldly battles often waged long, fierce and 
 
 hot, 
 Heed not the simple words and teachings of 
 
 the pure, 
 
 And thou shalt pass into the vast oblivion's doom 
 Where naught but sorrowful regretfulness doth 
 
 bloom. 
 June, 1899. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 The days are short, the air is cold, 
 The bleak wind stirs the lifeless trees, 
 
 The sun sends forth faint rays of gold, 
 While Autumn rests at peace and ease. 
 63 
 
The summer birds have flown away 
 To warmer climes and greener shores, 
 
 And little snowbirds chirp their lay 
 
 While picking crumbs from kitchen doors. 
 
 The cows are milked within the barn, 
 The horses bridled in the stall, 
 
 The geese and chickens, to keep warm, 
 Stand on one foot, but never fall. 
 
 The children, playing on the lawn, 
 Are building snow men at the gate, 
 
 Or, having done that, they have gone 
 Out coasting, hitching, or to skate. 
 
 The school has closed for holidays 
 And Santa Glaus will soon be here 
 
 To turn the melancholy rays 
 Into a week of mirth and cheer. 
 
 The present year will soon be past, 
 
 For it is old and feeble now, 
 And o'er December's bier, at last, 
 
 Must New Year make his reverent bow. 
 Dec,, 1896. 
 
 64 
 
AT EVENING. 
 
 Evening sun beams not upon me 
 
 As I sit in silent shade 
 Musing o'er this earthly dwelling, 
 
 Which to rest must soon be laid. 
 
 Ah, my heart grows sad and weary; 
 
 As I'm dreaming, all alone, 
 Night is drawing swiftly onward, 
 
 And I'm "One day nearer home," 
 
 Stealthily the night brigades are 
 Creeping o'er the walls of day 
 
 To attack him in his weakness, 
 Conquer and drive him away. 
 
 Soon the hosts of knights of Darkness, 
 With their glittering, starry shield, 
 
 Will usurp Day's throne and fortress 
 And a while his sceptre wield. 
 
 Then the gallant Day will muster 
 
 All his forces for the fight 
 And with light and rays of sunshine 
 Drive the foe fast from the site. 
 Sept., 1899. 
 
 65 
 
A HISTORICAL REVIEW. 
 
 In fourteen hundred ninety-two 
 
 America was found 
 And olden theory proved untrue 
 
 That earth was square, not round. 
 
 In fourteen-ninety-seven, then, 
 
 John Cabot started out, 
 Resolving straight across to wend, 
 
 And shortened much the route. 
 
 In 1506 Columbus died, 
 
 A prisoner in chains, 
 Although for several years' he'd cried 
 
 For freedom from these pains. 
 
 In fifteen hundred sixty-five 
 St. Augustine was founded, 
 
 And ever since has stood and thrived, 
 Though centuries have rounded. 
 
 In 1607 Jamestown's homes 
 Appeared among the wild 
 
 And here begins a tale of woe 
 Of this- land's orphan child. 
 
 In 1619 Slavery's wrong 
 
 Disgraced our country's page 
 66 
 
And made a blot so deep and long, 
 Twill last through countless age. 
 
 In seventeen hundred seventy-five, 
 
 Oppressed by English law, 
 The colonists a plan contrived 
 
 To wage a freedom's war. 
 
 In 1781 they gained 
 
 The object of their strife; 
 Ungratefully they tighter chained 
 
 The slave to misery's life. 
 
 In 70 brave Attuck shed 
 
 His life-blood in the fight, 
 The first of all this country's dead 
 
 To die for freedom's right. 
 
 E'er since, in all this nation's wars, 
 The Negro's played great part, 
 
 Glad always to defend her cause 
 From depth of his brave heart. 
 
 In '65 he fought the South 
 
 To save the nation's name: 
 An accident which came about 
 
 Freed him from slavery's chain. 
 
 Two hundred years, and more, they'd kept 
 Him 'neath this cruel rake, 
 67 
 
The while the nation's conscience slept; 
 Nor did it once awake 
 
 Until secession's mighty gun 
 At Bull Run so did pelt her 
 
 That she, alarmed, compelled, did run 
 To Washington for shelter. 
 
 'Twas then the thought within her mind 
 
 Occurred to free the slave, 
 If, by this action, she could find 
 
 A mode her name to save. 
 
 Thus, now, you see, the orphan's free, 
 So far as slavery's counted, 
 
 Yet he is burned, and hanged to tree, 
 And chased by fiends well-mounted. 
 
 Accused of crime, though innocent, 
 He's tortured with strange pleasure: 
 
 The wailings of his soul are lent 
 To swell her song's blank measure. 
 
 Since he was freed he has progressed 
 And all the world astounded, 
 
 For ne'er have other men possessed 
 Such intellect unbounded. 
 
 Though hearts of stone and calumny 
 Will persecute and murder, 
 
 68 
 
He bears his cross to Calvary, 
 Nor falls beneath his burden. 
 
 In '98 he volunteered 
 
 To fight for human cause 
 In foreign land, yet, while he steered 
 
 His son or brother was 
 
 Strung up to tree, or stake, or post 
 And tortured, cut and burned 
 
 And sold by pieces to a host 
 Of dastard hearts which turned 
 
 To look upon such awful sights, 
 
 Unequaled on this earth 
 By cannibals or savage rites, 
 
 With coolness and with mirth. 
 
 At El Caney and San Juan 
 He faced the poisoned lead 
 
 And victory brought from among 
 Defeat and heaps of dead. 
 
 He lay in trench, in mud and mire, 
 Through rain, heat and disease, 
 
 Nor ever once expressed desire 
 That awful place to leave. 
 
 O'er dead Caucasian boys he rushed, 
 O'er some crouched down with fears, 
 69 
 
While from his wounds his warm blood 
 gushed 
 
 And mingled with their tears 
 
 .-,. 
 
 He cut the barbed wire fences down 
 
 Which did impede his way 
 And stormed blockhouses on the crown 
 
 Of hills; thus gained the day. 
 
 He cried when he was not allowed 
 
 To enter in the city 
 The same day that up hill he plowed, 
 
 And thought it a great pity 
 
 That he might not pursue the foe 
 
 Into his place of refuge 
 And strike at once the final blow, 
 
 Thus end the war's grim deluge. 
 
 He also garrisoned the land 
 
 His bravery had conquered 
 And made a record which will stand 
 
 Among the world's most honored. 
 
 And now, that war is waxing hot 
 
 In far off Philippines, 
 And boys of lighter hue do not 
 
 Equal their task, it seems,. 
 
 There's been some talk of sending there 
 To bring things to a close, 
 70 
 
This orphan child of curly hair, 
 Broad mouth and flattened nose, 
 
 In southern part of this "free" land 
 
 He's not allowed to vote: 
 They've tied our Constitution's hand 
 
 So that he might be smote* 
 
 If he, perchance, commit a crime, 
 He's hanged 'thout court proceedings; 
 
 His guiltless kin, too, at the time 
 Are killed, despite their pleadings. 
 
 He's guiltless oft of crime alleged, 
 (Which often has been proven,) 
 
 But fiends their wealth and life have pledged 
 To stagnate law's just movement. 
 
 Will someone lend a helping hand, 
 
 Or sympathizing heart, 
 Or honor pledge and life to stand 
 
 For right on this child's part ? 
 
 O, human beings of this earth, 
 Arouse your dormant sense 
 Of right, give merit its true worth 
 
 And claim your recompense! 
 Sept., 1899. 
 
 71 
 
CONTENT. 
 
 Toiling, toiling all day long 
 With his will and might, 
 
 Humming tune, or whistling song 
 From the morn till night: 
 
 Ever happy at his work, 
 
 Ever gay and free, 
 Never does he duty shirk, 
 
 But content is he. 
 
 Cheerful is his little home, 
 Though of meagre size, 
 
 Ne'er he cares from it to roam, 
 There his treasure lies, 
 
 There his heart's delight is found, 
 There his joy and pride, 
 
 With his children playing 'round, 
 Sweet wife by his side. 
 
 Early does he rise at morn, 
 
 To his work he goes 
 His day's duty to perform 
 
 Without pain or woes. 
 
 Fully well is he aware 
 
 Of his family's needs, 
 Amply does he store prepare, 
 
 And always succeeds. 
 72 
 
Thus, the happy father lives 
 For his children's sake; 
 
 Thus, to them example gives 
 
 Of which they partake. 
 Sept., 1899. 
 
 CAUTION. 
 
 The voice speaks often words which are not 
 
 uttered: 
 
 The face oft portrays feelings not intended: 
 The smile expresses things which would be 
 
 smothered: 
 
 The mind revives some scenes which are long 
 ended: 
 
 So measure well the word before 'tis spoken 
 And study thoroughly before you've written, 
 
 For careless words oft cause hearts to be broken, 
 And writing, misconstrued, great hopes has 
 smitten. 
 
 Learn to control at all times your emotion; 
 
 Don't laugh at others' accidents or errors; 
 Don't execute your every whim or notion, 
 Nor do things which will cause you future 
 terrors. 
 
 73 
 
Consideration should be first in all things, 
 The execution is subsequent matter, 
 
 For hastiness oft trouble brings that's galling 
 And sadness o'er the world promotes and 
 scatters. 
 
 Nothing is known until 'tis well experienced: 
 No man's so wise that he cannot be wiser: 
 
 Judge not a person only by appearance: 
 Call no man fool, he may be your adviser. 
 
 Sept., 1899. 
 
 ONE YEAR AGO. 
 
 Just one year ago we broke camp 
 
 In the distant Cuban plain 
 And began our joyful home tramp 
 
 On the transport and the train. 
 
 But, though far from lonely birth land, 
 
 I was happy and content; 
 I was filled with joy and mirth and 
 
 Happiness where'er I went. 
 
 In the lonely life of camping, 
 In the mountains wild and drear, 
 74 
 
Or when through the country tramping, 
 Strove I to be of good cheer; 
 
 For I loved to ramble often 
 
 Through sweet nature's gorgeous realms: 
 She has power to soothe and soften 
 
 That which naught else overwhelms. 
 
 By the lonely brook and river, 
 
 Laughing in their solitude, 
 Where the leaves in soft breeze quivered 
 
 And all seemed with life imbued, 
 
 Where the birds were gaily chirping, 
 Where the fish in deep pools played 
 
 And the timid deer were lurking, 
 Where the bees their honey made, 
 
 In her solemnness of silence 
 
 Nature was at home to me. 
 In the calmness of that island 
 
 I did live contentedly. 
 
 I was wont to sit in quiet, 
 
 Or to roam in loneliness 
 Through the country wrecked by riot, 
 
 But which now by peace is blessed, 
 
 Studying language, people, action, 
 Or the vegetation there, 
 75 
 
Gazing with much satisfaction 
 On the products, rich and rare. 
 
 Plodding o'er the rugged highlands, 
 Through the marshy lands below, 
 
 I would pass away the whiles and 
 Watch the minutes come and go. 
 
 I would sit sometimes for hours 
 Basking in the sun's warm rays 
 
 While a stream 'neath shady bowers 
 Sang to me its favorite lays. 
 
 I partook in games athletic 
 
 Which were held among the boys, 
 I beheld scenes so pathetic 
 
 That they saddened all my joys. 
 
 While disease and death were raging 
 In the towns and camps around, 
 
 While their friends were busy placing 
 The deceased beneath the ground, 
 
 I was well kept and protected 
 By some power of the Unknown, 
 
 Which also my way directed 
 As I through the wilds did roam: 
 
 So I lived in sweet communion 
 With the worlds of blue and green 
 76 
 
By horizon linked in union, 
 
 In that heaven -land of dream. 
 March 9, 1900. 
 
 STRUGGLE WITH TEMPTATION. 
 
 What is this haze which now I feel, 
 Which stealthily begins to steal 
 About me? Tis some magic power 
 Which comes at this belated hour 
 To wind me in its grasp. 'Tis strange 
 This feeling should my mind derange 
 And cause me such alarm, for I 
 Have ne'er, in all these years passed by, 
 Encountered such an influx of 
 Marauding thought, so hard to solve 
 As this which now has come to pass. 
 Methinks awhile some stupor has 
 O'ershadowed me, and bound my brain 
 And dimmed my eyes, so that in vain 
 May I attempt to delve into 
 The fath'mless depths which now accrue. 
 
 It matters not, it seems, how much 
 Effort I bring to bear to touch 
 The key-note of this instrument; 
 77 
 
The selfsame mystery in extent 
 Enshrouds its impregnable fort. 
 Defiance even seems to court 
 Its presence when from wary tent 
 Of Indignation he is sent 
 To battle with this monster, turn 
 A traitor and betray the urn 
 Which nourished, kept and cherished him, 
 Thus cause his guardian much chagrin. 
 My wits seem somewhat baffled by 
 The presence of this mighty spy. 
 I scarce can get my thoughts composed 
 To right myself. I'm half disposed 
 To cease this struggle and allow 
 Full sway to the usurper, bow 
 Submissive at its feet, betake 
 Myself within the walls of fate 
 And there remain for aye, or till 
 Such time that I may pass at will 
 Without this dazed compulsion, free 
 To think and act contentedly. 
 May, 1900. 
 
 A TALE OF HEARTS. 
 
 One night while walking 'long the street, 
 Returning from the choir, 
 78 
 
A young man was involved in thought 
 Which burned as though 'twere fire; 
 
 For he had seen a girl in church, 
 Whom he had known before, 
 
 Whose pleading eyes and saddened face 
 Seemed deeply to implore 
 
 His acquiescence to escort 
 Her home at close of church. 
 
 He had denied her the request 
 And, thinking she might search 
 
 The crowd for him, had gone out at 
 
 A side door close to me 
 And waited till he saw her leave; 
 
 Yet did it not with glee. 
 
 Twas sad: the girl loved him, and said 
 
 He was her heart's desire: 
 That's why his mind was so involved 
 
 With thought which burned like fire. 
 
 He did not wish to mistreat her, 
 
 But he did not love her: 
 To cherish her fond hopes, then blight 
 
 Them, he did not prefer. 
 
 So he was meditating as 
 
 To what course he should strike 
 79 
 
When, looking just ahead of him, 
 He saw three hearts alike. 
 
 At first he thought to crush them all 
 And leave them to their fate, 
 
 Then quickly thought that he would spare 
 Them, but it was too late: 
 
 The blow was struck; one frail heart broke 
 
 And severed into parts: 
 I know not what became of it 
 But those were candy hearts. 
 June, 1902. 
 
 A BLIGHTED LIFE. 
 
 In the southland of this country 
 Lived a happy, wedded pair: 
 
 Each content was with the other, 
 And their hearts knew no despair. 
 
 They were of Caucasian lineage, 
 Or, at least, 'twas thought they were, 
 
 And no one had e'er disputed 
 This, their claim, I may aver. 
 
 She was fair, of modest beauty, 
 Soft her hair of light brown hue: 
 80 
 
He was darker of complexion 
 And his hair was darker, too. 
 
 So they lived together, happy, 
 Never questioning their birth; 
 
 Lived in love and adoration 
 Close as nature lives to earth. 
 
 But ere long they both grew restless 
 And they left the balmy South, 
 
 Moved to that great northern city 
 At the Hudson river's mouth. 
 
 They were soon seen out in public 
 And occasioned much comment. 
 
 Said the gossips; "He is colored." 
 This was said where'er they went. 
 
 Thus continued they their meddling 
 With this couple's happiness: 
 
 Thus their prejudice they vented, 
 These two young hearts to depress. 
 
 Then they said to her; "He's colored: 
 Has Negro blood in his vein." 
 
 Thus tormented they the young bride 
 Till her heart relaxed in pain; 
 
 Till her soul cried out within her: 
 "Is it true; and if it be, 
 81 
 
Can I not still live and love him? 
 Can he not still live for me?" 
 
 "Can we not remain together? 
 
 I do not question his kin. 
 It may be true, yet, I love him. 
 
 Can there be a diff rence, then?" 
 
 Thus she wailed and strove with reason. 
 Would she overcome the blow? 
 
 Could she not raise an embankment 
 That would dam their gossip's flow? 
 
 No alas ! her heart was failing. 
 
 They would separate, she thought: 
 So decided she and acted; 
 
 Left him, and a fairer sought. 
 
 But her soul was not contented: 
 She could love no one but him, 
 
 For her life to his was mated. 
 God had made their souls a twin. 
 
 Thus some people of this country, 
 Who, by chance, are very light, 
 
 Tear asunder the Almighty's 
 
 Work and claim that they are right. 
 
 Is there not some power of conscience 
 That will cleanse their hearts and souls? 
 82 
 
Are there no Caucasian Christians 
 
 'Tween these two terrestrial poles? 
 July, 1903. 
 
 A STUDENT'S CHRISTMAS 
 PARTING. 
 
 [Published in the Exonian, Phillips Exeter Academy.] 
 
 Farewell, ye halls of red and gray! 
 Nay; Au revoir! I'd rather say! 
 Ye campus grounds now bleak and drear ! 
 Ye buildings to my heart made dear ! 
 Ye chapel walls, your songs bestir ! 
 I leave you now, old Exeter. 
 
 Ye books and pen I lay aside 
 
 To rest you, calm and unespied. 
 
 I go to greet the coming year, 
 
 To welcome him with mirth and cheer. 
 
 Vacation time is near at hand 
 
 When all is joy throughout our land. 
 
 Ere long again I'll greet you all, 
 And from your slumber calm I'll call. 
 I'll bring with me a newer strain 
 To fill your corridors again. 
 * 83 
 
I'll bring with me a heart so free 
 'Twill fill your stolid walls with glee. 
 
 The folk at home are waiting now; 
 Already is the holly bough 
 Made into wreath of red and green 
 To grace the beauty of the scene. 
 Again, ye hall and corridor, 
 I turn to bid you, Au revoir ! 
 Dec. ,1903. 
 
 ADVICE TO A FRIEND. 
 
 You say that virtue is its own 
 Reward: I'm sure that's widely known, 
 Yet, while I wish not to pursuade 
 You to refuse the request made, 
 
 I think that our reward is found 
 When satisfaction does abound 
 In feeling that our work is not 
 Ungratefully scorned or forgot. 
 
 For no reward can truly be 
 Unless received with feeling free, 
 Unless 'tis given from the heart, 
 Unless 'tis made of life a part. 
 84 
 
We often may feel that we should 
 Our talents lend for doing good; 
 We also oft may later find 
 That the return is quite unkind. 
 
 So I should say, be sure that you 
 Consider well the step in view, 
 Yet do not fail to full regard 
 That virtue is its own reward. 
 Feb., 1904. 
 
 THE MINOR CHORD OF LIFE. 
 
 [Published in the Exeter News-Letter.] 
 
 Is there not a hand of power 
 That can stay the wheel of fate? 
 
 Is there not a soothing hour 
 
 For sad hearts that mourn and wait? 
 
 Can no recompense their longings 
 
 Find while wand'ring through this life? 
 
 Must no sunlight pierce their mornings 
 With its many-pointed knife? 
 
 Must they wander through existence 
 With their heavy burdens bent? 
 85 
 
Must no heart lend them assistance? 
 Must no hope to them be lent? 
 
 Fain would some assistance offer, 
 
 But it satisfies them not; 
 Others fain would comfort proffer, 
 
 But their comfort comforts not. 
 
 Some would gladly shelter give them, 
 But the storms still rage within; 
 
 Others with bright hopes would cheer them, 
 But to them all hopes are dim. 
 
 These sad hearts possess a longing 
 Which no earthly power can soothe; 
 
 There's a strain to them belonging 
 Which the hardest heart would move. 
 
 Yet, these souls are meek, forgiving, 
 
 Patient, though time nothing brings. 
 Life would not be worth the living 
 
 If no sorrow tuned its strings. 
 April, 1904. 
 
 FROM THE STAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 Once there was a happy youth 
 With heart as light and free 
 86 
 
And gleeful as a lamb at play, 
 As merry as could be. 
 
 No morning sun e'er rose on him 
 
 That did not see him smile; 
 No evening twilight sank to rest 
 
 And left him sad the while. 
 
 No bird at daybreak sweeter sang 
 
 Than did his whistling note; 
 No youth nor maiden was more kind, 
 
 Nor any kinder spoke. 
 
 But now those days have long since gone, 
 
 They can return no more, 
 And he, once innocent and blithe, 
 
 Is changed e'en to the core. 
 
 Oh, cruel fate that wrought the deed 
 That turned his heart to stone, 
 
 That stole away his innocence, 
 And left his soul alone, 
 
 Thou rnight'st have done a kinder thing 
 
 And yet deserved thy name! 
 But no: thou wouldst not kinder be 
 
 And save a life from shame. 
 
 One day he met a pretty maid, 
 Of rather modest mien, 
 87 
 
Whose love for him he read as soon 
 As he her face had seen. 
 
 He liked her, too, and often was 
 
 In company with her, 
 And as the days and weeks passed by 
 
 Much more attached they were. 
 
 But yet he hardly loved the girl, 
 Though she loved him, she said; 
 
 So he had dared think to himself 
 That some day they would wed. 
 
 But then the tempter came to her 
 And she, poor suffering girl, 
 
 Could not resist, but yielded up 
 Her honor, her life's pearl. 
 
 Her face, from then, was different 
 
 Than he had seen before; 
 She could not look straight in his eyes; 
 
 She trembled more and more. 
 
 He asked her what the matter was: 
 She said 'twas nothing much; 
 
 But, since he had observed, he could 
 Not be content with such. 
 
 So he began to question her, 
 And she, 'mid tears and pain, 
 88 
 
Confessed and begged that he forgive 
 And take her back again. 
 
 Oh, cruel dart that pierced his breast 
 And left thy flint head where 
 
 A heart did once in pleasure throb, 
 Thou'st robbed his bosom's lair. 
 
 He could not think the same of her; 
 
 He cherished naught but scorn; 
 He chided her with fiendish glee: 
 
 She was downcast, forlorn. 
 
 "False woman, why didst thou not think 
 Of all this shame and woe," 
 
 Said he, " ere yielding up thy name 
 And maidenhood? Now go!" 
 
 "And never let me see thy face 
 
 Again here on this earth 
 While life shall last and I have breath, 
 
 While honor has its worth." 
 
 "Thou saidst to me that thou didst love 
 
 Me, but hast proved a lie, 
 And now hast impudence to ask 
 
 That I forgive. Could I 
 
 Forgive a thousand times thy wrong, 
 I never should forget 
 89 
 
Thy bland, deceitful countenance, 
 Thy promise false. And yet, 
 
 Was it thy fault that thou didst yield 
 
 And barter thy good name 
 To one of such ignoble birth 
 
 For ignominious shame?" 
 
 "Ah yes; too well thou knew his tale 
 
 Of life, his character; 
 Too well thou knew what he had been; 
 
 Full well knew who thou were." 
 
 "Hadst thou not known his vile repute, 
 
 Nor designed his intent k 
 Hadst not been warned nor cautioned 'gainst 
 
 The way in which thou went, %v fr 
 
 There might, perchance, be some excuse 
 
 For this mishap of thine : 
 Thou hast gone headlong into it; 
 
 Thou must now wail and pine." 
 
 "Thy future life shall be despair, 
 
 Thy past one deep regret; 
 Thy lonely hours shall be in shame; 
 
 Nor shalt thou e'er forget 
 
 The purity which once was-thine, 
 The pleasure of those days 
 90 
 
When thou Wert clothed in virtuous robe* 
 When thou wert chaste in ways." 
 
 "The phantom of thy purer life 
 Shall haunt thee in thy sleep; 
 
 The terror of thy faded bloom 
 
 Shall pierce thy day dreams deep/' 
 
 "Thy bare existence until death 
 
 Shall be as Hades dark; 
 Thy reddened glare of tainted love 
 
 Shall glow a mere, small spark." 
 
 "The liking which I had for thee 
 
 Is gone fore'er; has flown 
 Away to find a worthier soul 
 
 And left me sad, alone." 
 
 "But yet, Fate hath not baffled me; 
 
 I have a weapon still. 
 Though one has proven false to me, 
 
 I cannot and I will 
 
 Not think that womankind is false* 
 
 That none is good and pure, 
 For I've a mother, sisters too, 
 
 Whom I'd profane, I'm sure, 
 
 Were I to countenance such thought* 
 Such vile indecency 
 
 91 
 
Is for some baser animal 
 Than I could ever be." 
 
 His faith, though shattered, was not lost; 
 
 He would not all condemn 
 Because this one had done a wrong: 
 
 Such thought was base to him. 
 July, 1904. 
 
 PRESENTATION POEM. 
 
 [Written for my sister Allene-] 
 
 Dear Friend, my teacher for the bygone term, 
 Accept this token of my love for thee, 
 
 For from thee many lessons did I learn 
 And much of thy blithe, kindly nature see. 
 
 Thy kindness unto me and loving care 
 
 While through the streets of knowledge I 
 
 did roam, 
 Thy willingness, benevolent and fair, 
 
 To teach and tell me things which thou 
 hast known, 
 
 Which always do portray themselves so well 
 In thy expressive countenance, thy smile, 
 92 
 
And which to all beholding do foretell 
 
 Thy kind intentions towards them all the 
 while 
 
 To make them happy, by thy blithesome face, 
 Thy beauteous, characteristic grace, 
 
 Time ne'er shall from my memory erase, 
 Though many years be swallowed into 
 space. 
 
 This simple token, though of little worth, 
 And of the things which transpire here on 
 
 earth, 
 
 Expressive is of feeling which was born 
 Out of kind treatment, which no heart can 
 
 scorn. 
 June, 1899. 
 
 HALLOWE'EN. 
 
 [To a Friend.] 
 
 Last night was Hallowe'en, you know; 
 
 The cowbells rang, the horns did blow, 
 The goblins stalked o'er stones and planks 
 
 And small boys played their annual pranks. 
 
 The women dressed in men's attire; 
 
 The small girl, too, quenched her desire 
 93 
 
To get into her brother's pants: 
 
 The hollow pumpkin had its chance. 
 
 The sidewalks creaked, the street cars balked, 
 The sign boards moved, the lamp posts 
 mocked, 
 
 The wagons went to roof resorts 
 
 And front gates climbed poles of all sorts. 
 
 The Indians at tobacco stores 
 
 Went on the warpath by the scores. 
 
 The ticktacks played on window panes 
 
 And stuffed men mounted weather vanes. 
 
 The larger boys played other tricks; 
 
 They tied dogs' tails to large-sized bricks: 
 Pinned placards on policemen's coats 
 
 And set fire to the tails of goats. 
 
 They masked themselves as spooks and 
 ghosts 
 
 And stood behind trees and big posts; 
 They set logs 'gainst some folk's front doors, 
 
 Then knocked and ran away, of course. 
 
 They put torpedoes on the rails 
 
 For streetcars, and painted cats' tails; 
 
 And many more such things as these 
 
 They did, which you may name with ease; 
 94 
 
For, if you were not once a boy, 
 
 I'm rather sure you did enjoy, 
 At some time, hearing stories told 
 
 Of how the boys did do of old. 
 
 But boys must have their fun and play, 
 Although they often have to pay 
 
 Quite dearly for their tricks and sport, 
 Which sometimes wind up in a court. 
 
 Yet, boys can play their pranks and jokes 
 On numerous good-natured folks 
 
 Who think that boys must have their fun, 
 E'en though they sometimes have to run. 
 
 So Hallowe'en may come and go, 
 And cranky folk may often show 
 Their temper, but the boys don't care; 
 For what's a boy who will not dare? 
 Nov., 1904. 
 
 AS WE SHOULD BE. 
 
 We should be as kind and cheerful 
 As we can here on this earth; 
 
 For in Heav'n we may be judged by 
 What our work in life is worth. 
 95 
 
Life may not always be pleasant, 
 We may oft feel grieved and sad, 
 
 But we should not think that others 
 Have not sadness as we had. 
 
 Some are rich, enjoying pleasures 
 Of this world with careless ease; 
 
 Some are poor and laden with much 
 Sorrow, deeper than the seas; 
 
 Yet we all should be contented, 
 
 Whether rich, poor, sad, or gay, 
 For this life is what we make it. 
 
 There's some sunshine every day. 
 Oct., 1905. 
 
 A VALUED LESSON. 
 
 [Thought upon leaving Exeter.] 
 
 I sat beneath a stately elm, 
 
 While Autumn round me threw her cloak, 
 As though she would my mind o'erwhelm 
 
 With thoughts of other lands and folk. 
 
 And as she fanned my solemn brow 
 With a refreshing, cooling breeze, 
 
 I fell to thinking of the now 
 And of the then that is to be: 
 96 
 
That I am now a student poor 
 
 In knowledge of this universe, 
 With many hardships to endure 
 
 Ere I may ope that valued purse. 
 
 And as I sat reflecting 'lone, 
 
 A little bee came flying near 
 In search of honey for his cone 
 
 To feed him through the winter drear. 
 
 He lighted on a tiny flower, 
 
 Which swayed and bent beneath his 
 
 weight, 
 But finding not sufficient dower, 
 
 He flew away and left it straight. 
 
 But there his efforts did not end, 
 He tried another, and one more, 
 
 And yet again he tried to rend 
 Some from another for his store. 
 
 And as I turned unto my strain 
 Of thinking, I bethought me so: 
 
 If now I fail, I'll try again; 
 
 I shall succeed some time, I know. 
 
 And in the then that is to come 
 
 I'll look back o'er the trodden hill 
 And view what persistence has done. 
 There's no success without some will. 
 Sept., 1905. 
 
 97 
 
A WESTERN REVERIE. 
 
 (Song To my sisters.) 
 
 [Written on a U. P. Train in Wyoming.] 
 
 When the sun sets o'er the hills in the desolate, 
 
 wild west 
 
 And its crimson, golden light fades into blue, 
 And the dusky drab of eve steals up o'er their 
 
 rugged crest, 
 
 Then it is, my dearest hearts, I think of you. 
 When the far-off curling smoke from a camp- 
 fire on the plain 
 
 Wends its heav'nward way far up into the sky, 
 And the dim and reddened glare of the disap- 
 pearing flame 
 
 Fades from sight, 'tis then I wish that you 
 were nigh. 
 
 When the sky is gold and blue 
 
 I am thinking still of you, 
 As the setting sun displays his latest ray; 
 
 And when night steals o'er the plain 
 Thoughts of you arise again, 
 
 And my heart can find no rest, so far away. 
 
 Night then draws her starry veil o'er her dark- 
 ened, blushing face 
 
 And reflects the gentle memories of day, 
 98 
 
And the moon peeps o'er the hill from her cozy 
 
 hiding place 
 And pours out her soul in light across my 
 
 way. 
 
 Then, as constellations rise slowly on their up- 
 ward climb, 
 And the north star, too, lends me her silver 
 
 gleam, 
 Phantom visions of you cross the horizon of my 
 
 mind, 
 And I slumber through the beauty of the 
 
 dream. 
 Aug., 1905. 
 
 VALE DICO. 
 
 Dear Exeter, I fare thee well I 
 
 Fore'er I leave thy hallowed halls ! 
 
 What I've endured, no one can tell, 
 Save my sad heart locked in its walls. 
 
 This heart was not so sad always, 
 It had a blithesome, happy strain ; 
 
 But now, alas 1 it's changed its lays 
 To doleful lines, more doleful pain. 
 99 
 
And not because I hate thee do 
 I take my leave of thee for aye, 
 
 But 'tis because I love thee true 
 And fear to hurt thee if I stay. 
 
 For I am human, with a right 
 Of life, with feelings, and a soul, 
 
 And 'gainst race prejudice I'll fight 
 As long as I can weapons hold. 
 
 Thy sons to me, except a few 
 
 Have been as brothers and as men ; 
 
 Have been as fathers to me through 
 Adversities that proved them friends. 
 
 But some there were as opposite 
 To them as poison is to sweets ; 
 
 Whose souls were vile and ill befit 
 
 To mingle 'mong thy walls and streets. 
 
 1 noted well the hearty cheer 
 
 And welcome from these greater souls: 
 I noted, too, with careful ear, 
 
 The silence of those narrow moles. 
 
 I noted well the hearty grip, 
 
 The pleasant mien, the strong, firm voice, 
 I noted, too, that limpid slip 
 
 Which names the knave of narrow choice. 
 100 
 
If thou couldst speak, I feel well sure 
 
 That thou wouldst shame those baser hearts, 
 
 That thou wouldst shun them as impure 
 And bid them to their 'customed parts. 
 
 For thy gate, Phillips did decree, 
 
 " Shall ever open be to youth 
 From every quarter, equally." 
 
 Whose principles are right and truth. 
 
 Now, as I go, I bid thee feel 
 
 With all my heart I say, Adieu ! 
 Some other hall shall train my zeal 
 
 My future destiny to woo. 
 Oct., 1905. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DUNBAR. 
 
 [To his Mother] 
 
 Is Dunbar gone, forever and for aye ? 
 
 No, he is not ! his soul has never died ; 
 His spirit form is with us through our day ; 
 
 Nor in our night does it desert our side. 
 
 Though sweet " LIT Gal " may weep, " Ma- 
 
 lindy " mourn, 
 
 " The Party " veil its face with solemn crepe 
 101 
 
In sorrow for him of whom they were born ; 
 And though we, too, may weep at his sad 
 fate; 
 
 Yet one consoling thought remains to cheer 
 Us in this hour of lamentation deep : 
 
 His soul yet lives, is with us year by year. 
 He is not dead, for in our midst he sleeps 
 
 Enfolded 'tween the covers of his books. 
 
 The old tree, torn with bullets, by the road 
 Still moans the story of its deadened looks ; 
 
 The " Ole Mule," with his lazy human load, 
 
 Still plods along his weary homeward way ; 
 
 " Malindy Sings " as sweetly to our mind ; 
 The " Uncalled " hovers round us as to sway 
 
 Our lives with Lyrics," poetry and rhyme. 
 
 We need but to unfold his clothbound bier, 
 To take him from his grave upon our shelves 
 
 And lend his inmost soul our closest ear, 
 
 And Dunbar lives, and speaks, e'en as our- 
 selves. 
 
 A life we mourn which late we oft extolled ; 
 A work unfinished, yet complete, we read, 
 
 02 
 
Like his. our lives, our talents will unfold 
 And bloom with beauty, if our hearts we 
 
 heed. 
 Feb., 1906, 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF 
 A SKEPTIC, 
 
 To-day the brilliant sunbeam hangs 
 
 O'er all our joys, our cares, 
 Removing all of sorrow's pangs, 
 
 Depicting all its snares. 
 
 'Tis nature's cloak of soothing dreams 
 
 She throws about our life, 
 Admitting naught of sorrow's beams 
 
 To mar our upward strife, 
 May, 1906. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 [To L. F. C-] 
 
 When you find yourself in sorrow, 
 
 Weighted down by care and strife, 
 Raise the curtain of the morrow 
 
 And behold a brighter life, 
 May, 1906, 
 
 403 
 
FIDELITY. 
 
 Sweetheart, for love of you, I'd give 
 
 Up all the pleasures of this life, 
 And be content fore'er to live 
 
 And love you, though through endless strife. 
 
 I'd give up all the joys of earth 
 
 For love of you, my dearest heart ; 
 
 I'd forfeit e'en my right of birth, 
 
 Than that your love from me should part. 
 
 The fiercest storms of life I'd brave 
 If but your love were the reward. 
 
 I'd cross the sea of pain's dread wave, 
 Nor would I one complaint record, 
 
 Nor say, nor feel one faint regret, 
 If 'twere for love of you I sailed; 
 
 I'd suffer untold grief, and yet, 
 
 No mortal ear should know I wailed. 
 
 I'd sever all the earthly ties 
 
 That bind me to a living soul 
 And journey upward to the skies, 
 
 If I but thought your love the goal. 
 
 I'd suffer all that cruel word 
 
 And unkind act could e'er inflict 
 104 
 
Upon my heart, if I but heard, 
 One pledge of favor from your lip. 
 
 I'd suffer death a thousandfold 
 
 For one sweet kiss from you, my dear, 
 If I your love might have and hold, 
 
 For death were naught if love were here, 
 Nov., 1905. 
 
 SATAN'S DREAM. 
 
 [Scene based upon L. Christine Jensen's "Life. 1 '] 
 
 Ah! Dead! What! Dead! My favorite prince! 
 Thou, whom I sent out not long since 
 To check those Christians on their way 
 To Paradise! I'll curse the day 
 That saw this deed! Ah! Yes 'tis true! 
 But look they well; this day they'll rue. 
 Poor prince, brave prince, thy royal blood 
 Shall be avenged: I'll cause a flood 
 Of Christian souls to fall, for this, 
 Down into my deep, dark abyss. 
 Ye habitants of my abode, 
 Come, rally, dance, mine anger goad, 
 And register this vow: I swear 
 By thunderbolt and lightning's glare 
 That I'll avenge my prince's death, 
 105 
 
That I will draw no restful breath 
 Until I've brought their haughty souls 
 And cast them on my bed of coals. 
 
 But hark! Methinks I hear a voice! 
 
 Ah, yes! Tis they! Fools make your choice; 
 
 This day shall be the last you'll see, 
 
 For ere the morrow ye shall be 
 
 Locked in my deepest, darkest cell. 
 
 I know my elves will treat you well: 
 
 For bread they'll give you burning coals; 
 
 For water, teeming, seething bowls 
 
 Of hottest blazes of my realm; 
 
 When tired, your souls they'll overwhelm 
 
 With tortures vilest e'er conceived. 
 
 Then Faith and Hope and Love must leave; 
 
 They cannot live within my gate, 
 
 For with me dwell Despair and Hate. 
 
 Ha! Ha! Proud Faith, thou'st battled well; 
 Before thy sword my captain fell; 
 But thou dost battle now his peer 
 Who causeth earth to quake with fear, 
 Who holdeth lightning at command 
 And sendeth thunder through the land, 
 Who visiteth the earth with plagues 
 Until the haughty Christian begs 
 
 106 
 
For mercy. So, proud Faith, look sharp; 
 I'll yet destroy thy magic art. 
 
 I'll show thee that the Tempter's power 
 
 Can overcome thee, make thee cower; 
 
 I'll teach thee that revenge is sweet, 
 
 While thou dost grovel at my feet. 
 
 Then I, Satan, who once did quail 
 
 Before thy gaze, shall mock thy wail: 
 
 I, who the while was terrified 
 
 By thy bright glare, shall hail with pride 
 
 The victory: and I shall wreak 
 
 My vengeance on both strong and weak: 
 
 I'll overrun the land with wrong 
 
 And scatter discord 'mongst thy throng 
 
 Of idle followers. Then I 
 
 Shall rule supreme o'er earth and sky: 
 
 So, Faith, and Hope, and Love, take care- 
 
 Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Beware! 
 
 Jan., 1906. 
 
 TO THE ORGAN. 
 
 [Written In Payson Church, Easthampton, Mass.] 
 
 0, mass of tone immaculate, 
 Of harmony most intricate, 
 107 
 
So beautiful, so consecrate, 
 
 I love to listen to thy song 
 As through my melancholy soul 
 
 It pours its torrents sweet and long. 
 I love to listen to thy swell, 
 For thou dost deep emotions tell. 
 
 My inmost soul is moved and thrilled 
 With joy, with sorrow, sweetness, hope, 
 
 My life with harmony is filled, 
 When thy great volume bursts the air, 
 Or soft, steals on me unaware; 
 
 The world with lyric beauty teems; 
 My swift imagination sails 
 
 Through seas of melody, and dreams. 
 A soul thou hast inborn, innate; 
 And yet, thou art inanimate, 
 Thou mass of tone immaculate. 
 Oct., 1906. 
 
 TO A ROSE AT WILLISTON. 
 
 [The rose which grows behind South Hall.] 
 
 Pretty, ruby, half-blown rose, 
 Grown upon our campus green, 
 
 Tell me, have you any woes? 
 Are you happy as you seem? 
 108 
 
Tell me, ere your beauty fade, 
 
 Ere your fragrant odor wane 
 'Neath this dormitory's shade, 
 
 Have you ever known a pain? 
 
 Oft I've passed behind this hall 
 
 To my lessons, to the well, 
 And you, crouched beneath the wall, 
 
 Seemed to have some tale to tell. 
 
 Tell me why your cheeks are red; 
 
 Are you blushing, dainty flower? 
 Why sometimes you droop your head; 
 
 Is't your melancholy hour? 
 
 Have you heard the leaves are dying? 
 
 Have you seen them turn and fall? 
 Have the autumn breezes, sighing, 
 
 Whispered to you nature's call? 
 
 Come, my beauty, tell me, pray, 
 Should I pluck you in your bloom 
 
 Would you live for me one day, 
 Just to brighten up my room? 
 
 Twere a pity I should take 
 
 You, sweet, red rose, from your thorn, 
 Yet, the chill winds make you quake 
 
 And ere long you will be gone: 
 
 109 
 
Gone into that great unknown, 
 Where the beautiful of earth 
 
 Springs up and matures, full blown, 
 In a realm of song and mirth. 
 
 So I'll pluck you, rosebud shy, 
 
 From your thorn-bush, chill and cold, 
 
 That your fragrance, as you die, 
 May be breathed into my soul. 
 
 Then I'll press and keep you, rose, 
 Though your ruby hue be gone, 
 
 To remind me, as time goes, 
 Of my life at Williston. 
 
 Oct., 1906. 
 
 THE DEATH OP THE LEAVES. 
 
 [Published in the Williitonian, Williston Seminary.] 
 
 Green the grass is on the campus, 
 But the leaves are turning brown 
 
 As the melancholy autumn 
 
 Spreads the hoar frost o'er the ground. 
 
 Quivering, the leaves are waiting 
 For the call from earth's dark mold, 
 110 
 
For she needs them to protect her 
 From the winter's ice and cold. 
 
 When they hear her call, they scamper 
 From their lofty summer home 
 
 Back to mother earth, who gave them, 
 Whence they never more may roam. 
 
 Silently they do their bidding; 
 
 Carefully their carpet weave, 
 So that when their work is finished, 
 
 No uncovered spot they leave. 
 
 Closely to her breast they hover, 
 That her life-blood be not chilled, 
 
 Till the sun returns in springtime, 
 When their mission is fulfilled. 
 
 But the breezes miss their presence, 
 Dancing gaily in their wake, 
 
 So, in sorrow, sighing, moaning, 
 They bewail their playmates' fate. 
 
 Colder grow their hearts from sighing; 
 
 Louder grow their moans and wails, 
 Till their moist tears turn to snowflakes, 
 
 Covering o'er the new made graves. 
 
 And the barren trees, too, weeping, 
 Lash the chill winds with their limbs 
 111 
 
Till to icicles their tears are 
 Frozen by the angry winds. 
 
 Then the wood-birds leave the forest, 
 For they find no pleasure there 
 
 Since the little leaves have fallen 
 And the trees are in despair. 
 
 So we should employ our lifetime 
 That our friends may moan and grieve 
 When we leave this world, as do the 
 Trees and winds the little leaves. 
 Oct., 1906. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A CHRISTMAS GIFT. 
 
 [To M. E. G.] 
 
 When you're lonely or in sorrow, 
 
 Wipe away your burning tears 
 With this token of a friendship 
 
 Which, yet short, may last through years: 
 
 And when you have reached the highest 
 
 Step upon the stair of fame, 
 Turn and wave to me this kerchief; 
 
 I'll be somewhere in the train. 
 Dec., 1905. 
 
 112 
 
MY SISTERS 
 
 Would you like to know who occupy the best 
 
 place in my heart ? 
 It's a secret but I'll tell you if you'll promise 
 
 not to tell, 
 For I think they're just the sweetest girls, and 
 
 Oh ! they are so smart 
 That I love them very dearly Oh, you've 
 
 guessed it, have you ? Well, 
 Now I don't care if you do know, for they're all 
 
 the world to me, 
 And I like to have you know it. They're my 
 
 sisters; don't you see ? 
 Yes, my sisters are the dearest girls that I have 
 
 ever met: 
 I loved them before I knew it, and my love I 
 
 don't regret. 
 \ was bashful when I found it out, and wouldn't 
 
 say I did, 
 But I'm not afraid to own it now, for I am not 
 
 a "kid." 
 1907. 
 
 113 
 
THE DAY OF REST. 
 
 The day of rest is soon to come 
 
 When we'll fly to our eternal home 
 
 Where we shall dwell in peace and rest 
 
 Among the myriads of the blest 
 
 Who have been called from earthly cares, 
 
 From toils and trials and despairs 
 
 To that dear land where peace doth reign, 
 
 Where sorrow can no foothold gain. 
 
 And when we reach that paradise 
 And stand before our Lord and Christ. 
 We'll praise His name, for he hath giv'n 
 To us a peaceful home in heav'n. 
 We there shall meet our loved of yore, 
 Who now are waiting at the door. 
 Within that home we'll dwell alway, 
 Through time and everlasting day. 
 
 O Lord, we thank Thee for that home, 
 Where we can rest, no more to roam, 
 Where everlasting light doth 'bide 
 And never doth its glory hide. 
 There in that peaceful bliss we'll live, 
 Wrapt in the robe which Thou dost give 
 To those who will accept Thy love 
 And sing Thy praises as above. 
 1897. 
 
 114 
 
ON THE GIFT OF A WHISKBROOM. 
 
 [To R. C. R., Jr.] 
 
 When you have swept on wings of fame 
 Far past these souls more common sired, 
 
 Pray, brush the dead dust from your name, 
 That I may view and be inspired. 
 
 Dec., 1905. 
 
 ON THE GIFT OF A THERMOMETER 
 
 [To A. L. C.] 
 
 When you have soared thorough dizzy air 
 And cut your name on fame's high cliff, 
 
 Please take the temperature there 
 
 And drop it to me as a gift. 
 Dec., 1905. 
 
 ON A CLOTHES BRUSH. 
 
 As you may brush your clothes at times, 
 So that no grain of dust remain 
 
 To mar their good aspect, 
 I ask one favor through these lines; 
 That you will keep the giver's name 
 
 Free from dust of neglect. 
 Dec., 1905. 
 
 115 
 
THE HEARTS OF AMERICA. 
 
 [To a Friend.] 
 
 The heart of the South, my little girl, 
 
 Is as hard and rigid as stone; 
 It tortures to death with knife and flame 
 
 Those of flesh and blood of its own. 
 
 The heart of the North, my little maid, 
 
 Is as ice, so frigid, so cold; 
 It listens and looks, but answers not 
 
 To the wails of colored folk's souls. 
 
 The heart of the South, my little child, 
 Is as black as midnight with crime; 
 
 Nor can it erase those murd'rous stains 
 Through the endless ages of time, 
 
 The heart of the North, my wond'ring babe, 
 
 Is devoid of feeling as steel; 
 It enforces not our country's laws, 
 
 Although millions of us appeal. 
 
 The heart of the Negro, little dear, 
 Which was once so tender and kind, 
 
 Is bitter against both South and North, 
 Since in neither justice it finds. 
 
 But Liberty's heart, my little one, 
 May be sleeping, but is not dead; 
 116 
 
And when it awakes, as soon it must, 
 There may be some rivers of red. 
 
 The heart of the man oppressed and wronged 
 Yearns for vengeance, justice and right, 
 
 And once it begins its angry course 
 It increases much fold in might. 
 
 The Negro, who would not dare to stand 
 Fighting bravely for life and home, 
 
 Is worth but to live a traitor's life; 
 But to die unclaimed by his own. 
 
 Dec., 1906. 
 
 TO A BUNCH OF CARNATIONS, 
 
 (Dedicated to the Donors.) 
 
 [Published in the Enterprise, Easthampton.] 
 
 I wonder if you, flowers, know 
 
 The happiness you bring to me. 
 I wonder if you have a soul, 
 
 And feel my gratitude and glee. 
 
 I wonder if your pretty smile 
 
 And pleasant face, your graceful form 
 Were stolen from your donors while 
 
 They placed their dainty card hereon. 
 117 
 
I wonder if you felt the thrill 
 Of joy you gave my lonely heart: 
 
 I wonder if your petals still 
 
 Will live, when their sweet odors part 
 
 Tis sad to think that you must die 
 And all your beauty fade away, 
 
 Not even in a grave to lie 
 
 And moulder till some brighter day. 
 
 But yours a mission is of love, 
 Of good, of happiness, of faith: 
 
 Sent by the power from above, 
 
 You cheer the great, nor scorn the waif, 
 
 Tis sad to think you have no voice, 
 That you might tell your heart's intent; 
 
 Tis sad to know you have no choice 
 To leave me e'en your fragrant scent. 
 
 I wish I had the power to give 
 You back unto your root and vine: 
 
 I wish you might forever live 
 
 To cheer the lonely souls that pine: 
 
 But otherwise it has been willed, 
 And you, departing, leave the race, 
 
 Yet, leave our lives with treasure filled 
 Because your life was love and grace, 
 
 March, 1901. 
 
 118 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 A sweet little soul have you, my dear, 
 A heart that is true, in love sincere, 
 A manner so kind, a grace so true 
 That hardly could one help loving you. 
 
 Nor this do I say without intent; 
 
 Tis not for mere praise nor flatt'ry meant; 
 
 It is my belief, from what I've seen 
 
 And studied of you through music's screen. 
 
 As one cannot know his real worth 
 While making abode here on this earth, 
 So you cannot see, perhaps, these traits 
 Which surely your being permeate, 
 
 And I think it not amiss to tell 
 You of your good traits I see so well, 
 For, knowing what good we do possess 
 May urge us yet more to righteousness. 
 
 Quite much have I traveled o'er these lands, 
 Heard many a voice, grasped many hands, 
 Seen many a face, and read each heart; 
 Experience has lent me her art. 
 
 So, bringing this knowledge, dearly gained, 
 To bear on your case, I feel sustained 
 119 
 
In saying, as you have read above, 
 That yours is a worthy soul to love. 
 
 With hatred of race this land throughout, 
 On perjury founded by the South, 
 Tis pleasant, and worthy of much praise 
 To find souls like yours to light the ways. 
 
 The soul has no color but of eyes, 
 Possesses no malice, no disguise; 
 The soul knows no creed but love and faith 
 It knows only man; it knows no race. 
 
 That such is the soul within your breast; 
 Your actions and deeds do full attest. 
 And to such a soul alone is given 
 That happiness which we call our heaven, 
 Feb., 1907. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE PAST. 
 
 Let this the funeral of our difference be; 
 Let each the other tell the soul's desire; 
 Let each disdain the other's faults to see, 
 And let our hearts be kindled with that fire 
 That melts two dispositions into one 
 And then withdraws therefrom its greater heat 
 120 
 
And leaves the rrtolten mass, its mission done, 
 With warmth of love in unity complete. 
 But let us not forget that faults are ours, 
 Nor be unmindful of their secret growth, 
 But ever strive with all our latent powers 
 The ideal of perfection to approach. 
 Then as our lives are blended in one strain 
 And two hearts with the selfsame impulse throb, 
 With one consoling thought, each mind the 
 
 same, 
 
 May we be happy while above the sod. 
 Jan., 1907. 
 
 IN MAY. 
 
 [Written for The Enterprise, Easthampton, Mass.] 
 
 In May we launch our swift canoe, 
 
 Unbind the sail and hoist her, 
 And at the same time bid adieu 
 To our good friend, the oyster, 
 May, 1907. 
 
 121 
 
WRITTEN" ON A CHRISTMAS 
 CARD. 
 
 [To I. H.] 
 
 A friendship true is rare indeed, 
 
 So, I would cherish thine, 
 For friendship springs from sincere hearts, 
 
 From sentiment divine. 
 Dec., 1907. 
 
 A NOVEMBER SABBATH MORN, 
 
 [On Belmont Heights, Springfield, MassO 
 
 Early on one Sunday morning 
 Ere the Autumn had grown old, 
 
 I arose from peaceful sleep and 
 Dressed myself to take a stroll, 
 
 Down the crooked streets I wandered 
 
 Till I met a winding road 
 Following a deep, walled brooklet 
 
 Which, with lazy vigor flowed 
 
 Through a pretty, narrow valley, 
 Draining all the neighboring hills 
 
 By a system of large drain pipes 
 And two busy little rills. 
 122 
 
Following this road, I crossed the 
 Stream and bore off to the left, 
 
 Climbing up a hill through which a 
 Narrow street was being cleft. 
 
 Strolling 'cross this meadowed hilltop 
 In a brisk refreshing breeze, 
 
 I imbibed the breath of morning 
 Wafted to me by the trees. 
 
 But the leaves and grass were dying, 
 Worn out by the summer's toil, 
 
 E'en the little breeze was sighing, 
 For no warmth was in the soil. 
 
 Drowsily the sun came peeping 
 O'er the housetops on the height, 
 
 Blushing at his late arising, 
 
 Flooding all the heav'n with light. 
 
 From the brow of Belmont Heights my 
 Vision wandered 'cross the vale 
 
 To the far-off, peaceful river, 
 Winding down its crooked trail. 
 
 Towering from the valley rose the 
 Pointed steeples, spires and domes, 
 
 As though watching o'er the clusters 
 At their feet of quiet homes. 
 123 
 
Busily the engines glided 
 
 'Long their steel roads 'mong the mills, 
 Or on bridges o'er the river. 
 
 As a background, tiers of hills 
 
 Stretched their rugged, dark-hued ranges 
 
 As a wall on either side, 
 Stalked with pines, and here a windmill 
 
 Sluggishly its labor plied. 
 
 O'er this picture hung a blue haze, 
 
 Frightened by the rising sun 
 And retreating from his splendor, 
 
 For the day had now begun. 
 
 O'er the blue sky, like a snowdrift, 
 Spread a thin, white, drifted cloud 
 
 Veiling o'er the moon's pale visage* 
 Trailing 'round her like a shroud. 
 
 Pale, yet bravely and defiant, 
 Stood the mistress of the night 
 
 Battling with the "great task- master," 
 But unequal in the fight. 
 
 All the little stars had hidden 
 When at first they saw him rise, 
 
 For they knew that he would scold them 
 If they stayed out in the skies. 
 124 
 
So, in glory, still advancing, 
 Came he on that Sabbath morn, 
 
 Striking with his rays the church bells 
 Till their tongues chimed forth in song. 
 
 Long stood I admiring, wond'ring, 
 
 Dreaming o'er the beauteous scene, 
 Painting it with brush of mem'ry 
 
 On my mind's receptive screen. 
 Nov., 1906. 
 
 TO THE WIND OF THE NIGHT, 
 
 Wind of the night, thou silent guardian 
 
 Of the peaceful hours of life, 
 Bring unto me some missent message 
 
 From some heart o'ercome with strife; 
 
 Bring to me some belated message 
 From some heart o'erfilled with love; 
 
 Whisper to me some long-kept secret 
 Of some soul now gone above. 
 
 Steed of the air, thou swift conveyor 
 
 Of the seasons of our sphere, 
 Bear to my heart that youth, that vigor 
 
 Born of happiness and cheer. 
 125 
 
Breath of the moon, thou great proclaimer 
 
 Of the power of our God, 
 Voice of the trees, and yet the murmur 
 
 Of the lowly shrub, the sod, 
 
 Breathe to my soul some consolation 
 Made to soothe a lonely mind, 
 
 Tell to my ear some story brightened 
 With the promises of time. 
 
 Leave me not here alone to ponder, 
 Waft me to some land of dreams 
 
 Where I may find a sweet communion, 
 For life is not as it seems. 
 
 Nov., 1906. 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 How desolate is life for those 
 Who live within the wall of woes ; 
 Who come into this world of care 
 With naught but sorrow for their share 
 Who pine and long for love, for light, 
 For riches, learning, or for might ; 
 Who dream by night and toil by day, 
 Nor aught can find to drive away 
 \26 
 
This restlessness, this grim desire, 
 Nor e'en to satisfy it's ire! 
 
 The coyote on the western plain 
 Which hardly sagebrush can sustain, 
 Which knows no moisture save the dew, 
 Which boasts no tree to break the view, 
 Contented with the desert is, 
 For all that he surveys is his. 
 
 The lean gray wolf that haunts the cave, 
 Whose dreadful howl makes e'en the brave 
 Man shudder when at first he feels 
 His shriek which near his blood congeals, 
 That dogs the herd and picks with care 
 The fattest bullock for his share, 
 Desires no different life to lead; 
 For much he finds to sate his greed. 
 
 The rabbit, bounding o'er the sands, 
 Or nibbling sagebrush as he stands 
 Or crouches, resting from his play, 
 Quite satisfied is there to stay; 
 For there his pleasure he pursues 
 And there he burrows, broods and woos, 
 
 The eagle, sailing through the air, 
 Or screaming from the high cliffs, bare, 
 Or swooping down upon some flock, 
 127 
 
Or perched upon some lonely rock, 
 
 Is happy in his loneliness; 
 
 For there securely he may rest. 
 
 But he who of this human stock 
 
 Is happy with his earthly lot, 
 
 Who has no troubles, cares, nor pains, 
 
 Who knows no loss, but ever gains, 
 
 Exists not in this world of strife, 
 
 Except in that ideal life; 
 
 That life for which men pine and yearn. 
 
 So, as some live their years, they learn 
 
 That life is bare and desolate, 
 
 That all is ruled by cruel fate, 
 
 And though they strive to do, to know, 
 
 They're choked by penury and woe. 
 
 Oct. 1906. 
 
 HE WHO LAUGHED LAST, 
 LAUGHED BEST. 
 
 A youth there was, of not great education, 
 Who thought to raise himself above his station; 
 And so, by constant toil and application 
 He pulled up some few points in estimation; 
 128 
 
And when this he had done 
 He thought his fame was won. 
 A small work he compiled 
 And all the people smiled. 
 
 But dauntlessly he toiled then all the harder, 
 For he'd resolved that he would go much farther, 
 He knew that life was hard for any starter, 
 And he was not afraid to be a martyr. 
 So he made up his mind 
 He'd try a second time; 
 And at this paragraph 
 The people fairly laughed. 
 
 But not discouraged by this second failure, 
 His resolution donned a third regalia 
 And sallied forth this time as an assailer: 
 And then began the scoffers to look paler; 
 For they must now confess 
 That he had made success. 
 They saw that they had blundered 
 And all the people wondered. 
 Nov., 1906. 
 
 129 
 
A TALE OF A YOUTH OF 
 BROWN. 
 
 Out from the plains of Illinois, 
 Out from the town of Lincoln's home, 
 Where the emancipator's tomb 
 Answers the stare of state house dome, 
 
 Came forth a strippling of a boy. 
 
 Brown as a chestnut was his face, 
 Brown as two beans his soulful eyes, 
 Curly his hair like waves and black, 
 Bright was his face as summer skies: 
 
 He was of Afric's sunburnt race. 
 
 "Sweet was his whistle as a birds'," 
 "Courteous his manner as could be," 
 Buoyant his spirits as the air, 
 Light was his heart, so young, so free, 
 
 "Mellow his voice as ever heard." 
 
 He was denied his chief desire, 
 Taken from school, fore'er, perhap, 
 But he, undaunted by his fate, 
 Ran away from his mother's lap; 
 
 Left to escape his father's ire. 
 
 To the great city came this lad, 
 As yet unskilled in worldly lore, 
 130 
 
Sought out employment for himself. 
 During his leisure he would pore 
 
 Over some book, some song he had. 
 
 Studied and worked he much by night, 
 Painted, and sang, and whistled, drew 
 Pictures and whittled toys from wood, 
 Did as he thought he ought to do, 
 
 Lived as he knew and loved the right; 
 
 For he had known a mother's care, 
 Felt of her anguish and her joy, 
 Heard his grandmother, late a slave, 
 Reading of David, shepherd boy, 
 
 Guarding his flocks from beast and snare. 
 
 Growing, this youth to manhood came, 
 But he had not what he loved best, 
 Clamored his heart to learn, to know, 
 Nor could he feel content, at rest, 
 
 For he had vowed to rise to fame. 
 
 Finally heard he of a school 
 Where he might work, and in return 
 Receive the knowledge which he wished. 
 Forthwith he went, alas, to learn 
 
 That southern prejudice there ruled. 
 
 Famed was this school throughout the land. 
 Even from o'er the seas there came 
 131 
 
Youth to be educated, trained, 
 Not only in the paths of fame, 
 
 But in base hatred, man for man. 
 
 Sad, but resolved, he left its wails, 
 Went to a more congenial one 
 Where he might have a right to live; 
 He found this right at Williston; 
 
 Found justice, freedom in her halls; 
 
 Found friendly spirit in her town; 
 Found helping hands and willing hearts 
 Brightened, his soul poured forth its strains, 
 Pleasing the townsfolk with his arts 
 
 Until they loved this youth of brown. 
 Dec., 1906. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND. V. 
 
 With wailing souls and protests came 
 
 Our fathers to this virgin soil, 
 Deprived of freedom and in chain, 
 
 Denied the product of their toll. 
 
 Compelled to learn the white man's art, 
 They learned to love the white man's God, 
 132 
 
And though not of his race a part, 
 They were engrafted to the sod. 
 
 For ages they were wronged and robbed 
 And on the spoils this nation thrived; 
 
 For centuries they prayed and sobbed 
 Until their prayers were recognized. 
 
 But, though they broke the iron band 
 And left us freedom, as 'tis called, 
 
 We still are bondsmen in this land, 
 By unjust laws and treatment thralled. 
 
 But this much longer cannot be, 
 For we will protest and will fight 
 
 Until as any one we're free. 
 And can enjoy our every right. 
 
 For Is this not our native land? 
 
 Have we not toiled for this our home 
 And bled, and made as brave a stand 
 
 In its defense as e'er was known? 
 
 We've no more rapists, thieves and crooks, 
 Nor do more crime, than other folks; 
 
 We love as well our arts and books 
 And labors; we despise the yoke 
 
 Of bondage, ignorance and vice; 
 We are as Christian in our deeds; 
 133 
 
And naught can our demand suffice 
 Which less than fullest rights concedes. 
 
 I know not why, because of race, 
 
 We should be shunned, proscribed, despised 
 By those who, though of lighter face, 
 
 Are yet our kindred by the ties 
 
 Of creed, of native land, and blood. 
 
 I know not why we should pay tax 
 For government and yet a flood 
 
 Of senseless protest these are facts 
 
 Should rise throughout our land's extent 
 When we demand a voice and part 
 
 In offices of government; 
 
 Such acts are tyrannous at heart. 
 
 The Negroes of the Southern state 
 Who are denied the right to vote, 
 
 To have a court adjudicate 
 
 Their wrongs, though stars and stripes do 
 float 
 
 Above their heads, are treated worse 
 Than were the subjects of the crown 
 
 Before rebellion moved the curse 
 And shot the tyrant's army down, 
 134 
 
Shall we> who know no other home, 
 Who speak the native English tongue, 
 
 Submit to wrong without a groan 
 And leave a serf's lot to our young? 
 
 Nol We shall not. Not even beast 
 Will be abused without a show 
 
 Of protest. We must be released; 
 We must strike some decisive blow. 
 
 If we betray our fathers' trust 
 
 Bequeathed to us upon their death 
 
 In civil war, may our base dust 
 
 Receive but curse from human breath, 
 
 Dec., 1907. 
 
 A MEMORIAL OF CHILDHOOD, 
 
 Those days of childish thought and joy 
 
 Will never come to me again, 
 Yet, there's no power that can destroy 
 
 Their image drawn by mem'ry's pen, 
 
 Those days of innocence and love 
 When I knew nothing of the world 
 
 Have flitted from me Ifke a dove; 
 Life has its graver scenes unfurled, 
 135 
 
Those happy days at grandma's knee 
 When I was but a tottering babe 
 
 No more can I expect to see, 
 
 For long has she to rest been laid. 
 
 I knew no sorrows then, nor cares, 
 For mother for me bore them all 
 
 And taught me of the hidden snares, 
 Lest I might blindly in them fall. 
 
 No more will grandpa bring me sweets 
 And trinkets when he comes from work; 
 
 No more shall I run out to meet 
 My papa in my clean, new skirt. 
 
 Those days are gone, and in their place 
 Are months of toil and years of hope, 
 
 But I am strengthened in life's race 
 By drinking from the springs they ope, 
 
 Dec., 1901. 
 
 A NOVEMBER EVENTIDE. 
 
 (Published in the Willistonian.) 
 
 [Written on a Trolly Car.] 
 
 The mighty sun had kept his steady course 
 Across the autumn sky of cold, steel gray, 
 136 
 
Before him routing all the frosty chill 
 
 And spreading o'er the earth a cheerful day, 
 
 And was about to set him down to rest, 
 
 To dream of all the hearts he'd filled with 
 light 
 
 And leave the silver visage of the moon 
 
 To rule o'er his dominion through the night, 
 
 For Luna was his sweetheart, loved of old, 
 Reflected from himself and fashioned, too, 
 
 Yet, fairer than his ruddy face of gold, 
 She took upon herself a silver hue. 
 
 But ere he'd finished quite his daily run, 
 His pale companion raised her silvery head 
 
 From 'neath the rugged top of Nonotuck 
 
 And smiled, and great Sol blushed a crimson 
 red, 
 
 Still higher rose the goddess of the night, 
 Her full, bright smile o'erspreading wood and 
 field: 
 
 Still lower sank her lover in the west 
 Until Mt. Pomeroy his blush concealed. 
 
 But Luna steered her course across the sky 
 And in his footsteps, laughing, held the 
 chase, 
 
 137 
 
While here on earth, more fortunate than she, 
 Sweet Morpheus held the world in loved em- 
 brace. 
 Nov., 1907, 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY IN 
 EASTHAMPTON. 
 
 [Written for The Enterprise, Easthampton, Mass.] 
 
 'Twas kind of the Omnipotent 
 
 To blow His warm breath on the day 
 
 And keep the rain in heavens pent, 
 That we in duty sad might lay 
 
 Our decorations on the tombs 
 
 Of heroes of our cruel wars. 
 The sun shone forth in splendid gloom; 
 
 With drooping heads the trees and flowers 
 
 Stood still in thankful prayer, or raised 
 Their joyful faces toward the heaven 
 
 Exulting gratefully in praise 
 
 For all the goodness to us given. 
 
 No rain-cloud marred the clear, blue sky, 
 No wintry blast the wind congealed 
 138 
 
While white-haired heroes waved on high 
 The tattered flags from battle-field. 
 
 The fifers piped the shrill war note, 
 Or played the solemn funeral dirge; 
 
 A feeble step marked each drum stroke; 
 A feeble heart each life did urge 
 
 As to their comrades' graves they went, 
 Each with the weight of old age bent, 
 
 To pay with laurel wreaths and flowers 
 A nation's debt of thanks. 'Tis ours 
 
 To mourn those hearts which valor claimed, 
 To shed tears o'er those graves unnamed, 
 
 To cheer these heroes with us yet, 
 Lest their great service we forget. 
 
 'Tis ours to soothe their feeble ills 
 Whose memory each true heart fills: 
 
 Tis ours, when they are passed and gone, 
 To take their flag and follow on; 
 
 And as God gave a day so clear, 
 
 So warm, from out this spring so drear, 
 
 That we might better pay respect 
 
 To those deceased whose graves we decked, 
 
 So will our later days be bright, 
 
 Though weighed with years, our spirits light, 
 139 
 
Because we have revered the gray 
 
 Old heroes on Memorial day. 
 June, 1907. 
 
 PLEA OF THE NEGRO SOLDIER. 
 
 ("A Powerful Poem and Foreboding" Repub- 
 lican.) 
 
 [Published in Springfield Republican, Feb. 16, 1907. Copied 
 by Boston Guardian.] 
 
 America, ungrateful land! 
 Whose treacherous soil my blood has dyed, 
 Whose wealth my father's shackled hand 
 Has hoarded up, who has denied 
 
 Me right to live, to vote, to learn. 
 Whose laws protect me not from wrong, 
 
 Who will permit me not to earn 
 An honest living, who in song 
 
 Doth boast a land of freedom, but 
 Whose flag waves o'er a land of crime, 
 
 The makers of whose laws unjust 
 
 Themselves are stained with blood and slime 
 
 Of murders, lynchings, rape and lies, 
 And who, while yet the sacred oath 
 140 
 
Of office on their vile I*ps lies, 
 Will lead a mob of comrades forth 
 
 To take some negro, innocent, 
 Accused perhaps, but never tried, 
 
 From custody of government 
 And burn him, to a pillar tied, 
 
 I fear the dawning of thy doom: 
 I hear the voice of justice cry 
 
 From out this wilderness of gloom: 
 I see the dark clouds in thy sky. 
 
 From Boston massacre, my blood 
 Through all the channels of thy war 
 
 Has mingled with thy crimson flood; 
 Through Yorktown, Erie, Wagner, far 
 
 To El Caney and San Juan Hill, 
 
 Where, midst the charges awful din, 
 
 With song our voice the air did fill 
 And make that song a battle hymn. 
 
 The Philippines, so dearly bought, 
 Are strewn with bodies of my kin; 
 
 My comrades have thy glory wrought 
 In war, in peace, with skill and vim, 
 
 Twas I who rescued from the urn 
 Of death thy fickle soldier chief; 
 141 
 
Tis he who gives me in return 
 Disgrace, dishonor, no relief 
 
 From poverty my feeble years 
 
 Must bring me soon; he who deprives 
 
 Me of support retirement rears 
 Up for her faithful soldiers' lives. 
 
 My thirty years of living death 
 
 In bloody war avail me naught 
 When prejudice and perjured breath 
 
 Of Brownsville 'gainst my name is brought. 
 
 And dost thou yet, ungrateful land 
 Expect my blood and kin to stand 
 
 In cowered silence, while thy hand 
 Continues to despoil our band? 
 
 May God forbid that of my race 
 A single child shall e'er disgrace 
 
 His native land, the resting place 
 Of martyred kin, by fear to face 
 
 Injustice by whomever thrown. 
 
 The ancient Plebeians of Rome 
 For treatment such renounced their home 
 
 And sought the Sacred Mountain's dome. 
 
 The colonies of George the Third 
 To less injustice war preferred 
 142 
 
And fired, the while the world concurred, 
 The shot which round the earth was heard. 
 
 Republic cannot long endure 
 
 When autocrat can feel secure 
 To heap injustice on the poor 
 
 Or helpless; ruin follows sure. 
 
 Three centuries have near rolled by 
 Since first our fathers' mournful cry 
 
 And clank of chains rose to thy sky, 
 Nor yet have found just cause to die. 
 
 Our voice of protest shall not cease 
 
 Until thy unjust bonds release 
 Our rights, that our lives may increase 
 
 In riches, happiness and peace. 
 
 But I, alas! have given all 
 In answer to thy urgent call, 
 Exposed my life to sword and ball, 
 And now, as o'er me creeps the fall 
 
 Of life, I find no recompense 
 But base discharge, with no defense 
 Through which to prove my innocence, 
 Though I've committed no offense. 
 
 For this I've given up my home 
 O'er hapless battle-fields to roam, 
 143 
 
I've crossed the ocean's hungry foam, 
 I've fought disease in hostile loam. 
 
 O God of justice and of right ! 
 If thou art deaf and hast no sight, 
 Lend me Thy weapons and Thy might, 
 That this last battle I may fight. 
 Feb., 1907. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND. VI. 
 
 Justice, hast thou fled and left us 
 
 In this cuel, unkind land, 
 Where these human wolves beset us 
 
 As we turn on either hand? 
 
 Reason, hast thou taken refuge 
 
 In some distant, kinder clime, 
 Leaving us in all this deluge 
 
 Of unjust, uncivil crime? 
 
 Mercy, art thou deaf, unflinching 
 To our hopeless wails and woes 
 
 As we're burned and killed by lynching, 
 Murdered by our hideous foes? 
 144 
 
Christian, has thy heart, once tender, 
 Hardened into dead, cold stone: 
 
 Canst thou not some service render, 
 Or dost thou these wrongs condone? 
 
 Conscience, art thou dreaming, sleeping, 
 Nor reprovest thou these deeds? 
 
 Civil progress, art thou creeping 
 Back into uncivil weeds? 
 
 Pride, art thou o'erwhelmed and blinded 
 By false prestige, power assumed? 
 
 Take heed lest thou be reminded 
 Suddenly that thou art doomed. 
 
 Where is all the honor boasted. 
 Freedom, principle and right, 
 
 Written, sung, proclaimed and toasted 
 Of this land of wealth and might? 
 
 Whittier's dead and Lincoln, Sumner, 
 Garrison and' Lovejoy, Stowe, 
 
 Phillips, Brown and Douglass slumber, 
 While the pleas of "Fighting Joe," 
 
 Keifer, Garrison, the younger, 
 
 Higginson, and others few, 
 Still are scorned, unquenched of hunger, 
 
 Yet to justice they are true. 
 145 
 
Wisdom, hast thou lost thy power 
 To convince the ignorant 
 
 That as they misuse thy dower 
 They must certainly repent? 
 
 Woe unto this haughty nation 
 If she fails to keep her trust: 
 
 All are equal by creation; 
 All alike return to dust. 
 
 Dec., 1901. 
 
 TO CHICAGO. 
 
 Chicago, mistress of the lakes, 
 
 Controller of our inland trade, 
 The freest city of our states, 
 
 What wondrous strides thy fame has made! 
 
 The century has yet one-fourth 
 
 Its years to register with time 
 Since from an humble Negro's hearth 
 
 Thou started on thy upward climb; 
 
 From farm to Indian trading-post, 
 To Dearborn's fort, to thriving town, 
 
 To city, till now thou canst boast 
 Of prestige, glory and renown. 
 146 
 
When dreadful fire laid waste thy land 
 Thy courage took a deeper drill 
 
 And sank its roots beneath the sand, 
 And since that time has said, "I will." 
 
 As if from magic rose thy blocks 
 
 Like mountains towering to the skies; 
 
 The lake birds crowded to thy docks; 
 And o'er thy arms of steel and ties 
 
 Came people, money, shops and mills, 
 Came grain and livestock; 'cross thy plain 
 
 Came wagons from the eastern hills; 
 And from the South, to breathe again 
 
 The air of freedom and of life, 
 
 Came sons of Africa, escaped 
 From chains of slavery's deadly strife, 
 
 And drank the pure air of the lake. 
 
 Oft since Fred Douglass thou hast heard, 
 A Ransom shielded with thy walls, 
 
 A Morris hast thou given birth; 
 Another Morris filled thy halls 
 
 With melodies and music sweet. 
 
 Abe Lincoln, once, oft came and went 
 From hall of statehouse to thy street: 
 
 And now a Douglass settlement 
 147 
 
Has graced thy great community, 
 
 Has hurled its challenge through the land, 
 
 Determined with impunity 
 
 For equal rights to all to stand. 
 
 A Justice Harlan is thy son, 
 
 A Celia Parker Woolly, thine, 
 A Marshall Field, whose race is run, 
 
 And many of illustrious line. 
 
 Thou city of an Indian swamp, 
 My second birth thou gavest me: 
 
 As through thy long streets I did romp 
 I breathed thy spirit deep and free. 
 
 From thee I learned my lessons first 
 Of worldly care, of manly strife; 
 
 From thee I partly quenched my thirst 
 For knowledge and the greater life. 
 
 I've wandered through thy groves and parks, 
 
 Thy boulevards and avenues; 
 I've watched the sailing of thy barks 
 
 And mingled with the busy crews; 
 
 I've seen thy buildings rent with fire; 
 
 I've seen thy towering structures rise 
 Each vieing to extend the higher, 
 
 In climbing upward toward the skies, 
 148 
 
Thou city on a sand-bar made, 
 
 I've seen thy wealth and people grow 
 
 To double in one short decade; 
 
 I've felt thy piercing, cold winds blow; 
 
 Oh city of the pioneer, 
 
 I love thee for thy great, free heart; 
 Thou art my foster-mother, dear, 
 
 And I am of thyself a part. 
 Dec., 1907. 
 
 HAPPINESS IS HEAVEN. 
 
 (To a Friend.) 
 
 [Written in a Music Lover's Calendar.] 
 
 When music rises sweet from harmony 
 
 And steals her soothing strains throughout 
 
 my soul 
 
 And swells its living veins of melody 
 Until, sublime with ecstasy, they burst 
 Into a flood of joy, exuberance 
 And life subduing discord, sonrow^ strife, 
 Then truly am I in the only heaven 
 That can exist for carnal, mortal man; 
 For harmony is but the voice of love, 
 And love is but a sympathetic chord 
 149 
 
Of feeling which itself attaches to 
 
 The kindred particles of different 
 
 Existing organisms and binds them fast 
 
 Into sublime, harmonious happiness, 
 
 Securest state of pleasure grown from life: 
 
 Therefore is love the leveler of life. 
 
 The soul compounded is of life and love, 
 
 The one true state of life is consciousness 
 
 Of happiness in other beings near 
 
 Resulting largely from one's own good deeds; 
 
 And, as the rhythmic utt'rance of the soul 
 
 Is poetry, so, therefore, music the 
 
 Denominator common is of life. 
 
 Since heav'n consists of music, life, and love, 
 
 Our only heaven, then, is happiness. 
 
 Dec.. 1907. 
 
 A HERO'S DEED. 
 
 A southern mob upon a lynching bent, 
 
 In old Louisiana's slave-shorn bound, 
 With murd'rous hands and flaming firebrands 
 
 went 
 
 In lawless chase to hunt a negro down. 
 150 
 
Our hero kissed farewell his child and dame, 
 And bravely vowed to fight their coward 
 band: 
 
 His eye possessed a never-failing aim 
 And steady as yon mountain was his hand. 
 
 He knew that they were coming for his life, 
 So, barricading windows all and doors, 
 
 And with his guns all loaded for the strife, 
 He lay in wait for their approach by scores. 
 
 When they had reached and turned into his 
 
 gate 
 He fired a shot which struck the foremost 
 
 down, 
 And as he fired he prayed he might shoot 
 
 straight, 
 
 That every shot should bring one to the 
 ground. 
 
 At this they made a rush toward his fort, 
 But his good weapons were of truest steel, 
 
 So every bullet sailed into its port, 
 
 And soon some eight or ten had ceased to 
 feel. 
 
 They started back in horror at his deeds, 
 For they were all base cowards, every one; 
 151 
 
Some tried to sneak up nearer through the 
 
 weeds, 
 But even they did not escape his gun. 
 
 They tried all kinds of schemes to get him out; 
 They sent a priest and small child toward 
 
 the door, 
 But our black hero aimed his rifle stout, 
 
 And both fell wounded gravely, streaked with 
 gore. 
 
 He knew his God was with him in the fight 
 And, therefore, could not be in e'en the priest; 
 
 He fought because he knew that he was right; 
 And thirteen of the mob their blood re- 
 leased. 
 
 But finally, by throwing oil and brands, 
 
 They set the house afire to burn him 'live 
 And chuckled 'mong themselves and wrung 
 
 their hands, 
 
 For they thought no escape he could con- 
 trive. 
 
 Quite soon the shanty was a mass of flames; 
 The rifle ceased to speak; there were no 
 
 tones 
 
 Except the crackling of the wood and panes: 
 The fiends were waiting 'round to mock his 
 groans. 
 
 152 
 
But, while they stood intently looking on, 
 
 The God of Mercy came and succor gave, 
 For, while they watched the house burn, he had 
 
 gone: 
 
 The flame and smoke refused to kill the 
 brave. 
 
 The fire sent forth a heavy cloud of smoke 
 To make the hero covering to the wood, 
 
 The wind obeyed the flaming tongue that spoke 
 And wrapped his fleeting form in that dense 
 hood 
 
 Until the dismal swamp stretched forth her arm 
 And, covering him with her verdant shawl, 
 
 Fast wafted him beyond the reach of harm 
 And left him north of Mason-Dixon's wall. 
 
 In vain they hunted, when the fire had died, 
 To find his simmering bones, or ashes gray; 
 
 In vain they wondered where he could have 
 
 hied 
 Himself unseen to cheat them of their prey. 
 
 But this brave black had made good his escape; 
 The fierce beasts even hindered not his 
 
 flight; 
 
 Sweet Nature did his thirst and hunger sate 
 And shield him with her cloak both day and 
 night. 
 
 .153 
 
the mighty power that our fate controls 
 Had spoken and rebuked the dastard mob! 
 
 Had sacrificed a dozen hateful souls 
 
 To save one guiltless of a race down-trod, 
 
 Dec., 1907. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 [Written in an Autograph Album, to M. E. G-] 
 
 Although at times our spirits seem oppressed 
 And we seem lonely, sorrowful, distressed, 
 We may find consolation, after all, 
 By turning t'ward the pictures on the wall: 
 So, if you find yourself in lonely pain, 
 Remember, sunshine always follows rain> 
 Then turn you to my humble photograph 
 Upon the wall, or to this autograph, 
 And fancy there my spirit and my soul 
 And it, perhaps, your heartache will condole* 
 Nov., 1907. 
 
 154 
 
AS WE LOVE, so ARE 
 LOVED. 
 
 [To M. E. G.] 
 
 Though the soil be e'er so fertile; 
 
 It will not yield up its fruit 
 If no showers fall upon it, 
 
 If no warmth caress its root. 
 
 Though the bud be near to bursting. 
 
 It will not its beauty show 
 If no moisture fall upon it, 
 
 If no sunlight lend its glow. 
 
 Though the heart be afl affection, 
 
 It will not its soul outpour 
 If no fervor be returned it, 
 
 If no love knock at its door. 
 
 Just a word of loving kindness, 
 
 Just a gentle look* or act 
 In our life, our talk, our writing 
 
 May another's lov attract. 
 
 If we wish to reap love's harvest, 
 
 We must shed our hearts' warm raifi 
 Of encouragement upon it, 
 Or our sowing is in vain. 
 Dec., 1907. 
 
 155 
 
OUR RECOMPENSE. 
 
 Our lives are the sweeter because we have sor- 
 rowed; 
 Our love is more tender because we have 
 
 pined; 
 
 Our sympathy deeper because we have suf- 
 fered; 
 
 Our happiness greater because we are kind. 
 Jan., 1908. 
 
 TO WILLISTON AT PARTING. 
 
 (Dedicated to Dr. Joseph H. Sawyer.) 
 
 [Published in the Willistonian.] 
 
 O Williston, a countless debt I owe 
 To thee who hast assisted me in life, 
 
 For when my eager zeal desired to know, 
 To do, when lone my heart, engulfed in strife, 
 
 For knowledge cried, for opportunity, 
 
 For equal right and chance to live and learn, 
 
 To educate myself and happy be 
 
 Though poor, proscribed, thou badst me come 
 and earn 
 
 That lore, nor didst deny me of thine aid. 
 
 Thy heart is great and good, ordained of 
 God: 
 
 156 
 
Thy tribute have already hundreds paid 
 
 Unto thine ear and passed beneath the sod; 
 
 And some are marching feebly to the strains 
 Of that sweet rhythm of life they learned of 
 thee 
 
 As in their youthful days they coursed thy lanes 
 Of learning, while full grateful at thy knee 
 
 Bow I, that thy wise benediction may 
 
 In parting fall upon my storm-tossed head, 
 That thy good wish may pave my hard, rough, 
 
 way 
 
 O'er thorn, o'er wall, o'er grave of hallowed 
 dead. 
 
 And when o'er western plain or eastern hill 
 I hear thy loving voice in later years 
 
 Speak words of cheer and courage to me, still 
 My grateful heart shall lend thee eager ears; 
 
 My tender mem'ries shall their petals ope 
 And show thee there the full bloom of their 
 soul 
 
 And breathe their fragrant, sunny breath of hope 
 And joy into thine air; and then, the goal, 
 
 Jan., 1908. 
 
 157 
 
LOUISE. 
 
 Can I forget your loving mien, Louise? 
 
 Can I forget your tender, trustful heart? 
 Can I forget your sacrificing soul? 
 
 Ah no! They are of memory a part. 
 
 Have I not grateful seemed unto your mind? 
 
 Then think not of our meeting with regret, 
 For I have often thought of you, although 
 
 Some years have rounded now since we have 
 met. 
 
 Your noble, quadroon face, your pretty eyes, 
 Your ruddy cheeks, your wavy, chestnut hair, 
 
 Your stately form, your womanly deport, 
 And e'en the music of your voice, are there 
 
 Among the pictures of my galleried mind, 
 Shut up within its chambers, to await 
 
 My pleasure to release them to my view, 
 My hungry turing toward the past to sate, 
 
 I feel that this I owe to you, Louise, 
 
 For you are yet the dear friend of my youth 
 
 Whose kindness and devotion shall not pine 
 For lack of recognition and of truth, 
 
 Jan,, 1908, 
 
 158. 
 
WOMAN 
 
 Thou,, woman, art a jewel of great worth 
 And yet a worthless jewel if thou wilt: 
 
 Thou hast a value rarest of the earth, 
 But thou art valueless when set in guilt. 
 
 Jan.. 1908. 
 
 THE BIRDIE THAT HAS FLOWN. 
 
 [To a Friend.] 
 
 A birdie entered in our hall one day 
 
 In dainty, sparkling plumage decked, with 
 
 cheek 
 Of rosy pink and pretty eyes. Straightway 
 
 She glided t'ward my humble station meek 
 
 And perched herself in comfort on my chair. 
 
 And when she oped her mouth and spoke to 
 
 me 
 Her voice, so sweet and musical and rare, 
 
 Fell on my ear and lingered, and so free 
 
 Did she present me from her silver purse 
 Of treasure that for joy my heart-beat leaped 
 
 And listened to the song she did rehearsa 
 into my ear Inclined; and a she pesped 
 159 
 
Into my face with sparkling, smiling eyes 
 Her heart seemed smitten with my pleasant 
 mien 
 
 And poured its story forth without disguise 
 As I a dainty morsel for this queen 
 
 Set down upon the table at my side. 
 
 And when her hunger she had fully quenched 
 She chirped good-bye, then straight without she 
 hied, 
 
 And next day came again unto my bench. 
 
 And daily as I waited in the hall, 
 
 She came and chatted with me in delight 
 
 And left her pleasant treasure, soul and all, 
 That I might dream the sweeter through the 
 night. 
 
 But now my bird has flown away and gone 
 To cheer some other suitor with her lay 
 
 And left me but the echoes of her song 
 To cheer my lonely musings of the day. 
 
 Jan,, 1908, 
 
 160 
 
IS MACBETH A "GOD IN 
 RUINS?" 
 
 [Written as an Exercise in English, at Williston.] 
 
 A god, Macbeth?^ No he is not a god, 
 Nor demigod; though hero still he be, 
 He hath no deed to deify performed 
 That's not o'erbalanced by some fiendish act, 
 Some dev'lish deed by wicked greed set on. 
 Unholy rev'rence of ambition's call 
 Hath robbed him of his virtue's saner self, 
 Dethroned his God-like qualities of heart 
 And crowned instead a grim, Satanic head 
 With blasted, evil, fame-shorn boastful and 
 Unhallowed glory of a murd'rer's lot: 
 And yet, he hath a tender, kinder strain 
 Which doth betimes express its manly self 
 And seek to overpower its counterpart 
 Of dark desire, but that she demon of 
 His earthly tie, that gentle creature turned 
 To cold, dead stone, also ambition's child, 
 Unholy in her base desire for name, 
 Unsexed by evil passion's claim of power, 
 Unseats his reason from its holy throne 
 And places there instead to rule his fate 
 The maddened fury of his baser wish; 
 And Macbeth's mortal god of right falls dead, 
 Jan., 1908 
 
 161 
 
WILLISTON BATTLE SONG. 
 
 [Published in the Wiilistonian.] 
 
 Two football teams met one day 
 
 Down on the gridiron gay, 
 
 One wore the colors to "Worcester" true, 
 
 Red and black, as they flew 
 
 Out to fight Gold and Blue. 
 
 Proudly they ran to the field, 
 
 Cheered by the crowd as they wheeled, 
 
 But ere the game was done 
 
 With dear old Williston 
 
 They were compelled to yield, 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Let us give a hearty cheer 
 For old Williston so dear 
 And for all her sturdy men 
 Winning laurels for old "Sem," 
 May they ever play so well 
 That our spirits rise and swell, 
 Let us all join in a rousing, good yell! 
 Williston! Rah! Rah! Rah! Williston! 
 Rah! Rah! 
 
 After the battle was o'er 
 'Worcester" went home worn and sore; 
 Williston cheered for the Blue and Gold 
 While the chapel bell tolled, 
 
 162 
 
And the bonfire smoke rolled, 
 So may we always in strife, 
 Whether in school or in life, 
 Ever play fair and in 
 All of our struggles win 
 Williston fame and pride. 
 Oct., 1907. 
 
 THE LATENT THOUGHT. 
 
 There is no heav'n such as we're told 
 With marble halls and streets of gold, 
 Where angels wing their joyous flight, 
 Where all are clothed in robes of white, 
 
 There is no hell of burning stone 
 Where wicked souls forever groan 
 And burn, nor lives a devil there- 
 Where all is darkness and despair. 
 
 Our conscience is the god we serve; 
 Our every act it does observe; 
 Our thoughts originate within 
 It, and we're turned by it from sin, 
 
 The devil is no more nor less 
 Than mem'ry of our wickedness 
 163 
 
Ambitious, covetous desire 
 Of all its servants does require. 
 
 Our happiness is all our heaven; 
 It is of life the one sweet leaven; 
 Remorseful misery is our hell; 
 It is of life the solemn knell. 
 
 Our highest aim while life remain 
 Should be to stop some others' pain, 
 To do as we would have them do; 
 To make them happy, love them, too; 
 
 For life is gone when last we breathe; 
 We live no more when this we leave; 
 And as we live in joy or fear, 
 We have our hell or heaven here, 
 
 If we do good but for the pay 
 We're offered "of eternal day;" 
 If we do naught but what Is right 
 For fear of hell's eternal night; 
 
 We are unworthy of reward 
 We should do good for sweet accord- 
 And we are moral cowards all. 
 If we do good, whate'er befall, 
 
 In order that because we live 
 The world may better be and give 
 164 
 
Us joy because we've made it so, 
 No greater should we wish to know; 
 
 For Heaven is a state combined 
 Of music, joy and love refined, 
 And all these hover round our soul: 
 If we but try, we reach the goal. 
 
 So, if you would in Heaven be, 
 Do good, be happy and be free; 
 But if to wickedness you're slave 
 You'll enter hell before the grave. 
 Feb., 1908. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE; MODERNIZED. 
 
 Who lynches me maims but this modeled clay; 
 And injures no one but his narrow self, 
 Although in principle he wrongs a race, 
 For souls of martyrs have eternal life; 
 But he who robs me of my all, my name, 
 Steals that which cannot make him wealthier, 
 But slanders me and leaves me poor indeed. 
 Feb., 1908. 
 
 165 
 
MEDITATIONS OF A NEGRO'S 
 MIND. VII. 
 
 The same air purifies our blood, 
 
 The same food gives us health and strength, 
 
 The same stream quenches all our thirst, 
 
 All our emotions are the same, 
 
 Our minds imbibe the self-same thought, 
 
 Our feelings wounded are the same, 
 
 Sweet nature yields our toil as much, 
 
 The flowers bloom for us as well, 
 
 We're born, we live, we die the same, 
 
 When we are dead the self-same sod 
 
 Receives our bodies, and our souls 
 
 Are happy in the heaven, as yours, 
 
 'Tis true that our complexion is 
 
 Not light of color as is yours, 
 
 But should we, thefore, be proscribed 
 
 And ostracised, and scorned, and wronged? 
 
 Feb., 1908. 
 
 TO ONE UNKNOWK. 
 
 To one unknown to me, 
 A lady, kind and good, 
 Of old New England stock, 
 Who saw I loved to read,* 
 166 
 
Once on a western train, 
 And bought for me a book, 
 Although she knew me not, 
 I now indite these lines. 
 
 There are some few great hearts 
 Who have compassion for 
 A struggling, outcast race, 
 Whose sympathies are moved 
 And touched with pity deep 
 To see a worthy one, 
 Deprived of equal chance, 
 Still strive to raise his state; 
 And she was one of them. 
 
 Some years have passed since then, 
 But I have not forgot 
 Her kind and generous act. 
 Here in this rhymeless verse 
 A grateful, proud heart sings 
 His lay of thankful praise 
 Unto an unknown grace 
 And bids the silent breeze 
 To waft his song to her 
 And whisper in her ear 
 That it was not in vain 
 She did an act so kind. 
 March, 1908. 
 
 167 
 
A LOVER'S PROPOSAL. 
 
 My dear, sweet girl; I fancy you 
 Because you seem sincere and true: 
 
 Because you seem in thought so pure; 
 Because you have an aim in life; 
 Because you've suffered want and strife; 
 
 Because you suffer naught to lure 
 You from the work you've planned to do: 
 For Orpheus you've set to woo. 
 
 I like you for your honest face; 
 Your earnestness and easy grace. 
 
 I care not for mere outward show 
 Of features, for 'tis but a thin 
 Veneering; lifeless, bloodless skin, 
 
 I find more beauty in the glow 
 Of fervency and love and truth 
 That lights your face and tints your youth 
 
 Than in the facial handsomeness 
 Of many girls who primp and dress 
 
 And spend their time in idle talk; 
 Who can do nothing well but be 
 Much talked of in "society;" 
 
 Whose greatest pleasure is to mock, 
 Or imitate some foppish flirt, 
 To wear the finest hat or skirt, ~. 
 
 168 
 
True beauty dwells with-in the soul, 
 And only there. The face is cold 
 
 Without expression's tints and fires: 
 Tis but the mirror of the heart, 
 Reflecting life's most studied art, 
 
 Portraying feelings, thoughts, desires 
 And longings, agonies and pain, 
 The unassuming and the vain. 
 
 The training of your girlhood days 
 Is well defined in all your ways: 
 
 You could not hide it if you would. 
 It well becomes you to obey, 
 To reverence your mother's gray. 
 
 I like you, for I think you're good. 
 I wonder if I'd ever rue 
 It, should I fall in love with you. 
 
 To satisfy me, I shall say 
 That, if, in future, day by day, 
 
 Your life and acts continue to 
 Be worthy as I think you now 
 To be, I'll make a solemn vow 
 
 That I shall love and honor you 
 And trust you with my name and fate, 
 If you will but reciprocate. 
 April., 1906. 
 
 169 
 
ONLY THE SPAN OF A LIFE. 
 
 [To Mrs. J. K. P.] 
 
 Only the span of a life has passed 
 
 Since we were two little girls 
 Romping and playing, with ne'er a care, 
 
 Finding but joy in our worlds. 
 
 Only the span of a life has gone 
 Since we knew nothing of pain: 
 
 After a few more of life's frail days 
 We shall be painless again. 
 
 Only a space of three score and ten, 
 Filled with some joy, with some strife, 
 
 Leavened with faith, hope, ambition, love, 
 Makes up what we call a life. 
 
 Only the memoirs of childhood days 
 Flit through our worn, weary brain 
 
 And, as we dream of our happy youth, 
 Lo! We are children again. 
 
 But, as if shadows, they fly away, 
 Back to their long-guarded cell, 
 
 There to continue their romp and play 
 Till life responds to death's knell. 
 170 
 
Only the span of a life has passed, 
 But we have not lived for naught, 
 
 For we can go to our graves at last 
 Happy for what we have wrought. 
 
 May, 1906. 
 
 OUR AIM IN LIFE. 
 
 We all should endeavor to make others happy, 
 For life of itself enough sorrow will give: 
 
 Our sympathy, happiness, love, all have value 
 The world should be better because we have 
 lived. 
 
 May, 1908. 
 
To Mr. John Leitch, proprietor of the Enter- 
 prise Printing Company, who has so kindly al- 
 lowed me the use of his type and press, I here 
 acknowledge my gratitude, and I sincerely thank 
 him and others of my friends for their kind and 
 helpful criticism and their assistance in reading 
 proof. 
 
 The inspiration and feeling of several of the 
 Negro poems in this book are largely due to the 
 influence of Rev. Reverdy C. Ransom, D. D. 
 
 Charles Fred. White. 
 Williston Seminary, May, 1908. 
 
YS' 
 
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