PREFACE (continued 3)

De frost is fallin' on de gras' An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"— De air is blowin' mighty cold Like it done in days of old.

Alice Dunbar-Nelson

SONNET

I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,— Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now—unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.

Charles Bertram Johnson

A LITTLE CABIN

Des a little cabin Big ernuff fur two. Des awaitin', honey, Cozy fixt fur you; Down dah by de road, Not ve'y far from town, Waitin' fur de missis, When she's ready to come down.

Des a little cabin, An' er acre o' groun', Vines agrowin' on it, Fruit trees all aroun', Hollyhawks a-bloomin' In de gyahden plot— Honey, would you like to Own dat little spot?

Make dat little cabin Cheery, clean an' bright, With an' angel in it Like a ray of light? Make dat little palace Somethin' fine an' gran', Make it like an Eden, Fur a lonely man?

Des you listen, Honey, While I 'splain it all, How some lady's go'nter Boss dat little hall; Des you take my ban' Dat's de way it's writ, Des you take my heart, Dat's de deed to it.

NEGRO POETS

Full many lift and sing Their sweet imagining; Not yet the Lyric Seer, The one bard of the throng, With highest gift of song, Breaks on our sentient ear.

Not yet the gifted child, With notes enraptured, wild, That storm and throng the heart, To make his rage our own, Our hearts his lyric throne; Hard won by cosmic art.

I hear the sad refrain, Of slavery's sorrow-strain; The broken half-lispt speech Of freedom's twilit hour; The greater growing reach Of larger latent power.

Here and there a growing note Swells from a conscious throat; Thrilled with a message fraught The pregnant hour is near; We wait our Lyric Seer, By whom our wills are caught.

Who makes our cause and wrong The motif of his song; Who sings our racial good, Bestows us honor's place, The cosmic brotherhood Of genius—not of race.

Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, Of fame's immortal few Would still be deathless born; Frail Dunbar, black or white, In Fame's eternal light, Would shine a Star of Morn.

An unhorizoned range, Our hour of doubt and change, Gives song a nightless day, Whose pen with pregnant mirth Will give our longings birth, And point our souls the way?

Otto Leland Bohanan

THE DAWN'S AWAKE!

The Dawn's awake! A flash of smoldering flame and fire Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, The torch of gold is borne.

The Dawn's awake! The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. And music singing in the hills A paean of eternal spring Voices the new awakening.

The Dawn's awake! Whispers of pent-up harmonies, With the mingled fragrance of the trees; Faint snatches of half-forgotten song— Fathers! torn and numb,— The boon of light we craved, awaited long, Has come, has come!

THE WASHER-WOMAN

A great swart cheek and the gleam of tears, The flutter of hopes and the shadow of fears, And all day long the rub and scrub With only a breath betwixt tub and tub. Fool! Thou hast toiled for fifty years And what hast thou now but thy dusty tears? In silence she rubbed… But her face I had seen, Where the light of her soul fell shining and clean.

Theodore Henry Shackelford

THE BIG BELL IN ZION

Come, children, hear the joyful sound, Ding, Dong, Ding. Go spread the glad news all around, Ding, Dong, Ding.

Chorus Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong, Ding.

I've been abused and tossed about, Ding, Dong, Ding. But glory to the Lamb, I shout! Ding, Dong, Ding.

My bruthah jus' sent word to me, Ding, Dong, Ding. That he'd done set his own self free. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ole massa said he could not go, Ding, Dong, Ding. But he's done reached Ohio sho'. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Ise gwine to be real nice an' meek, Ding, Dong, Ding. Den I'll run away myself nex' week. Ding, Dong, Ding.

Chorus

Oh, the big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, The big bell's tollin' up in Zion, Ding, Dong Ding.

Lucian B. Watkins

STAR OF ETHIOPIA

Out in the Night thou art the sun Toward which thy soul-charmed children run, The faith-high height whereon they see The glory of their Day To Be— The peace at last when all is done.

The night is dark but, one by one, Thy signals, ever and anon, Smile beacon answers to their plea, Out in the Night.

Ah, Life! thy storms these cannot shun; Give them a hope to rest upon, A dream to dream eternally, The strength of men who would be free And win the battle race begun, Out in the Night!

TWO POINTS OF VIEW

From this low-lying valley; Oh, how sweet And cool and calm and great is life, I ween, There on yon mountain-throne—that sun-gold crest!

From this uplifted, mighty mountain-seat: How bright and still and warm and soft and green Seems yon low lily-vale of peace and rest!

TO OUR FRIENDS

We've kept the faith. Our souls' high dreams Untouched by bondage and its rod, Burn on! and on! and on! It seems We shall have FRIENDS—while God is God!

Benjamin Brawley

MY HERO

(To Robert Gould Shaw)

Flushed with the hope of high desire, He buckled on his sword, To dare the rampart ranged with fire, Or where the thunder roared; Into the smoke and flame he went, For God's great cause to die— A youth of heaven's element, The flower of chivalry.

This was the gallant faith, I trow, Of which the sages tell; On such devotion long ago The benediction fell; And never nobler martyr burned, Or braver hero died, Than he who worldly honor spurned To serve the Crucified.

And Lancelot and Sir Bedivere May pass beyond the pale, And wander over moor and mere To find the Holy Grail;

But ever yet the prize forsooth My hero holds in fee; And he is Blameless Knight in truth, And Galahad to me.

CHAUCER

Gone are the sensuous stars, and manifold, Clear sunbeams burst upon the front of night; Ten thousand swords of azure and of gold Give darkness to the dark and welcome light; Across the night of ages strike the gleams, And leading on the gilded host appears An old man writing in a book of dreams, And telling tales of lovers for the years; Still Troilus hears a voice that whispers, Stay; In Nature's garden what a mad rout sings! Let's hear these motley pilgrims wile away The tedious hours with stories of old things; Or might some shining eagle claim These lowly numbers for the House of Fame!

Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.

TO A SKULL

Ghastly, ghoulish, grinning skull, Toothless, eyeless, hollow, dull, Why your smirk and empty smile As the hours away you wile? Has the earth become such bore That it pleases nevermore? Whence your joy through sun and rain? Is 't because of loss of pain? Have you learned what men learn not That earth's substance turns to rot? After learning now you scan Vain endeavors man by man? Do you mind that you as they Once was held by mystic sway; Dreamed and struggled, hoped and prayed, Lolled and with the minutes played? Sighed for honors; battles planned; Sipped of cups that wisdom banned But would please the weak frail flesh; Suffered, fell, 'rose, struggled fresh? Now that you are but a skull Glimpse you life as life is, full Of beauties that we miss Till time withers with his kiss? Do you laugh in cynic vein Since you cannot try again? And you know that we, like you, Will too late our failings rue? Tell me, ghoulish, grinning skull What deep broodings, o'er you mull? Tell me why you smirk and smile Ere I pass life's sunset stile.