LYRICS OF LOVE AND LAUGHTER (continued 2)

THE DEBT This is the debt I pay Just for one riotous day, Years of regret and grief, Sorrow without relief. Pay it I will to the end— Until the grave, my friend, Gives me a true release— Gives me the clasp of peace. Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best— God! but the interest!

ON THE DEDICATION OF DOROTHY HALL TUSKEGEE, ALA., APRIL 22, 1901. Not to the midnight of the gloomy past, Do we revert to-day; we look upon The golden present and the future vast Whose vistas show us visions of the dawn. Nor shall the sorrows of departed years The sweetness of our tranquil souls annoy, The sunshine of our hopes dispels the tears, And clears our eyes to see this later joy. Not ever in the years that God hath given Have we gone friendless down the thorny way, Always the clouds of pregnant black were riven By flashes from His own eternal day. The women of a race should be its pride; We glory in the strength our mothers had, We glory that this strength was not denied To labor bravely, nobly, and be glad. God give to these within this temple here, Clear vision of the dignity of toil, That virtue in them may its blossoms rear Unspotted, fragrant, from the lowly soil. God bless the givers for their noble deed, Shine on them with the mercy of Thy face, Who come with open hearts to help and speed The striving women of a struggling race.

A ROADWAY Let those who will stride on their barren roads And prick themselves to haste with self-made goads, Unheeding, as they struggle day by day, If flowers be sweet or skies be blue or gray: For me, the lone, cool way by purling brooks, The solemn quiet of the woodland nooks, A song-bird somewhere trilling sadly gay, A pause to pick a flower beside the way.

BY RUGGED WAYS By rugged ways and thro' the night We struggle blindly toward the light; And groping, stumbling, ever pray For sight of long delaying day. The cruel thorns beside the road Stretch eager points our steps to goad, And from the thickets all about Detaining hands reach threatening out. "Deliver us, oh, Lord," we cry, Our hands uplifted to the sky. No answer save the thunder's peal, And onward, onward, still we reel. "Oh, give us now thy guiding light;" Our sole reply, the lightning's blight. "Vain, vain," cries one, "in vain we call;" But faith serene is over all. Beside our way the streams are dried, And famine mates us side by side. Discouraged and reproachful eyes Seek once again the frowning skies. Yet shall there come, spite storm and shock, A Moses who shall smite the rock, Call manna from the Giver's hand, And lead us to the promised land! The way is dark and cold and steep, And shapes of horror murder sleep, And hard the unrelenting years; But 'twixt our sighs and moans and tears, We still can smile, we still can sing, Despite the arduous journeying. For faith and hope their courage lend, And rest and light are at the end.

LOVE'S SEASONS When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine And the summer days are in their bloom, Then my love is deepest, oh, dearest heart of mine, When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine. When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray, And the land is dim with winter gloom, Then for thee, my darling, love will have its way, When the winds are moaning o'er the meadows chill and gray. In the vernal dawning with the starting of the leaf, In the merry-chanting time of spring, Love steals all my senses, oh, the happy-hearted thief! In the vernal morning with the starting of the leaf. Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear, When the days are sighing out their grief, Thou art still my darling, dearest of the dear, Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear.

TO A DEAD FRIEND It is as if a silver chord Were suddenly grown mute, And life's song with its rhythm warred Against a silver lute. It is as if a silence fell Where bides the garnered sheaf, And voices murmuring, "It is well," Are stifled by our grief. It is as if the gloom of night Had hid a summer's day, And willows, sighing at their plight, Bent low beside the way. For he was part of all the best That Nature loves and gives, And ever more on Memory's breast He lies and laughs and lives.

TO THE SOUTH ON ITS NEW SLAVERY Heart of the Southland, heed me pleading now, Who bearest, unashamed, upon my brow The long kiss of the loving tropic sun, And yet, whose veins with thy red current run. Borne on the bitter winds from every hand, Strange tales are flying over all the land, And Condemnation, with his pinions foul, Glooms in the place where broods the midnight owl. What art thou, that the world should point at thee, And vaunt and chide the weakness that they see? There was a time they were not wont to chide; Where is thy old, uncompromising pride? Blood-washed, thou shouldst lift up thine honored head, White with the sorrow for thy loyal dead Who lie on every plain, on every hill, And whose high spirit walks the Southland still: Whose infancy our mother's hands have nursed. Thy manhood, gone to battle unaccursed, Our fathers left to till th' reluctant field, To rape the soil for what she would not yield; Wooing for aye, the cold unam'rous sod, Whose growth for them still meant a master's rod; Tearing her bosom for the wealth that gave The strength that made the toiler still a slave. Too long we hear the deep impassioned cry That echoes vainly to the heedless sky; Too long, too long, the Macedonian call Falls fainting far beyond the outward wall, Within whose sweep, beneath the shadowing trees, A slumbering nation takes its dangerous ease; Too long the rumors of thy hatred go For those who loved thee and thy children so. Thou must arise forthwith, and strong, thou must Throw off the smirching of this baser dust, Lay by the practice of this later creed, And be thine honest self again indeed. There was a time when even slavery's chain Held in some joys to alternate with pain, Some little light to give the night relief, Some little smiles to take the place of grief. There was a time when, jocund as the day, The toiler hoed his row and sung his lay, Found something gleeful in the very air, And solace for his toiling everywhere. Now all is changed, within the rude stockade, A bondsman whom the greed of men has made Almost too brutish to deplore his plight, Toils hopeless on from joyless morn till night. For him no more the cabin's quiet rest, The homely joys that gave to labor zest; No more for him the merry banjo's sound, Nor trip of lightsome dances footing round. For him no more the lamp shall glow at eve, Nor chubby children pluck him by the sleeve; No more for him the master's eyes be bright,— He has nor freedom's nor a slave's delight. What, was it all for naught, those awful years That drenched a groaning land with blood and tears? Was it to leave this sly convenient hell, That brother fighting his own brother fell? When that great struggle held the world in awe, And all the nations blanched at what they saw, Did Sanctioned Slavery bow its conquered head That this unsanctioned crime might rise instead? Is it for this we all have felt the flame,— This newer bondage and this deeper shame? Nay, not for this, a nation's heroes bled, And North and South with tears beheld their dead. Oh, Mother South, hast thou forgot thy ways, Forgot the glory of thine ancient days, Forgot the honor that once made thee great, And stooped to this unhallowed estate? It cannot last, thou wilt come forth in might, A warrior queen full armored for the fight; And thou wilt take, e'en with thy spear in rest, Thy dusky children to thy saving breast. Till then, no more, no more the gladsome song, Strike only deeper chords, the notes of wrong; Till then, the sigh, the tear, the oath, the moan, Till thou, oh, South, and thine, come to thine own.

THE HAUNTED OAK Pray why are you so bare, so bare, Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw, Runs a shudder over me? My leaves were green as the best, I trow, And sap ran free in my veins, But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird A guiltless victim's pains. I bent me down to hear his sigh; I shook with his gurgling moan, And I trembled sore when they rode away, And left him here alone. They 'd charged him with the old, old crime, And set him fast in jail: Oh, why does the dog howl all night long, And why does the night wind wail? He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath, And he raised his hand to the sky; But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear, And the steady tread drew nigh. Who is it rides by night, by night, Over the moonlit road? And what is the spur that keeps the pace, What is the galling goad? And now they beat at the prison door, "Ho, keeper, do not stay! We are friends of him whom you hold within, And we fain would take him away "From those who ride fast on our heels With mind to do him wrong; They have no care for his innocence, And the rope they bear is long." They have fooled the jailer with lying words, They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn, And the great door open flies. Now they have taken him from the jail, And hard and fast they ride, And the leader laughs low down in his throat, As they halt my trunk beside. Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black, And the doctor one of white, And the minister, with his oldest son, Was curiously bedight. Oh, foolish man, why weep you now? 'Tis but a little space, And the time will come when these shall dread The mem'ry of your face. I feel the rope against my bark, And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe The touch of my own last pain. And never more shall leaves come forth On a bough that bears the ban; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, From the curse of a guiltless man. And ever the judge rides by, rides by, And goes to hunt the deer, And ever another rides his soul In the guise of a mortal fear. And ever the man he rides me hard, And never a night stays he; For I feel his curse as a haunted bough, On the trunk of a haunted tree.

WELTSCHMERTZ You ask why I am sad to-day, I have no cares, no griefs, you say? Ah, yes, 't is true, I have no grief— But—is there not the falling leaf? The bare tree there is mourning left With all of autumn's gray bereft; It is not what has happened me, Think of the bare, dismantled tree. The birds go South along the sky, I hear their lingering, long good-bye. Who goes reluctant from my breast? And yet—the lone and wind-swept nest. The mourning, pale-flowered hearse goes by, Why does a tear come to my eye? Is it the March rain blowing wild? I have no dead, I know no child. I am no widow by the bier Of him I held supremely dear. I have not seen the choicest one Sink down as sinks the westering sun. Faith unto faith have I beheld, For me, few solemn notes have swelled; Love bekoned me out to the dawn, And happily I followed on. And yet my heart goes out to them Whose sorrow is their diadem; The falling leaf, the crying bird, The voice to be, all lost, unheard— Not mine, not mine, and yet too much The thrilling power of human touch, While all the world looks on and scorns I wear another's crown of thorns. Count me a priest who understands The glorious pain of nail-pierced hands; Count me a comrade of the thief Hot driven into late belief. Oh, mother's tear, oh, father's sigh, Oh, mourning sweetheart's last good-bye, I yet have known no mourning save Beside some brother's brother's grave.

ROBERT GOULD SHAW Why was it that the thunder voice of Fate Should call thee, studious, from the classic groves, Where calm-eyed Pallas with still footstep roves, And charge thee seek the turmoil of the state? What bade thee hear the voice and rise elate, Leave home and kindred and thy spicy loaves, To lead th' unlettered and despised droves To manhood's home and thunder at the gate? Far better the slow blaze of Learning's light, The cool and quiet of her dearer fane, Than this hot terror of a hopeless fight, This cold endurance of the final pain,— Since thou and those who with thee died for right Have died, the Present teaches, but in vain!

ROSES Oh, wind of the spring-time, oh, free wind of May, When blossoms and bird-song are rife; Oh, joy for the season, and joy for the day, That gave me the roses of life, of life, That gave me the roses of life. Oh, wind of the summer, sing loud in the night, When flutters my heart like a dove; One came from thy kingdom, thy realm of delight, And gave me the roses of love, of love, And gave me the roses of love. Oh, wind of the winter, sigh low in thy grief, I hear thy compassionate breath; I wither, I fall, like the autumn-kissed leaf, He gave me the roses of death, of death, He gave me the roses of death.

A LOVE SONG Ah, love, my love is like a cry in the night, A long, loud cry to the empty sky, The cry of a man alone in the desert, With hands uplifted, with parching lips, Oh, rescue me, rescue me, Thy form to mine arms, The dew of thy lips to my mouth, Dost thou hear me?—my call thro' the night? Darling, I hear thee and answer, Thy fountain am I, All of the love of my soul will I bring to thee, All of the pains of my being shall wring to thee, Deep and forever the song of my loving shall sing to thee, Ever and ever thro' day and thro' night shall I cling to thee. Hearest thou the answer? Darling, I come, I come.

ITCHING HEELS Fu' de peace o' my eachin' heels, set down; Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'. Don' you see how dat melody stuhs me up An' baigs me to tek to de flo'? You knows I 's a Christian, good an' strong; I wusship f'om June to June; My pra'ahs dey ah loud an' my hymns ah long: I baig you don' fiddle dat chune. I 's a crick in my back an' a misery hyeah Whaih de j'ints 's gittin' ol' an' stiff, But hit seems lak you brings me de bref o' my youf; W'y, I 's suttain I noticed a w'iff. Don' fiddle dat chune no mo', my chile, Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'; I 'll git up an' taih up dis groun' fu' a mile, An' den I 'll be chu'ched fu' it, sho'. Oh, fiddle dat chune some mo', I say, An' fiddle it loud an' fas': I's a youngstah ergin in de mi'st o' my sin; De p'esent 's gone back to de pas'. I 'll dance to dat chune, so des fiddle erway; I knows how de backslidah feels; So fiddle it on 'twell de break o' de day Fu' de sake o' my eachin' heels.

TO AN INGRATE This is to-day, a golden summer's day And yet—and yet My vengeful soul will not forget The past, forever now forgot, you say. From that half height where I had sadly climbed, I stretched my hand, I lone in all that land, Down there, where, helpless, you were limed. Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace, You struggled up. It is a bitter Cup, That now for naught, you turn away your face. I shall remember this for aye and aye. Whate'er may come, Although my lips are dumb, My spirit holds you to that yesterday.

IN THE TENTS OF AKBAR In the tents of Akbar Are dole and grief to-day, For the flower of all the Indies Has gone the silent way. In the tents of Akbar Are emptiness and gloom, And where the dancers gather, The silence of the tomb. Across the yellow desert, Across the burning sands, Old Akbar wanders madly, And wrings his fevered hands. And ever makes his moaning To the unanswering sky, For Sutna, lovely Sutna, Who was so fair to die. For Sutna danced at morning, And Sutna danced at eve; Her dusky eyes half hidden Behind her silken sleeve. Her pearly teeth out-glancing Between her coral lips, The tremulous rhythm of passion Marked by her quivering hips. As lovely as a jewel Of fire and dewdrop blent, So danced the maiden Sutna In gallant Akbar's tent. And one who saw her dancing, Saw her bosom's fall and rise Put all his body's yearning Into his lovelit eyes. Then Akbar came and drove him— A jackal—from his door, And bade him wander far and look On Sutna's face no more. Some day the sea disgorges, The wilderness gives back, Those half-dead who have wandered, Aimless, across its track. And he returned—the lover, Haggard of brow and spent; He found fair Sutna standing Before her master's tent. "Not mine, nor Akbar's, Sutna!" He cried and closely pressed, And drove his craven dagger Straight to the maiden's breast. Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna, So young, so dear, so fair, Her face is gray and silent Beneath her dusky hair. And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar, Who walks the desert sands, Crying aloud for Sutna, Wringing his fevered hands. In the tents of Akbar The tears of sorrow run, But the corpse of Sutna's slayer, Lies rotting in the sun.

THE FOUNT OF TEARS All hot and grimy from the road, Dust gray from arduous years, I sat me down and eased my load Beside the Fount of Tears. The waters sparkled to my eye, Calm, crystal-like, and cool, And breathing there a restful sigh, I bent me to the pool. When, lo! a voice cried: "Pilgrim, rise, Harsh tho' the sentence be, And on to other lands and skies— This fount is not for thee. "Pass on, but calm thy needless fears, Some may not love or sin, An angel guards the Fount of Tears; All may not bathe therein." Then with my burden on my back I turned to gaze awhile, First at the uninviting track, Then at the water's smile. And so I go upon my way, Thro'out the sultry years, But pause no more, by night, by day, Beside the Fount of Tears.

LIFE'S TRAGEDY It may be misery not to sing at all And to go silent through the brimming day. It may be sorrow never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To have come near to sing the perfect song And only by a half-tone lost the key, There is the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of life's tragedy. To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth— This, this it is to be accursed indeed; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing.

DE WAY T'INGS COME De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way. Now, ef you 's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, "Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'T won't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's some'p'n by to cyave You 's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've. But ef dey 's co'n meal on de she'f You need n't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f, Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin; An' ef you 's stuffed up to be froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you 'll see fu' sho A 'possum faint befo' yo' do'. De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile; I 's mighty skeered I 'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raaly needs to eat.

NOON Shadder in de valley Sunlight on de hill, Sut'ny wish dat locus' Knowed how to be still. Don't de heat already Mek a body hum, 'Dout dat insec' sayin' Hottah days to come? Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller Wid de bendin' grain, Guinea hen a callin', Now's de time fu' rain; Shet yo' mouf, you rascal, Wha' 's de use to cry? You do' see no rain clouds Up dah in de sky. Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in' Down my face sence dawn; Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin' Dat ah dinnah ho'n? Go on, Ben an' Jaspah, Lif yo' feet an' fly, Hit out fu' de shadder Fo' I drap an' die. Hongry, lawd a' mussy, Hongry as a baih, Seems lak I hyeah dinnah Callin' evahwhaih; Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'! Let dat cradle swing, One mo' sweep, den da'kies, Beat me to de spring!

AT THE TAVERN A lilt and a swing, And a ditty to sing, Or ever the night grow old; The wine is within, And I 'm sure 't were a sin For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear, For a soldier to choose to be cold. We 're right for a spell, But the fever is—well, No thing to be braved, at least; So bring me the wine; No low fever in mine, For a drink is more kind than a priest, my dear, For a drink is more kind than a priest.

DEATH Storm and strife and stress, Lost in a wilderness, Groping to find a way, Forth to the haunts of day Sudden a vista peeps, Out of the tangled deeps, Only a point—the ray But at the end is day. Dark is the dawn and chill, Daylight is on the hill, Night is the flitting breath, Day rides the hills of death.

NIGHT, DIM NIGHT Night, dim night, and it rains, my love, it rains, (Art thou dreaming of me, I wonder) The trees are sad, and the wind complains, Outside the rolling of the thunder, And the beat against the panes. Heart, my heart, thou art mournful in the rain, (Are thy redolent lips a-quiver?) My soul seeks thine, doth it seek in vain? My love goes surging like a river, Shall its tide bear naught save pain?