: The Sylvan Cabin: A Centenary Ode on the Birth of Lincoln and Other Verse by Jones Edward Smyth Braithwaite William Stanley Contributor - Lincoln Abraham 1809-1865 Poetry

@FreeBooksWed 07 Jun, 2023

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sods upon me, on my never-heaving breast, While my body's lying silent and my soul is seeking rest-- Then I'll wing straight home to glory, for the journey won't be long, On the spirit-wafting music of sweet Lula Johnson's song!

A TRIBUTE TO DUNBAR

The sweetest singer once thou wast, but art no more; An elf thou wast of what thou now shalt be, Where thou art in realms of that celestial shore; There thou shalt sing through all eternity. We, peerless bard, bewail thy loss And shed heart-broken tears, Though meekly thou hast borne thy cross And winged the flight of years!

Thrice blessed singer, wrapped in heavenly bliss, Of earth's poor souls thy fortune who can tell? Perchance thy splendid lot be solely this: To change thy lute with the angel Israfel! If so, then smite thy golden strings With fingers nimble, strong, Till all along fair heaven rings With cadence of thy song!

Thee tyrant earth once held, imprisoned soul, That suffered tortures of relentless strife, Fair heaven now holds within her sheltered fold, And gives thee robe and harp--eternal life! Grant him, O God, unfaltering breath To sing from heaven afar A song to cheer our souls in death-- The peerless Paul Dunbar!

WERE I A BIRD

Were I a bird free born to fly Aloof on two wee, downy wings, My canopy would be the sky When rosy morn its dawning springs.

Were I a bird I'd sweetly sing Earth's vesper song in tree-tops high, And chant the carol of the Spring To every weary passer by.

Were I a bird, the sweetest voice That human ear has ever heard,-- The mocking-bird would be my choice, For he's the sweetest singing bird!

Were I a bird my life would be In keeping with the Will divine-- I'd sing His carols full and free In spreading oak and cony pine!

Were I a bird through air I'd roam, Just flitting on the morning breeze, In search of summer's sunny dome, To live contentedly at ease.

Were I a bird I'd sing a tune For farmers seeking shady rest Beneath the spreading oak in June, In swinging boughs that rock my nest.

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