Read Ebook: The Sylvan Cabin: A Centenary Ode on the Birth of Lincoln and Other Verse by Jones Edward Smyth Braithwaite William Stanley Contributor

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Ebook has 105 lines and 8467 words, and 3 pages

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.

Were I a bird I'd scale the cliff When dawns the bleak December day, Far from the ice and snow I'd shift Until the fairest day in May!

Were I a bird, a mocking-bird, The King of birdie's singing sons, My music would fore'er be heard As I sweet sang to cheerless ones.

Were I a bird I'd seek my rest When jocund Day blows out his light; In boughs that hover o'er my nest I'd sweetly sing, "Good Night, Good Night!"

AN ODE TO ETHIOPIA

TO THE ASPIRING NEGRO YOUTH

After years of patient study and historical research, I have made the following deductions of parts played by the Ethiopian in the annals of history, under the caption, "An Ode to Ethiopia." It is true that questions will rise regarding the racial identity of some of my characters, in view of historical statements which place them with the Caucasian race; yet I firmly believe, were impartial history written, my claims would be justified. However, Time, the great Arbiter, will finally decide the equity of my claims.

Thou Sovran Queen of Afric's sunny strands, I smite my lyre to sing thy praise unsung; In strains far sweeter than seraphic bands, A lay deep in my bosom's core is sprung. Fair Queen, although my years as yet be young, Deep thoughts and musings of thy history old, Where odes and fiery epics long have hung, Live centuries in my immortal soul And strike sweet Lydian measures on my harp of gold.

Therefore, my song floats softly up to thee, Full soft as those sweet zephyrs of the spring, Of which it was and is and still must be, The sweetest of aeolian strains that ring! I breathe it on the soft sea winds which bring Their cooling treasures from the rolling deep; They 'fresh my brow and make my sad heart sing And ever lure my drowsy eyes from sleep, And bid thy vesper chorist strictest vigil keep.

Of all the nations that have trod the earth, In civil states or in the forest wild, Thou wast the first of real enlightened birth, Born in fair Egypt on the spreading Nile. In valleys fertile, sunny climates mild, Thou sternly taught the "chosen" Hebrew race-- Madonna sheltered with her Holy Child, Who came to plead man's all unworthy case, And drained His sacred heart, earth's vilest sin efface!

Long ere the Grecian oped his classic lids Or mould' true beauty with artistic hands, Thou reared upon thy plains the lofty pyramids, With sphinx and obelisks 'decked thy burning sands. Aye! Queen, thou then wast hailed in all the lands Long ere vain Babel 'fused the human tongue In dialects rude of wild barbaric bands; Thou soared to Wisdom's realm, her sceptre wrung, And reigned the wisest queen the nations all among.

Thou first taught man the mystic sciences probe, To scan earth's apex, median, and base; Thou, too, inscribed the belt around the globe, And made deep tracings on its hoary face. Well fixed each angle, arc, and line in place, Then soared thou far into the "milky way," Far in the bright, celestial span of space, Where orbs and planets all their homage pay Unto the sun, the ever reigning "King of Day."

Once in great splendor did thy Pharaohs rule In Egypt, with her glory flown of yore; They laid foundations of the mundane school, And taught the art of governmental lore. And then from thy great military store Thou sent the gallant Hannibal to war, Taught Romans tactics never known before, And filled their hearts with ever-cowering awe, And bowed their haughty heads to thy majestic law.

But in this age is writ another story; Then pen of arrogant, vain Caucasian sage, Has thee full robbed of thy immortal glory, And smeared thy name on History's sacred page! Forsooth, the Book, once closed for many an age, Is opened by thy sons--though fraught with pain-- The curtain's drawn; they rise upon the stage; And their valiant deeds and blood shall wash the stain As clean as April showers wash the dusty plain.

I sing now of thy heroes of today, Thy sturdy warriors and thy gallant knights, Who charge into the thickest of the fray, And die for country and their free-born rights,-- For orphans, widows and their little mites. Thus, Attucks brave, without a moment's pause, Full bared his breast in Freedom's holy cause, First fell and tore the code of Tyranny's cruel laws!

Now, if my lay is yet not sweet enough, I'll bid a gentler, subtler strain awake, And sing of fights with Jackson on the Gulf And Perry's hard-fought battle on the Lake! Of fights in fen and moor and hoary brake, On Lookout Mountain and the rolling main-- Through searing blasts of bleak December's flake, And drenching torrents of fair April's rain: Their valiant deeds are springing ever up amain!

They fought, the Union from State's Rights to free; At Vicksburg, Wagner, and Port Hudson lent Their aid; their deeds at Pillow and Olustee Rose surge on surge like ocean billows rent! The praises of the gallant Ninth and Tenth Will ever rise and soft float to the sky-- They bagged Old Bull in Rocky Mountain tent; Then stormed the Spanish block-housed Hills on high, And bade the tyrant Spaniard's heaving heart to die!

"High time, my Haitian islet must be free!" Great Touissant thus his declaration tacks; Then drives proud Frenchmen into the yawning sea-- "The bravest whites, by bravest of the blacks." Brave Maceo pursues the Spanish packs, And Aguinaldo, in the mountain wilds, Pours shot and shell into the tyrants' backs-- They save her throne and Freedom on them smiles, True heroes, and the Fathers of their sunlit Isles!

Thy sons have triumphed in the Halls of State; Hamilton and Douglas were the first to gain, With lightning eye and tongue of thunder great, The civic lead of thy illustrious train. Next Bruce and Revels, senatorial twain; John Lynch and Small emit a brilliant light, And Langston, Pinchback, Cheatham all remain; With Dancy, Vernon, Anderson, and White, Liang Williams, Lyons, Terrell stand for "Civic Right."

In science's realm with Banneker we start, Then read on Medicae's emblazoned wall: "Dan Williams here first stitched the human heart!" Close by the names of Curtis, Boyd, and Hall. But others list'd and heard Invention's call, In all its sweetness of the days of yore, And Woods, the greatest foreman of them all, Shouts on his voyage with Black and Baltimore: "We come! we come! good Dame, thy region to explore!"

"I, too," said 'Monia Lewis, "can make a man!" Then mould' his form with most artistic ease-- But all aeolian strains Blind Tom could scan, And play as softly as the South Sea breeze Upon his major and his minor keys! Good Douglas gently wakes the violin's song, And White leads home the zephyrs from the seas; While Coleridge-Taylor with an art more strong Full finds the key-note of Dame Nature's vesper song!

If shady nooks in Poesy's realm they choose, Or barks to drift the smooth, prosaic stream, There Phillis held communion with the Muse, And Chesnutt woke the "Colonel" from his dream! Max Barber, Thompson, Knox and Fortune beam; Great Braithwaite scales the classic mountain heights, And Cooper, like a beacon light, will gleam; While Dunbar, sun-like, sheds his holy lights In dazzling splendor on his solar satellites!

These brilliant names shall never fade away: Emblazoned in the sacred Hall of Fame, They shall remain till dawns that direful Day, The valid seal beneath thy sacred name. Deft Tanner, artist, ever blazing flame, With Pickens, Bruce and Locke of classic dell, Old Truth and Harper, Yates and Ruffin came, And Walker, Terrell, Williams, known so well Long ere Marie had taught the hoary world to spell!

The learned Scarborough writes the classic Greek; Dean Miller thinks in calculations cold; While Cogman writes the annals of the meek, DuBois reveals the secrets of the Soul! But all shall read in letters gilded gold: "Who teaches head and heart and hands, has won The priceless boon, the guerdon of the goal, The portion due thy most illustrious son, Tuskegee's seer and sage, the noble Washington!"

Thy songs inspire and cheer the human soul, Still plodding forth in search of Beulah's vale; Lead wondering lambs into the Master's fold, When Flora Burgeon's notes far float the gale! Though Patti Brown we loud applaud and hail, And Hackley's voice is heard in every land,-- Black Patti is the queenly nightingale That leads the chorus, as they singing stand As Miriam stood, to sing thee to the "Promised Land!"

I see the Prophet's mandate to the land, In golden letters glit'ring in the sky: "Fair Ethiopia shall stretch forth her hand, Her sons shall sway the earth long ere they die!" As swift as lightnings with the storm-clouds fly, To light the path celestial feet have trod: So be thy soaring to the realms on high, When mortal feet no more shall tread this sod, And thy holy spirit wings its homeward flight to God!

TO J. S. B.

On seeing her December 25th, 1904, after two years' travel.

Take, fair maid, these simple lines From my pen; Think of strollings 'neath the pines, Which have been-- Long and lonesome were the days We were apart, But may Love, now, have her sways,-- Bind heart to heart! O'er main to isle and back to land Have I been; Beheld on either hand A maiden queen: But none with captivating charms Like thine; None to nestle in her arms, Love of mine! Charms unto thee God gave To banish strife; To glorify and save One sweet life-- Take this, dear, before we part From this bliss; 'Tis but love flowing from my heart, Thine to kiss!

THE MAYOR'S RING

I hold a token in my hand, A very tiny thing; And yet within its golden band A thousand memories cling.

Aye! thrice ten thousand memories cling Of signal victories won, Enshrined within this little ring, Reward of duty done.

I ever shall this token prize, And wear it with true grace-- The tie that binds the kindred ties Of friendship race to race.

And when I soar full through the skies, Yet ever will I cling Within the gates of Paradise This sacred little ring!

WHAT'S THE USE?

Oh! What is living but moving about, Buoyed up with hope and crushed down by doubt? What is the draught of breath we harp on as life? Naught but a sip of peace, a cup full of strife-- What's the use?

What is the place we call our home, "sweet home"? Naught but a span of space where one may roam: Night's pitchy corner; a hard crust of bread; Cot for your feeble limbs, pillow your head-- What's the use?

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