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Before man came to blow it right
    The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
    In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:
    It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
    And listen—how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,
    And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
    And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,
    The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
    The aim was song—the wind could see.

Though I’m God, thou art man, we are one,
    We are all and we shall ever be;
Though the light of my sky thou didst shun,
Thou shalt love me ere thy course is run,
    As forever I live loving thee.

Thou art mine, I am thine and the fire
    Of my breath all thy regions shall warm,
Ere the life in thy soil shall expire,
Ere the seeds of thy basest desire
    From their prison break out and take form.

Thou wilt doubt and deny me forsooth
    And rejoice in thy vanity’s power;
Thou wilt die on the breast of my truth,
In the end thou wilt laugh at thy youth,
    And its wine although old will be sour.

I was with thee when thou didst deny,
    As I am with thy mother at prayer;
I was with thee when thou didst defy
My hell and my earth and my sky,
    And I love non the less those that dare.

In the yogi’s pagoda I am;
    In the fire of the magi I was;
To the sons of Abraheem and Sham
And their foes and to thee I undam
    All the banks of my veins on the cross.

Through the spheres and the primitive throngs
    I came down and I struggled with thee;
Through the ages I sing in thy songs,
But I leave thee to rise on thy wrongs;––
    Thou shalt rise and thou shalt live in me.

Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here. . . .
Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns
And the tremendous Amaranth descends
Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?

Does it not mean my God would have me say: —
“Whether you will or no, O city young,
Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you,
Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?”

Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.
Such things I see, and some of them shall come
Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray,
Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.
Friends, that sweet torn, that wonder-town, shall rise.
Naught can delay it. Though it may not be
Just as I dream, it comes at last I know
With streets like channels of an incense-sea.

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.

[PLATE 3]

The Guardian Prince of Albion burns in his nightly tent,
Sullen fires across the Atlantic glow to America's shore:
Piercing the souls of warlike men, who rise in silent night,
Washington, Franklin, Paine & Warren, Gates, Hancock & Green;
Meet on the coast glowing with blood from Albion’s fiery Prince.

Washington spoke; Friends of America look over the Atlantic sea;
A bended bow is lifted in heaven, & a heavy iron chain
Descends link by link from Albion's cliffs across the sea to bind
Brothers & sons of America, till our faces pale and yellow;
Heads deprest, voices weak, eyes downcast, hands work-bruis'd,
Feet bleeding on the sultry sands, and the furrows of the whip
Descend to generations that in future times forget.—

The strong voice ceas'd; for a terrible blast swept over the heaving sea;
The eastern cloud rent; on his cliffs stood Albion’s wrathful Prince
A dragon form clashing his scales at midnight he arose,
And flam'd red meteors round the land of Albion beneath.
His voice, his locks, his awful shoulders, and his glowing eyes,


[PLATE 4]

Appear to the Americans upon the cloudy night.

Solemn heave the Atlantic waves between the gloomy nations,
Swelling, belching from its deeps red clouds & raging Fires!
Albion is sick. America faints! enrag'd the Zenith grew.
As human blood shooting its veins all round the orbed heaven
Red rose the clouds from the Atlantic in vast wheels of blood
And in the red clouds rose a Wonder o'er the Atlantic sea;
Intense! naked! a Human fire fierce glowing, as the wedge
Of iron heated in the furnace; his terrible limbs were fire
With myriads of cloudy terrors banners dark & towers
Surrounded; heat but not light went thro' the murky atmosphere

The king of England looking westward trembles at the vision

For A Warm Word Spoken

I spake, perhaps, too sharp a word

For one bred up in modesty,

But base injustice, trivial scorn

On honor heaped, had angered me.

The smile of courtesy forsook

These lips, so timid even for good,

While o’er the paleness of my brow

Flashed crimson, the indignant blood.

Nor could I to the contest bring

The trainèd weapon of the mind,

Snatching from Reason’s armory

Such shafts as grief had left behind.

Grief for the faltering of the Age,

Grief for my country and my race,

Grief to sit here with Christian men,

That boast their want of Christian grace.

I say not that the man I praise

By that poor tribute stands more high,

I say not that the man I blame

Be not of purer worth than I;

But when I move reluctant lips

For holy Justice, human Right,

The sacred cause I strive to plead

Lends me its favor and its might.

And I must argue from the faith

Which gave the fervor of my youth,

Or keep such silence as yon stars,

That only look and live God’s truth.

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories.
Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.
Summer nights on the front porch
Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom
And tells him stories.

Black slaves
Working in the hot sun,
And black slaves
Walking in the dewy night,
And black slaves
Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river
Mingle themselves softly
In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice,
Mingle themselves softly
In the dark shadows that cross and recross
Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening,
Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories.
He knows that Aunt Sue
Never got her stories out of any book at all,
But that they came
Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet
Of a summer night
Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

                             A Reverie.
                        (October, 1861.)

One noonday, at my window in the town,
    I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—
    Young soldiers marching lustily
                     Unto the wars,

With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;
         While all the porches, walks, and doors

Were rich with ladies cheering royally.



They moved like Juny morning on the wave,
    Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime
    (It was the breezy summer time),
                      Life throbbed so strong,

How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime
         Would come to thin their shining throng?

Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.



Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,
    By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,
    On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);
                     Some marching feet

Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;
         Wakeful I mused, while in the street

Far footfalls died away till none were left.

The band of Gideon roam the sky,
The howling wind is their war-cry,
The thunder’s roll is their trump’s peal,
And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.
        Each black cloud
        Is a fiery steed.
        And they cry aloud
        With each strong deed,
“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”

And men below rear temples high
And mock their God with reasons why,
And live in arrogance, sin and shame,
And rape their souls for the world’s good name.
        Each black cloud
        Is a fiery steed.
        And they cry aloud
        With each strong deed,
“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”

The band of Gideon roam the sky
And view the earth with baleful eye;
In holy wrath they scourge the land
With earthquake, storm and burning brand.
        Each black cloud
        Is a fiery steed.
        And they cry aloud
        With each strong deed,
“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”

The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,
And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”
Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,
In agony searching for their God.
        Each black cloud
        Is a fiery steed.
        And they cry aloud
        With each strong deed,
“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”

And men repent and then forget
That heavenly wrath they ever met,
The band of Gideon yet will come
And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.
        Each black cloud
        Is a fiery steed.
        And they cry aloud
        With each strong deed,
“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”

Oh touch it not that hope so blest

Which cheers the fainting heart,

And points it to the coming rest

Where sorrow has no part.

Tear from heart each worldly prop,

Unbind each earthly string;

But to this blest and glorious hope,

Oh let my spirit cling.

It cheer’d amid the days of old

Each holy patriarch’s breast,

It was an anchor to their souls,

Upon it let me rest.

When wand’ring in the dens and caves,

In goat and sheep skins drest,

Apeel’d and scatter’d people learn’d

To know this hope was blest.

Help me to love this blessed hope;

My heart’s a fragile thing;

Will you not nerve and bear it up

Around this hope to cling.

Help amid this world of strife

To long for Christ to reign,

That when he brings the crown of life

I may that crown obtain.