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To Robert H. Davis

I went forth to sing the city, today’s city—
   The blank stone sphinx, the monster search-light-eyed,
The roaring mill where gods grind without pity,
   The falling torrent, the many-colored tide.

Granite and steel upflung became my fountains,
   Cunningly reared and held as by a spell.
Lost in colossal stone, my newer mountains,
   I wandered witlessly through miracle.

And snared in tiny toils both frail and idle
   I lost my wonder as I had lost my stars,
Though here a mammoth heaved no man might bridle,
   A terrible symphony rolled through crashing bars.

But small and obvious life fogged every wonder
   And itching needs and each small thirst and lust.
Over me and about me roared the thunder
   Of the city’s heart; I trafficked with its dust.

Yet beyond Babylon its ways were regal;
   Even Jerusalem its dreams outsoared.
Loins of the lion and splendor of the eagle,
   Where swarming vermin hailed it god and lord;

Where hardly one could touch, save to defile it,
   The dream phantasm it spread aloft at night;
Where men snared men, and made all men revile it,
   Save in its moments of bewildering light.

Yet men had thought and raised and poised its splendor,
   And fed the torrents of its living veins,
And had fallen prone before it in surrender,
   Seeing its awful being repay their pains.

A living being, but blind, where all misprision
   Flourished and fattened, and, lashed as by a scourge,
Flowed fear-struck crowds—yet dupes of some strange vision
   As on the instant ready to emerge,

But ever foiled—and still forever trembling
   Just past the reach of mind, the urge of will;
Sum of all jaded aims and drab dissembling,
   Something unbuilded, to be builded still!

So once again, almost desire,
   The appalling city unsealed the eyes she sealed,
Until her darkest streets ran weltering fire
   For thought of love at point to be revealed.

So all their eyes are fixed on mine forever,
   Eyes of dark pain, unfathomable will:
Something unbuilded, to be builded—never?
   Something unbuilded, to be builded still!

Conscience is instinct bred in the house,


Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin


By an unnatural breeding in and in.


I say, Turn it out doors,


Into the moors.


I love a life whose plot is simple,


And does not thicken with every pimple,


A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,


That makes the universe no worse than ’t finds it.


I love an earnest soul,


Whose mighty joy and sorrow


Are not drowned in a bowl,


And brought to life to-morrow


That lives one tragedy,


And not seventy;


A conscience worth keeping,


Laughing not weeping;


A conscience wise and steady,


And for ever ready;


Not changing with events,


Dealing in compliments;


A conscience exercised about


Large things, where one may doubt.


I love a soul not all of wood,


Predestinated to be good,


But true to the backbone


Unto itself alone,


And false to none;


Born to its own affairs,


Its own joys and own cares;


By whom the work which God begun


Is finished, and not undone;


Taken up where he left off,


Whether to worship or to scoff;


If not good, why then evil,


If not good god, good devil.


Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that,


Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.


I have no patience towards


Such conscientious cowards.


Give me simple laboring folk,


Who love their work,


Whose virtue is a song


To cheer God along.

They scorned her for her sinning,
   Spoke harshly of her fall,
Nor lent the hand of mercy
   To break her hated thrall.

The dews of meek repentance
   Stood in her downcast eye:
Would no one heed her anguish?
   All pass her coldly by?

From the cold, averted glances
   Of each reproachful eye,
She turned aside, heart-broken,
   And laid her down to die.

And where was he, who sullied
   Her once unspotted name;
Who lured her from life’s brightness
   To agony and shame?

Who left her on life’s billows,
   A wrecked and ruined thing;
Who brought the winter of despair
   Upon Hope’s blooming spring?

Through the halls of wealth and fashion
   In gaiety and pride,
He was leading to the altar
   A fair and lovely bride!

None scorned him for his sinning,
   Few saw it through his gold;
His crimes were only foibles,
   And those were gently told.

*            *            *            *            *            *

Before him rose a vision,
   A maid of beauty rare;
Then a pale, heart-broken woman,
   The image of despair.

Next came a sad procession,
   With many a sob and tear;
A widow’d, childless mother
   Totter’d by an humble bier.

The vision quickly faded,
   The sad, unwelcome sight;
But his lip forgot its laughter,
   And his eye its careless light.

A moment, and the flood-gates 
   Of memory opened wide;
And remorseful recollection
   Flowed like a lava tide.

That widow’s wail of anguish
   Seemed strangely blending there,
And mid the soft lights floated
   That image of despair.

*            *            *            *            *            *

My old man’s a white old man

And my old mother’s black.

If ever I cursed my white old man

I take my curses back.

 

If ever I cursed my black old mother

And wished she were in hell,

I’m sorry for that evil wish

And now I wish her well.

 

My old man died in a fine big house.

My ma died in a shack.

I wonder where I’m gonna die,

Being neither white nor black?

Now shall I store my soul with silent beauty, 

     Beauty of drifting clouds and mountain heights, 

Beauty of sun-splashed hills and shadowed forests, 

     Beauty of dawn and dusk and star-swept nights. 

Now shall I fill my heart with quiet music, 

    Song of the wind across the pine-clad hill, 

Song of the rain and, fairer than all music, 

    Call of the thrush when twilight woods are still. 

So shall the days to come be filled with beauty, 

     Bright with the promise caught from eastern skies; 

So shall I see the stars when night is darkest, 

     Still hear the thrush’s song when music dies. 

Commander of the Randolph Frigate, Blown up near Barbadoes, 1776

What distant thunders rend the skies,

What clouds of smoke in columns rise,

    What means this dreadful roar?

Is from his base Vesuvius thrown,

Is sky-topt Atlas tumbled down,

    Or Etna’s self no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear;

And lo!—two hostile ships appear,

    Red lightnings round them glow:

The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four,

The Randolph thirty-two—no more—

    And will she fight this foe!

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams

Shall coast along the land of dreams,

    The islands of the dead!

But Fate, that parts them on the deep,

May save the Briton yet to weep

    His days of victory fled.

Say, who commands that dismal blaze,

Where yonder starry streamer plays?

    Does Mars with Jove engage!

‘Tis Biddle wings those angry fires,

Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires,

    With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash!—and hark, the ball

Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all;

    Her bravest sons expire;

Did Mars himself approach so nigh,

Even Mars, without disgrace, might fly

    The Randolph’s fiercer fire.

The Briton views his mangled crew,

“And shall we strike to thirty-two?—

    (Said Hector, stained with gore)

“Shall Britain’s flag to these descend—

“Rise, and the glorious conflict end,

    “Britons, I ask no more!”

He spoke—they charged their cannon round,

Again the vaulted heavens resound,

    The Randolph bore it all,

Then fixed her pointed cannons true—

Away the unwieldy vengeance flew;

    Britain, thy warriors fall.

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay,

Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away,

    Her boldest heroes dead—

She saw amidst her floating slain

The conquering Randolph stem the main—

    She saw, she turned—and fled!

That hour, blest chief, had she been thine,

Dear Biddle, had the powers divine

    Been kind as thou wert brave;

But Fate, who doomed thee to expire,

Prepared an arrow, tipt with fire,

    And marked a watery grave.

And in that hour, when conquest came,

Winged at his ship a pointed flame,

    That not even he could shun—

The battle ceased, the Yarmouth fled,

The bursting Randolph ruin spread,

    And left her task undone!

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood

The glory of its native wood,

By storms destroyed, or length of years,

Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,

To dust returns by slow decays:

But, when its destined years are o’er,

We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,

The world laments your exit made;

So long befriended by your art,

Philosopher, ’tis hard to part!—

When monarchs tumble to the ground,

Successors easily are found:

But, matchless Franklin! what a few

Can hope to rival such as you,

Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,

And turned the lightning’s darts aside!

To Principal Booker T. Washington of Tuskegee Industrial School 

To you who now so nobly do 
     A noble deed; 
Who now instill the virtues true
    To virtuous need; 
Whose mission is so truly good—
So full of kindly brotherhood—
Who live the life you surely should—
     A trusty lead; 

Who early saw that skillful head 
     And skillful hands
Should, surely, be in union wed 
    ‘Gainst life’s quicksands—
For people whose unhappy state 
Was, surely, in the hands of fate, 
Would make a combination great 
    As iron hands. 

Long may your daring presence live 
     And works instill, 
Long may your kingly reasons give 
    A forceful will. 
Long may your glowing, useful days 
Shine forth their bright illuming rays, 
And to gloomy lives always 
    A happy thrill. 

He scribbles some in prose and verse,
    And now and then he prints it;
He paints a little, — gathers some
    Of Nature’s gold and mints it.

He plays a little, sings a song,
    Acts tragic roles, or funny;
He does, because his love is strong,
    But not, oh, not for money!

He studies almost everything
    From social art to science;
A thirsty mind, a flowing spring,
    Demand and swift compliance.

He looms above the sordid crowd—
    At least through friendly lenses;
While his mamma looks pleased and proud,
    And kindly pays expenses.

Whether awake or sleeping,
   I cannot rest for long:
By my casement comes creeping
  A distant song.

A song like the chiming of silver
  Bells which the breezes play,
Seeming to float for ever
  Towards an unseen day:

A song that is weary with sorrow,
  Yet knows not any defeat:
Through the past, through to-day, through to-morrow,
  It echoes on life’s long street.

Could I but make words of its power,
  Bring it from the future here,
Men’s souls would be waking, that hour,
  To the victory against fear.

But the vague sweet stanza befools me
  With its calm joy, time after time,
And no failure here ever schools me
  To cease from an idle rhyme.

That music afar, unspoken,
    ’Tis I have done it wrong:
I caught, and I have broken,
    A distant song.