Melancholia (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

Melancholia
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]  

Silently without my window,
     Tapping gently at the pane, 
     Falls the rain.
Through the trees sighs the breeze 
     Like a soul in pain.
Here alone I sit and weep;
Thought hath banished sleep.

Wearily I sit and listen 
     To the water’s ceaseless drip. 
     To my lip
Fate turns up the bitter cup, 
     Forcing me to sip;
‘T is a bitter, bitter drink,
Thus I sit and think,—

Thinking things unknown and awful, 
     Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes, 
     Waking dreams.
Spectres dark, corpses stark, 
     Show the gaping seams
Whence the cold and cruel knife
Stole away their life.

Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring, 
     Gazing ghastly into mine; 
     Blood like wine
On the brow—clotted now— 
     Shows death’s dreadful sign.
Lonely vigil still I keep;
Would that I might sleep!

Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! 
     Still runs on my stream of thought; 
     I am caught
In the net fate hath set. 
     Mind and soul are brought
To destruction’s very brink;
Yet I can but think!

Eyes that look into the future,— 
     Peeping forth from out my mind, 
     They will find
Some new weight, soon or late, 
     On my soul to bind,
Crushing all its courage out,—
Heavier than doubt.

Dawn, the Eastern monarch’s daughter, 
     Rising from her dewy bed, 
     Lays her head
‘Gainst the clouds’ sombre shrouds 
     Now half fringed with red.
O’er the land she ‘gins to peep;
Come, O gentle Sleep!

Hark! the morning cock is crowing; 
     Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away; 
     ‘Tis the day.
Rosy morn now is born; 
     Dark thoughts may not stay.
Day my brain from foes will keep;
Now, my soul, I sleep.

* * *

The Ol’ Tunes (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

The Ol’ Tunes
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]  

You kin talk about yer anthems
     An’ yer arias an’ sich,
An’ yer modern choir–singin’ 
     That you think so awful rich;
But you orter heerd us youngsters 
     In the times now far away,
A–singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

There was some of us sung treble 
     An’ a few of us growled bass,
An’ the tide o’ song flowed smoothly 
     With its ‘comp’niment o’ grace;
There was spirit in that music, 
     An’ a kind o’ solemn sway,
A–singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

I remember oft o’ standin’ 
     In my homespun pantaloons—
On my face the bronze an’ freckles 
     O’ the suns o’ youthful Junes—
Thinkin’ that no mortal minstrel 
     Ever chanted sich a lay
As the ol’ tunes we was singin’ 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

The boys ‘ud always lead us, 
     An’ the girls ‘ud all chime in
Till the sweetness o’ the singin’ 
     Robbed the list’nin’ soul o’ sin;
An’ I used to tell the parson 
     ‘T was as good to sing as pray,
When the people sung the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

How I long ag’in to hear ’em 
     Pourin’ forth from soul to soul,
With the treble high an’ meller, 
     An’ the bass’s mighty roll;
But the times is very diff’rent, 
     An’ the music heerd to–day
Ain’t the singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

Little screechin’ by a woman, 
     Little squawkin’ by a man,
Then the organ’s twiddle–twaddle, 
     Jest the empty space to span,—
An’ ef you should even think it, 
     ‘T is n’t proper fur to say
That you want to hear the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

But I think that some bright mornin’, 
     When the toils of life air o’er,
An’ the sun o’ heaven arisin’ 
     Glads with light the happy shore,
I shall hear the angel chorus, 
     In the realms of endless day,
A–singin’ o’ the ol’ tunes 
     In the ol’–fashioned way.

* * *

After While (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

After While
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]  

     A POEM OF FAITH

I think that though the clouds be dark,
That though the waves dash o’er the bark,
Yet after while the light will come,
And in calm waters safe at home
          The bark will anchor.
Weep not, my sad–eyed, gray–robed maid,
Because your fairest blossoms fade,
That sorrow still o’erruns your cup,
And even though you root them up, 
          The weeds grow ranker.

For after while your tears shall cease,
And sorrow shall give way to peace;
The flowers shall bloom, the weeds shall die,
And in that faith seen, by and by 
          Thy woes shall perish.
Smile at old Fortune’s adverse tide,
Smile when the scoffers sneer and chide.
Oh, not for you the gems that pale,
And not for you the flowers that fail; 
          Let this thought cherish:

That after while the clouds will part,
And then with joy the waiting heart
Shall feel the light come stealing in,
That drives away the cloud of sin 
          And breaks its power.

And you shall burst your chrysalis,
And wing away to realms of bliss,
Untrammelled, pure, divinely free,
Above all earth’s anxiety 
          From that same hour. 

* * *

Nature and Art (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

Nature and Art
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896] 

To my friend, Charles Booth Nettleton

     I

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
     Once on a time fell upon evil days. 
     From hearing oft herself discussed with praise,
There grew within her heart the longing rare
To see herself; and every passing air 
     The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze. 
     Full oft she sought this end by devious ways,
But sought in vain, so fell she in despair.
For none within her train nor by her side 
     Could solve the task or give the envied boon. 
     So day and night, beneath the sun and moon,
She wandered to and fro unsatisfied, 
     Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf, 
     And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

     II

Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self, 
     Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought, 
     Commanded that the skillful wight be brought
That she might dower him with lands and pelf.
Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf 
     And up the hills and on the downs they sought
     Him who so well and wondrously had wrought;
And with much search found and brought home the elf, 
     But he put by all gifts with sad replies,
And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine: 
     “Oh, queen, I want no gift but thee,” he said.
She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes,
Gave him her hand, low murmuring, “I am thine,”
And at the morrow’s dawning they were wed. 

* * *

   

The Colored Soldiers (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

 
Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

The Colored Soldiers
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896] 

If the muse were mine to tempt it
And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them,
And with many a flip and flout,
Said “these battles are the white man’s
And the whites will fight them out.”
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
Of the foes’ increasing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation
And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
No! the nation shouted, No!
So when war, in savage triumph,
Spread abroad his funeral pall–
Then you called the colored soldiers,
And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager
For the life blood of the prey,
Sprung they forth and bore them bravely
In the thickest of the fray.
And where’er the fight was hottest,
Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard
To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
None were braver in the fight. 
From the blazing breach of Wagner 
To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy
On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
O’er the hot wrought spirits sway,
Of the gallant colored soldier
Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
In the depths of slavery’s night;
Their muskets flashed the dawning
And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers,
Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,–
Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils,
They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
Has made rich the Southern soil.
They have slept and marched and suffered
‘Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record,
In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
Every blot of Slavery’s shame.
So all honor and all glory
To those noble Sons of Ham–
The gallant colored soldiers,
Who fought for Uncle Sam! 

 
 

* * *

   

By the Stream (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

 
Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

By the Stream
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896] 

By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass,
And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.

And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wonderous mysteries,
When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees. 
 
 

* * *

   

The Dilettante: A Modern Type (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

 
Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

The Dilettante: A Modern Type
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896] 

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. 

 

* * *

   

A Negro Love Song (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

 
Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

A Negro Love Song
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896] 

Seen my lady home las’ night,
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel’ huh han’ an’ sque’z it tight, 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh, 
Seen a light gleam f’om huh eye,
An’ a smile go flittin’ by– 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win’ blow thoo de pine, 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin’-bird was singin’ fine, 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
An’ my hea’t was beatin’ so, 
When I reached my lady’s do’,
Dat I couldn’t ba’ to go– 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun’ huh wais’, 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an’ took a tase, 
     Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An’ she answe’d, “‘Cose I do”– 
     Jump back, honey, jump back. 
 

* * *

   

An Easy-Goin’ Feller (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

An Easy-Goin’ Feller
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]

Ther’ ain’t no use in all this strife,
An’ hurryin’, pell-mell, right thro’ life.
I don’t believe in goin’ too fast
To see what kind o’ road you’ve passed.
It ain’t no mortal kind o’ good,
‘N’ I wouldn’t hurry ef I could.
I like to jest go joggin’ ‘long,
To limber up my soul with song;
To stop awhile ‘n’ chat the men,
‘N’ drink some cider now an’ then.
Do’ want no boss a-standin’ by
To see me work; I allus try
To do my dooty right straight up,
An’ earn what fills my plate an’ cup.
An’ ez fur boss, I’ll be my own,
I like to jest be let alone,
To plough my strip an’ tend my bees,
An’ do jest like I doggoned please.
My head’s all right, an’ my heart’s meller,
But I’m a easy-goin’ feller. 
 

* * *

   

A Border Ballad (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

A Border Ballad
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]

Oh, I haven’t got long to live, for we all
     Die soon, e’en those who live longest;
And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
     Along with the richest and strongest.
So it’s heigho for a glass and a song,
     And a bright eye over the table,
And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush,
     And the pick of a gentleman’s stable.

There is Dimmock o’ Dune, he was here yester- night,
     But he’s rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
‘T was the hand o’ MacPherson that gave him the blow,
     And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
But it’s heigho for a brave old song
     And a glass while we are able;
Here’s a health to death and another cup
     To the bright eye over the table.

I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
     But who argues now on appearance?
A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best
May send me to-day to my clearance.
     Then it’s heigho for the things I love,
My mother’ll be soon wearing sable,
     But give me my horse and my dog and my glass,
And a bright eye over the table.

 

* * *