The Complete Poems Of Paul Laurence Dunbar. Paul Laurence Dunbar

      ODE TO ETHIOPIA

      O Mother Race! to thee I bring

      This pledge of faith unwavering,

      This tribute to thy glory.

      I know the pangs which thou didst feel,

      When Slavery crushed thee with its heel,

      With thy dear blood all gory.

      Sad days were those—ah, sad indeed!

      But through the land the fruitful seed

      Of better times was growing.

      The plant of freedom upward sprung,

      And spread its leaves so fresh and young—

      Its blossoms now are blowing.

      On every hand in this fair land,

      Proud Ethiope’s swarthy children stand

      Beside their fairer neighbor;

      The forests flee before their stroke,

      Their hammers ring, their forges smoke,—

      They stir in honest labour.

      They tread the fields where honour calls;

      Their voices sound through senate halls

      In majesty and power.

      To right they cling; the hymns they sing

      Up to the skies in beauty ring,

      And bolder grow each hour.

      Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul;

      Thy name is writ on Glory’s scroll

      In characters of fire.

      High ‘mid the clouds of Fame’s bright sky

      Thy banner’s blazoned folds now fly,

      And truth shall lift them higher.

      Thou hast the right to noble pride,

      Whose spotless robes were purified

      By blood’s severe baptism.

      Upon thy brow the cross was laid,

      And labour’s painful sweat-beads made

      A consecrating chrism.

      No other race, or white or black,

      When bound as thou wert, to the rack,

      So seldom stooped to grieving;

      No other race, when free again,

      Forgot the past and proved them men

      So noble in forgiving.

      Go on and up! Our souls and eyes

      Shall follow thy continuous rise;

      Our ears shall list thy story

      From bards who from thy root shall spring,

      And proudly tune their lyres to sing

      Of Ethiopia’s glory.

      THE CORN-STALK FIDDLE

      When the corn ‘s all cut and the bright stalks shine

      Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;

      When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,

      And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;

      Then it’s heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle,

      For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

      And you take a stalk that is straight and long,

      With an expert eye to its worthy points,

      And you think of the bubbling strains of song

      That are bound between its pithy joints—

      Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle,

      With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

      Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow

      O’er the yielding strings with a practised hand!

      And the music’s flow never loud but low

      Is the concert note of a fairy band.

      Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle

      To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

      When the eve comes on, and our work is done,

      And the sun drops down with a tender glance,

      With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,

      Come the neighbor girls for the evening’s dance,

      And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle—

      More time than tune—from the corn-stalk fiddle.

      Then brother Jabez takes the bow,

      While Ned stands off with Susan Bland,

      Then Henry stops by Milly Snow,

      And John takes Nellie Jones’s hand,

      While I pair off with Mandy Biddle,

      And scrape, scrape, scrape goes the corn-stalk fiddle.

      “Salute your partners,” comes the call,

      “All join hands and circle round,”

      “Grand train back,” and “Balance all,”

      Footsteps lightly spurn the ground.

      “Take your lady and balance down the middle”

      To the merry strains of the corn-stalk fiddle.

      So the night goes on and the dance is o’er,

      And the merry girls are homeward gone,

      But I see it all in my sleep once more,

      And I dream till the very break of dawn

      Of an impish dance on a red-hot griddle

      To the screech and scrape of a corn-stalk fiddle.

      THE MASTER-PLAYER

      An old, worn harp that had been played

      Till all its strings were loose and frayed,

      Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed,

      To play. But each in turn had found

      No sweet responsiveness of sound.

      Then Love the Master-Player came

      With heaving breast and eyes aflame;

      The Harp he took all undismayed,

      Smote on its strings, still strange to song,

      And brought forth music sweet and strong.

      THE MYSTERY

      I was not; now I am—a few days hence

      I shall not be; I fain would look before

      And after, but can neither do; some Power

      Or lack of power says “no” to all I would.

      I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,

      Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.

      Whene’er, o’ercoming fear, I dare to move,

      I grope without direction and by chance.

      Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand

      That