A Florida Sunday
From cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seasOft come repenting tempests here to die;Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh,Breathe salutary balms through lank-lock’d hairOf sick men’s heads, and soon—this world outworn—Sink into saintly heavens of stirless air,Clean from confessional. One died, this morn,And willed the world to wise Queen Tranquil: she,Sweet sovereign Lady of all souls that bideIn contemplation, tames the too bright skiesLike that faint agate film, far down descried,Restraining suns in sudden thoughtful eyesWhich flashed but now. Blest distillation rareOf o’er-rank brightness filtered waterwiseThrough all the earths in heaven—thou always fair,Still virgin bride of e’er-creating thought—Dream-worker, in whose dream the Future’s wrought—Healer of hurts, free balm for bitter wrongs—Most silent mother of all sounding songs—Thou that dissolvest hells to make thy heaven—Thou tempest’s heir, that keep’st no tempest leaven—But after winds’ and thunders’ wide mischanceDost brood, and better thine inheritance—Thou privacy of space, where each grave StarAs in his own still chamber sits afarTo meditate, yet, by thy walls unpent,Shines to his fellows o’er the firmament—Oh! as thou liv’st in all this sky and seaThat likewise lovingly do live in thee,So melt my soul in thee, and thine in me,Divine Tranquillity!
Gray Pelican, poised where yon broad shallows shine,Know’st thou, that finny foison all is mineIn the bag below thy beak—yet thine, not less?For God, of His most gracious friendliness,Hath wrought that every soul, this loving morn,Into all things may be new-corporate born,And each live whole in all: I sail with thee,Thy Pelican’s self is mine; yea, silver Sea,In this large moment all thy fishes, ripples, bights,Pale in-shore greens and distant blue delights,White visionary sails, long reaches fairBy moon-horn’d strands that film the far-off air,Bright sparkle-revelations, secret majesties,Shells, wrecks and wealths, are mine; yea, Orange-trees,That lift your small world-systems in the light,Rich sets of round green heavens studded brightWith globes of fruit that like still planets shine,Mine is your green-gold universe; yea, mine,White slender Lighthouse fainting to the eyeThat wait’st on yon keen cape-point wistfully,Like to some maiden spirit pausing pale,New-wing’d, yet fain to sailAbove the serene Gulf to where a bridegroom soulCalls o’er the soft horizon—mine thy doleOf shut undaring wings and wan desire—Mine, too, thy later hope and heavenly fireOf kindling expectation; yea, all sights,All sounds, that make this morn—quick flightsOf pea-green paroquets ‘twixt neighbor trees,Like missives and sweet morning inquiriesFrom green to green, in green—live oaks’ round heads,Busy with jays for thoughts—grays, whites and redsOf pranked woodpeckers that ne’er gossip out,But alway tap at doors and gad about—Robins and mocking-birds that all day longAthwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song,Shuttles of music—clouds of mosses grayThat rain me rains of pleasant thoughts alwayFrom a low sky of leaves—faint yearning psalmsOf endless metre breathing through the palmsThat crowd and lean and gaze from off the shoreEver for one that cometh nevermore—Palmettos ranked, with childish spear-points setAgainst no enemy—rich cones that fretHigh roofs of temples shafted tall with pines—Green, grateful mangroves where the sand-beach shines—Long lissome coast that in and outward swerves,The grace of God made manifest in curves—All riches, goods and braveries never toldOf earth, sun, air and heaven—now I holdYour being in my being; I am ye,And ye myself; yea, lastly, Thee,God, whom my roads all reach, howe’er they run,My Father, Friend, Beloved, dear All-One,Thee in my soul, my soul in Thee, I feel,Self of my self. Lo, through my sense doth stealClear cognizance of all selves and qualities,Of all existence that hath been or is,Of all strange haps that men miscall of chance,And all the works of tireless circumstance:Each borders each, like mutual sea and shore,Nor aught misfits his neighbor that’s before,Nor him that’s after—nay, through this still air,Out of the North come quarrels, and keen blareOf challenge by the hot-breath’d parties blown;Yet break they not this peace with alien tone,Fray not my heart, nor fright me for my land,—I hear from all-wards, allwise understand,The great bird Purpose bears me twixt her wings,And I am one with all the kinsmen thingsThat e’er my Father fathered. Oh, to meAll questions solve in this tranquillity:E’en this dark matter, once so dim, so drear,Now shines upon my spirit heavenly-clear:Thou, Father, without logic, tellest meHow this divine denial true may be,—How `All’s in each, yet every one of allMaintains his Self complete and several.’
Tampa, Florida, 1877.
To My Class: On Certain Fruits and Flowers Sent Me in Sickness.
If spicy-fringed pinks that blush and paleWith passions of perfume,—if violets blueThat hint of heaven with odor more than hue,—If perfect roses, each a holy GrailWherefrom the blood of beauty doth exhaleGrave raptures round,—if leaves of green as newAs those fresh chaplets wove in dawn and dewBy Emily when down the Athenian valeShe paced, to do observance to the May,Nor dreamed of Arcite nor of Palamon,—If fruits that riped in some more riotous playOf wind and beam that stirs our temperate sun,—If these the products be of love and pain,Oft may I suffer, and you love, again.
Baltimore, Christmas, 1880.
On Violet’s Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill.
Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and whiteAs all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,As if before young Violet’s dreaming eyesStill blazed the two great Theban bucklers brightThat swayed the random of that furious fightWhere Palamon and Arcite made assizeFor Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,That, not with sting, but pith, do oft inviteMore trial of the tongue; simple, like her,Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,—The queen’s no finer; rich (though gossamer)In help to him they came to, which may tellHow rich that him SHE’LL come to; thus men see,Like Violet’s self e’en Violet’s wafers be.
Baltimore, 1881.
Ireland.
Written for the Art Autograph during the Irish Famine, 1880.
Heartsome Ireland, winsome Ireland,Charmer of the sun and sea,Bright beguiler of old anguish,How could Famine frown on thee?
As our Gulf-Stream, drawn to thee-ward,Turns him from his northward flow,And our wintry western headlandsSend thee summer from their snow,
Thus the main and cordial currentOf our love sets over sea,—Tender, comely, valiant Ireland,Songful, soulful, sorrowful Ireland,—Streaming warm to comfort thee.
Baltimore, 1880.
Under the Cedarcroft Chestnut.
Trim set in ancient sward, his manful boleUpbore his frontage largely toward the sky.We could not dream but that he had a soul:What virtue breathed from out his bravery!
We gazed o’erhead: far down our deepening eyesRained glamours from his green midsummer mass.The worth and sum of all his centuriesSuffused his mighty shadow on the grass.
A Presence large, a grave and steadfast FormAmid the leaves’ light play and fantasy,A calmness conquered out of many a storm,A Manhood mastered by a chestnut-tree!
Then, while his monarch fingers downward heldThe rugged burrs wherewith his state was rife,A voice of large authoritative EldSeemed uttering quickly parables of life:
`How Life in truth was sharply set with ills;A kernel cased in quarrels; yea, a sphereOf stings, and hedge-hog-round of mortal quills:How most men itched to eat too soon i’ the year,
`And took but wounds and worries for their pains,Whereas the wise withheld their patient hands,Nor plucked green pleasures till the sun and rainsAnd seasonable ripenings burst all bands
`And opened wide the liberal burrs of life.’There, O my Friend, beneath the chestnut bough,Gazing on thee immerged in modern strife,I framed a prayer of fervency—that thou,
In soul and stature larger than thy kind,Still more to this strong Form might’st liken thee,Till thy whole Self in every fibre findThe tranquil lordship of thy chestnut tree.
Tampa, Florida, February, 1877.
An Evening Song.
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun,As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine,And Cleopatra night drinks all. ’Tis done,Love, lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven’s heart;Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.O night! divorce our sun and sky apartNever our lips, our hands.
1876.
“A Sunrise Song” leads a group of seven short poems overlooked in earlier editions. Six of these, beginning with “On a Palmetto”, were unrevised pencillings of late date, excepting the lines of 1866 to J. D. H.
A Sunrise Song.
Young palmer sun, that to these shining sandsPourest thy pilgrim’s tale, discoursing stillThy silver passages of sacred lands,With news of Sepulchre and Dolorous Hill,
Canst thou be he that, yester-sunset warm,Purple with Paynim rage and wrack desire,Dashed ravening out of a dusty lair of Storm,Harried the west, and set the world on fire?
Hast thou perchance repented, Saracen Sun?Wilt warm the world with peace and dove-desire?Or wilt thou, ere this very day be done,Blaze Saladin still, with unforgiving fire?
Baltimore, 1881.
On a Palmetto.
Through all that year-scarred agony of height,Unblest of bough or bloom, to where expandsHis wandy circlet with his bladed bandsDividing every wind, or loud or light,To termless hymns of love and old despite,Yon tall palmetto in the twilight stands,Bare Dante of these purgatorial sandsThat glimmer marginal to the monstrous night.Comes him a Southwind from the scented vine,It breathes of Beatrice through all his blades,North, East or West, Guelph-wind or Ghibelline,’Tis shredded into music down the shades;All sea-breaths, land-breaths, systol, diastol,Sway, minstrels of that grief-melodious Soul.
1880.
Struggle.
My soul is like the oar that momentlyDies in a desperate stress beneath the wave,Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea:Each second I’m new-born from some new grave.
Control.
O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness theeAnd make thee harrow all my spirit’s glebe.Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweetHe made a wolf to plow his land.
To J. D. H.
(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)
. . . . .
Dear friend, forgive a wild lamentInsanely following thy flight.I would not cumber thine ascentNor drag thee back into the night;
But the great sea-winds sigh with me,The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old,And I would that I might lie with theeThere in the grave so cold, so cold!
Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee,And the round skies are far and steep;A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe,Pain is proud and scorns to weep.
My heart breaks if it cling about thee,And still breaks, if far from thine.O drear, drear death, to live without thee,O sad life—to keep thee mine.
. . . . .
Marsh Hymns.
Between Dawn and Sunrise.
Were silver pink, and had a soul,Which soul were shy, which shyness mightA visible influence be, and rollThrough heaven and earth—‘twere thou, O light!
O rhapsody of the wraith of red,O blush but yet in prophecy,O sun-hint that hath overspreadSky, marsh, my soul, and yonder sail.
Thou and I.
So one in heart and thought, I trow,That thou might’st press the strings and I might draw the bowAnd both would meet in music sweet,Thou and I, I trow.
1881.
The Hard Times in Elfland.
A Story of Christmas Eve.
Strange that the termagant winds should scoldThe Christmas Eve so bitterly!But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old,Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I,
Blithe as the wind was bitter, drewMore frontward of the mighty fire,Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknewThe heaven that Christian dogs desire—
Stretched o’er the rug, serene and grave,Huge nose on heavy paws reclined,With never a drowning boy to save,And warmth of body and peace of mind.
And, as our happy circle sat,The fire well capp’d the company:In grave debate or careless chat,A right good fellow, mingled he:
He seemed as one of us to sit,And talked of things above, below,With flames more winsome than our wit,And coals that burned like love aglow.
While thus our rippling discourse rolledSmooth down the channel of the night,We spoke of Time: thereat, one toldA parable of the Seasons’ flight.
“Time was a Shepherd with four sheep.In a certain Field he long abode.He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leapOne at a time to the Common Road.
“And first there leapt, like bird on wing,A lissome Lamb that played in the air.I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring’:Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair
“He skipped the flowering Highway fast,Hurried the hedgerows green and white,Set maids and men a-yearning, passedThe Bend, and gamboll’d out of sight.
“And next marched forth a matron Ewe(While Time took down a bar for her),Udder’d so large ’twas much adoE’en then to clear the barrier.
“Full softly shone her silken fleeceWhat stately time she paced along:Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increaseOf sunlight, substance, seedling, song,
“In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird,Till the great globe, rich fleck’d and pied,Like some large peach half pinkly furred,Turned to the sun a glowing side
“And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright,None-such, complete.Then, while the EweSlow passed the Bend, a blur of light,The Shepherd’s face in sadness grew:
“`Summer!’ he said, as one would sayA sigh in syllables. So, in haste(For shame of Summer’s long delay,Yet gazing still what way she paced),
“He summoned Autumn, slanting downThe second bar. Thereover strodeA Wether, fleeced in burning brown,And largely loitered down the Road.
“Far as the farmers sight his shapeMajestic moving o’er the way,All cry `To harvest,’ crush the grape,And haul the corn and house the hay,
“Till presently, no man can say,(So brown the woods that line that end)If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may,Or not, have passed beyond the Bend.
“Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo,An aged Ram, flapp’d, gnarly-horn’d,With bones that crackle o’er the snow,Rheum’d, wind-gall’d, rag-fleec’d, burr’d and thorn’d.
“Time takes the third bar off for him,He totters down the windy lane.’Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim.O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!”
Those seasons out, we talked of these:And I (with inward purpose slyTo shield my purse from Christmas treesAnd stockings and wild robbery
When Hal and Nimblewits invadeMy cash in Santa Claus’s name)In full the hard, hard times surveyed;Denounced all waste as crime and shame;
Hinted that “waste” might be a termIncluding skates, velocipedes,Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm,Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds,
Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys,And all th’ infernal host of hornsWhereby to strenuous hells of noiseAre turned the blessed Christmas morns;
Thus, roused—those horns!—to sacred rage,I rose, forefinger high in air,When Harry cried (SOME war to wage),“Papa, is hard times ev’ywhere?
“Maybe in Santa Claus’s landIt isn’t hard times none at all!”Now, blessed Vision! to my handMost pat, a marvel strange did fall.
Scarce had my Harry ceased, when “Look!”He cried, leapt up in wild alarm,Ran to my Comrade, shelter tookBeneath the startled mother’s arm.
And so was still: what time we sawA foot hang down the fireplace! Then,With painful scrambling scratched and raw,Two hands that seemed like hands of men
Eased down two legs and a body throughThe blazing fire, and forth there cameBefore our wide and wondering viewA figure shrinking half with shame,
And half with weakness. “Sir,” I said,—But with a mien of dignityThe seedy stranger raised his head:“My friends, I’m Santa Claus,” said he.
But oh, how changed! That rotund faceThe new moon rivall’d, pale and thin;Where once was cheek, now empty space;Whate’er stood out, did now stand in.
His piteous legs scarce propped him up:His arms mere sickles seemed to be:But most o’erflowed our sorrow’s cupWhen that we saw—or did not see—
His belly: we remembered howIt shook like a bowl of jelly fine:An earthquake could not shake it now;He HAD no belly—not a sign.
“Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare:I HAVE seen better days,” he said:“But now, with shrinkage, loss and care,Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head.
“We’ve had such hard, hard times this yearFor goblins! Never knew the like.All Elfland’s mortgaged! And we fearThe gnomes are just about to strike.
“I once was rich, and round, and hale.The whole world called me jolly brick;But listen to a piteous tale.Young Harry,—Santa Claus is sick!
“’Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad manComes to my house and talks to me:`I’ve got,’ says he, `a little planThat suits this nineteenth century.
“`Instead of driving, as you do,Six reindeer slow from house to house,Let’s build a Grand Trunk Railway throughFrom here to earth’s last terminus.
“`We’ll touch at every chimney-top(An Elevated Track, of course),Then, as we whisk you by, you’ll dropEach package down: just think, the force
“`You’ll save, the time!—Besides, we’ll makeOur millions: look you, soon we willCompete for freights—and then we’ll takeDame Fortune’s bales of good and ill
“`(Why, she’s the biggest shipper, sir,That e’er did business in this world!):Then Death, that ceaseless Traveller,Shall on his rounds by us be whirled.
“`When ghosts return to walk with men,We’ll bring ’em cheap by steam, and fast:We’ll run a Branch to heaven! and thenWe’ll riot, man; for then, at last
“`We’ll make with heaven a contract fairTo call, each hour, from town to town,And carry the dead folks’ souls up there,And bring the unborn babies down!’
“The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash,Nay, every penny I could raise.My wife e’er cried, `’Tis rash, ’tis rash:’How could I know the stock-thief’s ways?
“But soon I learned full well, poor fool!My woes began, that wretched day.The President plied me like a tool.In lawyer’s fees, and rights of way,
“Injunctions, leases, charters, IWas meshed as in a mighty maze.The stock ran low, the talk ran high:Then quickly flamed the final blaze.
“With never an inch of track—’tis true!The debts were large … the oft-told tale.The President rolled in splendor new—He bought my silver at the sale.
“Yes, sold me out: we’ve moved away.I’ve had to give up everything.My reindeer, even, whom I … pray,Excuse me” … here, o’er-sorrowing,
Poor Santa Claus burst into tears,Then calmed again: “my reindeer fleet,I gave them up: on foot, my dears,I now must plod through snow and sleet.
“Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now;Yes, every luxury is cut off.—Which, by the way, reminds me howI caught this dreadful hacking cough:
“I cut off the tail of my Ulster furredTo make young Kris a coat of state.That very night the storm occurred!Thus we became the sport of Fate.
“For I was out till after one,Surveying chimney-tops and roofs,And planning how it could be doneWithout my reindeers’ bouncing hoofs.
“`My dear,’ says Mrs. Claus, that night(A most superior woman she!)`It never, never can be rightThat you, deep-sunk in poverty,
“`This year should leave your poor old bed,And trot about, bent down with toys,(There’s Kris a-crying now for bread!)To give to other people’s boys.
“`Since you’ve been out, the news arrivesThe Elfs’ Insurance Company’s gone.Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our livesDepend on yours: thus griefs go on.
“`And even while you’re thus harassed,I do believe, if out you went,You’d go, in spite of all that’s passed,To the children of that President!’
“Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits,These eyes, that night, ne’er slept a wink.My path seemed honeycombed with pits.Naught could I do but think and think.
“But, with the day, my courage rose.Ne’er shall my boys, MY boys (I cried),When Christmas morns their eyes unclose,Find empty stockings gaping wide!
“Then hewed and whacked and whittled I;The wife, the girls and Kris took fire;They spun, sewed, cut,—till by and byWe made, at home, my pack entire!”
(He handed me a bundle, here.)“Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick!Dear boys, DON’T look for much this year:Remember, Santa Claus is sick!”
Baltimore, December, 1877.
Dialect Poems.
A Florida Ghost.
Down mildest shores of milk-white sand,By cape and fair Floridian bay,Twixt billowy pines—a surf asleep on land—And the great Gulf at play,
Past far-off palms that filmed to nought,Or in and out the cunning keysThat laced the land like fragile patterns wroughtTo edge old broideries,
The sail sighed on all day for joy,The prow each pouting wave did leaveAll smile and song, with sheen and ripple coy,Till the dusk diver Eve
Brought up from out the brimming EastThe oval moon, a perfect pearl.In that large lustre all our haste surceased,The sail seemed fain to furl,
The silent steersman landward turned,And ship and shore set breast to breast.Under a palm wherethrough a planet burnedWe ate, and sank to rest.
But soon from sleep’s dear death (it seemed)I rose and strolled along the seaDown silver distances that faintly gleamedOn to infinity.
Till suddenly I paused, for lo!A shape (from whence I ne’er divined)Appeared before me, pacing to and fro,With head far down inclined.
`A wraith’ (I thought) `that walks the shoreTo solve some old perplexity.’Full heavy hung the draggled gown he wore;His hair flew all awry.
He waited not (as ghosts oft use)To be `dearheaven’d!’ and `oh’d!’But briskly said: “Good-evenin’; what’s the news?Consumption? After boa’d?
“Or mebbe you’re intendin’ ofInvestments? Orange-plantin’? Pine?Hotel? or Sanitarium? What aboveThis yea’th CAN be your line?
“Speakin’ of sanitariums, now,Jest look ‘ee here, my friend:I know a little story,—well, I swow,Wait till you hear the end!
“Some year or more ago, I s’pose,I roamed from Maine to Floridy,And,—see where them Palmettos grows?I bought that little key,
“Cal’latin’ for to build right offA c’lossal sanitarium:Big surf! Gulf breeze! Jest death upon a cough!—I run it high, to hum!
“Well, sir, I went to work in style:Bought me a steamboat, loaded itWith my hotel (pyazers more’n a mile!)Already framed and fit,
“Insured ’em, fetched ’em safe around,Put up my buildin’, moored my boat,COM-plete! then went to bed and slept as soundAs if I’d paid a note.
“Now on that very night a squall,Cum up from some’eres—some bad place!An’ blowed an’ tore an’ reared an’ pitched an’ all,—I had to run a race
“Right out o’ bed from that hotelAn’ git to yonder risin’ ground,For, ‘twixt the sea that riz and rain that fell,I pooty nigh was drowned!
“An’ thar I stood till mornin’ cum,Right on yon little knoll of sand,FreQUENTly wishin’ I had stayed to humFur from this tarnal land.
“When mornin’ cum, I took a goodLong look, and—well, sir, sure’s I’m ME—That boat laid right whar that hotel had stood,And HIT sailed out to sea!
“No: I’ll not keep you: good-bye, friend.Don’t think about it much,—preehapsYour brain might git see-sawin’, end for end,Like them asylum chaps,
“For here *I* walk, forevermore,A-tryin’ to make it gee,How one same wind could blow my ship to shoreAnd my hotel to sea!”
Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania, 1877.
Uncle Jim’s Baptist Revival Hymn.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
[Not long ago a certain Georgia cotton-planter, driven to desperation by awaking each morning to find that the grass had quite outgrown the cotton overnight, and was likely to choke it, in defiance of his lazy freedmen’s hoes and ploughs, set the whole State in a laugh by exclaiming to a group of fellow-sufferers: “It’s all stuff about Cincinnatus leaving the plough to go into politics FOR PATRIOTISM; he was just a-runnin’ from grass!”
This state of things—when the delicate young rootlets of the cotton are struggling against the hardier multitudes of the grass-suckers— is universally described in plantation parlance by the phrase “in the grass”; and Uncle Jim appears to have found in it so much similarity to the condition of his own (“Baptis’”) church, overrun, as it was, by the cares of this world, that he has embodied it in the refrain of a revival hymn such as the colored improvisator of the South not infrequently constructs from his daily surroundings. He has drawn all the ideas of his stanzas from the early morning phenomena of those critical weeks when the loud plantation-horn is blown before daylight, in order to rouse all hands for a long day’s fight against the common enemy of cotton-planting mankind.
In addition to these exegetical commentaries, the Northern reader probably needs to be informed that the phrase “peerten up” means substantially `to spur up’, and is an active form of the adjective “peert” (probably a corruption of `pert’), which is so common in the South, and which has much the signification of “smart” in New England, as e.g., a “peert” horse, in antithesis to a “sorry”—i.e., poor, mean, lazy one.]
Solo.—Sin’s rooster’s crowed, Ole Mahster’s riz,De sleepin’-time is pas’;Wake up dem lazy Baptissis,Chorus.—Dey’s mightily in de grass, grass,Dey’s mightily in de grass.
Ole Mahster’s blowed de mornin’ horn,He’s blowed a powerful blas’;O Baptis’ come, come hoe de corn,You’s mightily in de grass, grass,You’s mightily in de grass.
De Meth’dis team’s done hitched; O fool,De day’s a-breakin’ fas’;Gear up dat lean ole Baptis’ mule,Dey’s mightily in de grass, grass,Dey’s mightily in de grass.
De workmen’s few an’ mons’rous slow,De cotton’s sheddin’ fas’;Whoop, look, jes’ look at de Baptis’ row,Hit’s mightily in de grass, grass,Hit’s mightily in de grass.
De jay-bird squeal to de mockin’-bird: “Stop!Don’ gimme none o’ yo’ sass;Better sing one song for de Baptis’ crop,Dey’s mightily in de grass, grass,Dey’s mightily in de grass.”
And de ole crow croak: “Don’ work, no, no;”But de fiel’-lark say, “Yaas, yaas,An’ I spec’ you mighty glad, you debblish crow,Dat de Baptissis’s in de grass, grass,Dat de Baptissis’s in de grass!”
Lord, thunder us up to de plowin’-match,Lord, peerten de hoein’ fas’,Yea, Lord, hab mussy on de Baptis’ patch,Dey’s mightily in de grass, grass,Dey’s mightily in de grass.
1876.
“Nine from Eight”.
I was drivin’ my two-mule waggin,With a lot o’ truck for sale,Towards Macon, to git some baggin’(Which my cotton was ready to bale),And I come to a place on the side o’ the pikeWhar a peert little winter branch jest had throw’dThe sand in a kind of a sand-bar like,And I seed, a leetle ways up the road,A man squattin’ down, like a big bull-toad,On the ground, a-figgerin’ thar in the sandWith his finger, and motionin’ with his hand,And he looked like Ellick Garry.And as I driv up, I heerd him bleatTo hisself, like a lamb: “Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin’—and none to carry?”
And Ellick’s bull-cart was standin’A cross-wise of the way,And the little bull was a-expandin’,Hisself on a wisp of hay.But Ellick he sat with his head bent down,A-studyin’ and musin’ powerfully,And his forrud was creased with a turrible frown,And he was a-wurken’ appearentlyA ‘rethmetic sum that wouldn’t gee,Fur he kep’ on figgerin’ away in the sandWith his finger, and motionin’ with his hand,And I seed it WAS Ellick Garry.And agin I heard him softly bleatTo hisself, like a lamb: “Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin’—and none to carry!”
I woa’d my mules mighty easy(Ellick’s back was towards the roadAnd the wind hit was sorter breezy)And I got down off’n my load,And I crep’ up close to Ellick’s back,And I heerd him a-talkin’ softly, thus:“Them figgers is got me under the hack.I caint see how to git out’n the muss,Except to jest nat’ally fail and bus’!My crap-leen calls for nine hundred and more.My counts o’ sales is eight hundred and four,Of cotton for Ellick Garry.Thar’s eight, ought, four, jest like on a slate:Here’s nine and two oughts—Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin’—and none to carry.
“Them crap-leens, oh, them crap-leens!I giv one to Pardman and Sharks.Hit gobbled me up like snap-beansIn a patch full o’ old fiel’-larks.But I thought I could fool the crap-leen nice,And I hauled my cotton to Jammel and Cones.But shuh! ‘fore I even had settled my priceThey tuck affidavy without no bonesAnd levelled upon me fur all ther loansTo the ‘mount of sum nine hundred dollars or more,And sold me out clean for eight hundred and four,As sure as I’m Ellick Garry!And thar it is down all squar and straight,But I can’t make it gee, fur nine from eightLeaves nuthin’—and none to carry.”
Then I says “Hello, here, Garry!However you star’ and frownThare’s somethin’ fur YOU to carry,Fur you’ve worked it upside down!”Then he riz and walked to his little bull-cart,And made like he neither had seen nor heerdNor knowed that I knowed of his raskilly part,And he tried to look as if HE wa’nt feared,And gathered his lines like he never keered,And he driv down the road ’bout a quarter or so,And then looked around, and I hollered “Hello,Look here, Mister Ellick Garry!You may git up soon and lie down late,But you’ll always find that nine from eightLeaves nuthin’—and none to carry.”
Macon, Georgia, 1870.
“Thar’s more in the Man than thar is in the Land”.
I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones,Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones,And he lived pretty much by gittin’ of loans,And his mules was nuthin’ but skin and bones,And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones,And he had ’bout a thousand acres o’ land.
This man—which his name it was also Jones—He swore that he’d leave them old red hills and stones,Fur he couldn’t make nuthin’ but yallerish cotton,And little o’ THAT, and his fences was rotten,And what little corn he had, HIT was boughtenAnd dinged ef a livin’ was in the land.
And the longer he swore the madder he got,And he riz and he walked to the stable lot,And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitchFur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich,And to quit raisin’ cock-burrs, thistles and sich,And a wastin’ ther time on the cussed land.
So him and Tom they hitched up the mules,Pertestin’ that folks was mighty big foolsThat ‘ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out,Jest scratchin’ a livin’ when all of ’em moughtGit places in Texas whar cotton would sproutBy the time you could plant it in the land.
And he driv by a house whar a man named BrownWas a livin’, not fur from the edge o’ town,And he bantered Brown fur to buy his place,And said that bein’ as money was skace,And bein’ as sheriffs was hard to face,Two dollars an acre would git the land.
They closed at a dollar and fifty cents,And Jones he bought him a waggin and tents,And loaded his corn, and his wimmin, and truck,And moved to Texas, which it tuckHis entire pile, with the best of luck,To git thar and git him a little land.
But Brown moved out on the old Jones’ farm,And he rolled up his breeches and bared his arm,And he picked all the rocks from off’n the groun’,And he rooted it up and he plowed it down,Then he sowed his corn and his wheat in the land.
Five years glid by, and Brown, one day(Which he’d got so fat that he wouldn’t weigh),Was a settin’ down, sorter lazily,To the bulliest dinner you ever see,When one o’ the children jumped on his kneeAnd says, “Yan’s Jones, which you bought his land.”
And thar was Jones, standin’ out at the fence,And he hadn’t no waggin, nor mules, nor tents,Fur he had left Texas afoot and cumTo Georgy to see if he couldn’t git sumEmployment, and he was a lookin’ as hum-Ble as ef he had never owned any land.
But Brown he axed him in, and he sotHim down to his vittles smokin’ hot,And when he had filled hisself and the floorBrown looked at him sharp and riz and sworeThat, “whether men’s land was rich or poorThar was more in the MAN than thar was in the LAND.”
Macon, Georgia, 1869.
Jones’s Private Argyment.
That air same Jones, which lived in Jones,He had this pint about him:He’d swear with a hundred sighs and groans,That farmers MUST stop gittin’ loans,And git along without ’em:
That bankers, warehousemen, and sichWas fatt’nin’ on the planter,And Tennessy was rotten-richA-raisin’ meat and corn, all whichDraw’d money to Atlanta:
And the only thing (says Jones) to doIs, eat no meat that’s boughten:`But tear up every I, O, U,And plant all corn and swear for trueTo quit a-raisin’ cotton!’
Thus spouted Jones (whar folks could hear,—At Court and other gatherin’s),And thus kep’ spoutin’ many a year,Proclaimin’ loudly far and nearSich fiddlesticks and blatherin’s.
But, one all-fired sweatin’ day,It happened I was hoein’My lower corn-field, which it lay‘Longside the road that runs my wayWhar I can see what’s goin’.
And a’ter twelve o’clock had comeI felt a kinder faggin’,And laid myself un’neath a plumTo let my dinner settle sum,When ‘long come Jones’s waggin,
And Jones was settin’ in it, SO:A-readin’ of a paper.His mules was goin’ powerful slow,Fur he had tied the lines ontoThe staple of the scraper.
The mules they stopped about a rodFrom me, and went to feedin’‘Longside the road, upon the sod,But Jones (which he had tuck a tod)Not knowin’, kept a-readin’.
And presently says he: “Hit’s true;That Clisby’s head is level.Thar’s one thing farmers all must do,To keep themselves from goin’ tewBankruptcy and the devil!
“More corn! more corn! MUST plant less ground,And MUSTN’T eat what’s boughten!Next year they’ll do it: reasonin’s sound:(And, cotton will fetch ’bout a dollar a pound),THARFORE, I’LL plant ALL cotton!”
Macon, Georgia, 1870.
The Power of Prayer; or, The First Steamboat up the Alabama.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
You, Dinah! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does meet. De Lord, HE made dese black-jack roots to twis’ into a seat. Umph, dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin’ ole nigger’s feet.
It ‘pear to me dis mornin’ I kin smell de fust o’ June. I ‘clar’, I b’lieve dat mockin’-bird could play de fiddle soon! Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin’ in de moon.
Well, ef dis nigger IS been blind for fo’ty year or mo’, Dese ears, DEY sees the world, like, th’u’ de cracks dat’s in de do’. For de Lord has built dis body wid de windows ‘hind and ‘fo’.
I know my front ones IS stopped up, and things is sort o’ dim, But den, th’u’ DEM, temptation’s rain won’t leak in on ole Jim! De back ones show me earth enough, aldo’ dey’s mons’ous slim.
And as for Hebben,—bless de Lord, and praise His holy name— DAT shines in all de co’ners of dis cabin jes’ de same As ef dat cabin hadn’t nar’ a plank upon de frame!
Who CALL me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah! Don’t you hyar Somebody holl’in’ “Hoo, Jim, hoo?” My Sarah died las’ y’ar; IS dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim f’om hyar?
My stars, dat cain’t be Sarah, shuh! Jes’ listen, Dinah, NOW! What KIN be comin’ up dat bend, a-makin’ sich a row? Fus’ bellerin’ like a pawin’ bull, den squealin’ like a sow?
De Lord ‘a’ mussy sakes alive, jes’ hear,—ker-woof, ker-woof— De Debble’s comin’ round dat bend, he’s comin’ shuh enuff, A-splashin’ up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof!
I’se pow’ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain’t gwine run away: I’m gwine to stand stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed day. YOU screech, and swish de water, Satan! I’se a gwine to pray.
O hebbenly Marster, what thou willest, dat mus’ be jes’ so, And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nigger’s bound to go. Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar below!
‘Scuse Dinah, ‘scuse her, Marster; for she’s sich a little chile, She hardly jes’ begin to scramble up de homeyard stile, But dis ole traveller’s feet been tired dis many a many a mile.
I’se wufless as de rotten pole of las’ year’s fodder-stack. De rheumatiz done bit my bones; you hear ’em crack and crack? I cain’st sit down ‘dout gruntin’ like ’twas breakin’ o’ my back.
What use de wheel, when hub and spokes is warped and split, and rotten? What use dis dried-up cotton-stalk, when Life done picked my cotton? I’se like a word dat somebody said, and den done been forgotten.
But, Dinah! Shuh dat gal jes’ like dis little hick’ry tree, De sap’s jes’ risin in her; she do grow owdaciouslee— Lord, ef you’s clarin’ de underbrush, don’t cut her down, cut me!
I would not proud persume—but I’ll boldly make reques’; Sence Jacob had dat wrastlin’-match, I, too, gwine do my bes’; When Jacob got all underholt, de Lord he answered Yes!
And what for waste de vittles, now, and th’ow away de bread, Jes’ for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head? T’ink of de ‘conomy, Marster, ef dis ole Jim was dead!
Stop;—ef I don’t believe de Debble’s gone on up de stream! Jes’ now he squealed down dar;—hush; dat’s a mighty weakly scream! Yas, sir, he’s gone, he’s gone;—he snort way off, like in a dream!
O glory hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high! De Debble’s fai’ly skeered to def, he done gone flyin’ by; I know’d he couldn’ stand dat pra’r, I felt my Marster nigh!
You, Dinah; ain’t you ‘shamed, now, dat you didn’ trust to grace? I heerd you thrashin’ th’u’ de bushes when he showed his face! You fool, you think de Debble couldn’t beat YOU in a race?
I tell you, Dinah, jes’ as shuh as you is standin’ dar, When folks starts prayin’, answer-angels drops down th’u’ de a’r. YAS, DINAH, WHAR ‘OULD YOU BE NOW, JES’ ‘CEPTIN’ FUR DAT PRA’R?
Baltimore, 1875.
Unrevised Early Poems.
These unrevised poems are not necessarily exponents of Mr. Lanier’s later teaching, but are offered as examples of his youthful spirit, his earlier methods and his instructive growth. To many friends they present in addition a wealth of dear associations. But, putting Mr. Lanier upon trial as an artist, it is fair to remember that probably none of these poems would have been republished by him without material alterations, the slightest of which no other hand can be authorized to make.
The Jacquerie. A Fragment.