I'm black not white, which is no crime;
To have all things makes one so great:
If blacks did have, all whites would crave
More black to be for all that time.
The whites have ALL, in regal state,
And blacks do think them more sublime
But whites would think the blacks so brave
If they had greater wealth all time.

I've heard of maids , who first resolve, too fast,
And then weigh arguments, when facts are past :
Young, tho' my reason is, not so , it stray'd;
But, first, found pleadings, for the part, I play'd.

Play'd, said I?—second thought that word retracts;
Fancies and follies play , but passion ACTS :
Passion! the spring , that all life's wheels employs,
Winds up the working thought —and heightens joys.
Passion! the great man's guide , the poor man's blame ;
The soldier's lawrel, and the sigher's flame.
Passion! that leads the grave, impels the gay,

FOR AN ANTIQUE CASKET, CONTAINING A RING. A.D . 1500

From India came this little bande
Of emeralde and rubie stone,
A spelle that sparklinge on thine hande,
Should tell thee gentle tales of one,
Whose daye and nighte were memorie,
H ELENE ! of loveliness and thee.

A spelle was gravenne in its golde,
A spirit fixede, without his winges;
To H ELENE once it would have tolde
More than was ever tolde by ringes:

But now, mie dreame 's alle past and gone,

Three ancient Negroes gathered at the old Cross Roads,
An African, West Indian and American;
They talked of separation days of slavery,
And pledged ne'er more divided be in world of bravery.

" The tricks of olden times are ended now, " they said,
And they must show united front to one and all;
" No more will distance keep us down or ranks divide, "
" So help our God! " the three did swear and all decide.

A bloody slave of sire made in ignorance,
Is sure not binding now, as then, they all agreed:

If aught, sweet charity! can make thee shine,
With added lustre, and a ray divine,
'Tis when thy pity, un-appropriate, flows,
And joy-touch'd hearts adopt the stranger's woes.
'Tis, when the graceful giver seems to pay ;
When want , and blush , at once, are charm'd away.
'Tis, when relief's kind face comes dress'd, in smiles ,
And no cold insult, where it saves—reviles .
Where aided anguish feels no bite of shame,
And modest mercy wears but friendship's name.
Small gifts grow large, which chearful hands impart,

The Bread of life is gift of God to man,
The blood of Christ is solace grand:
To eat the food of Love Divine,
Brings hope that leads to glory's land.

The glorious Sacrament of Christ
Is tonic to the soul each day:
A ransom in the Blood of love,
Is gain for those who humbly pray.

As sons of Ham we eat the Bread,
And drink the Holy Christian Blood:
Our hope is in the Grace of God,
For sufferings thus understood.

Our day will come with showers true,
For God on evil things will frown:
Almighty love is all we claim,

Pitying, we sigh'd, to see th'uprooting spade,
Boldly intrenching, fall your fav'rite shade!
Sad Silvia , long, with silent sorrow, strove,
At last, thus loudly, wail'd her prostrate grove:

 Ah! Doctor, when you planted for delight,
Why did you fail to search foundations , right?
Shoot, else, th' aspiring branches ne'er so gay;
Pale disappointment grows, as fast, as they.
Why mourn I then?—'tis vain, 'tis causeless grief;
And thus reflexion comes, and brings relief.

 Common, in life, your fate, ye hapless trees!

George S. Schuyler is a joke;
His brain must be like sausage pork,
Or he must be a “nutty” ass
To bray at those he cannot pass:
The man, if man he is, is crude;
His very looks is mighty rude,
He feeds on what his masters say,
And acts like monkey all at play.

He writes his soppy stuff each week,
The stuff of journalistic freak:
No one should worry over him,
But pass him with a good “boof, bim,”
A Negro man he claims to be,
And that puts us up on a tree:
If he should look at his old face,
He'd see the libel of his race.

I

Brother, brother, why left they you alone?

Did they not know —
Not know thee?
But alas, none knew
But me!

Yet, had they known,
You had not now been so,
Perhaps. But you
Are dead.
And shall I raise my voice unto the dead —
Dead brother, shall I deck your grave with songs,
And crown your head
With words, where silence now belongs?

II

I knew it all;
Yes, and I knew it well.
I conquer'd, but
I know not whether it were worth the fight.

By night,
When every door was shut,

Baby roused its father's ire,
By a cold and formal lisp,
So he placed it on the fire,
And reduced it to a crisp.
Mother said, " Oh, stop a bit!
This is over doing it!