English

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:

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:

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,

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,

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!

When troubled in spirit, when weary of life,
When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife,
When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste,
And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste,
Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer,
With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear.
No pity I ask, and no counsel I need,
But bring me, O, bring me, my gallant young steed,
With his high arched neck, and his nostril spread wide,
His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride!

I hate the knave whose private life
Is noted for its lack of morals,
Who starves his children, beats his wife,
Who fights and drinks and quarrels;
But oh! I view more sternly far
(How hostile grow my eyes of hazel!)
The rogue who suffers from catarrh —
The kind that's known as " nasal " !
With looks of loathing I behold
The wretched man who's got a cold!

Though criminals I can forgive,
And gladly suffer fools who bore me,
At peace with him I cannot live
Who scatters microbes o'er me!