Poems; Iola Leroy

A wail in the palace, a wail in the hut, The midnight is shivering with dread, And Egypt wakes up with a shriek and a sob To mourn for her first-born and dead.

In the morning glad voices greeted the light, As the Nile with its splendor was flushed; At midnight silence had melted their tones, And their music forever is hushed.

In the morning the princes of palace and court To the heir of the kingdom bowed down; ’Tis midnight, pallid and stark in his shroud He dreams not of kingdom or crown.

As a monument blasted and blighted by God, Through the ages proud Pharaoh shall stand, All seamed with the vengeance and scarred with the wrath That leaped from God’s terrible hand.

They journeyed on from Zuphim’s sea until They reached the sacred mount and heard the solemn Decalogue. The mount was robed in blackness,— Heavy and deep the shadows lay; the thunder Crashed and roared upon the air; the lightning Leaped from crag to crag; God’s fearful splendor Flowed around, and Sinai quaked and shuddered To its base, and there did God proclaim Unto their listening ears, the great, the grand, The central and the primal truth of all The universe—the unity of God. Only one God,— This truth received into the world’s great life, Not as an idle dream nor a speculative thing, But as a living, vitalizing thought, Should bind us closer to our God and link us With our fellow man, the brothers and co-heirs With Christ, the elder brother of our race. Before this truth let every blade of war Grow dull, and slavery, cowering at the light, Skulk from the homes of men; instead Of war bring peace and freedom, love and joy, And light for man, instead of bondage, whips And chains. Only one God! the strongest hands Should help the weak who bend before the blasts Of life, because if God is only one Then we are the children of his mighty hand, And when we best serve man, we also serve Our God. Let haughty rulers learn that men Of humblest birth and lowliest lot have Rights as sacred and divine as theirs, and they Who fence in leagues of earth by bonds and claims And title deeds, forgetting land and water, Air and light are God’s own gifts and heritage For man—who throw their selfish lives between God’s sunshine and the shivering poor— Have never learned the wondrous depth, nor scaled The glorious height of this great central truth, Around which clusters all the holiest faiths Of earth. The thunder died upon the air, The lightning ceased its livid play, the smoke And darkness died away in clouds, as soft And fair as summer wreaths that lie around The setting sun, and Sinai stood a bare And rugged thing among the sacred scenes Of earth.

It was a weary thing to bear the burden Of that restless and rebellious race. With Sinai’s thunders almost crashing in their ears, They made a golden calf, and in the desert Spread an idol’s feast, and sung the merry songs They had heard when Mizraim’s songs bowed down before Their vain and heathen gods; and thus for many years Did Moses bear the evil manners of his race— Their angry murmurs, fierce regrets and strange Forgetfulness of God. Born slaves, they did not love The freedom of the wild more than their pots of flesh. And pleasant savory things once gathered From the gardens of the Nile. If slavery only laid its weight of chains Upon the weary, aching limbs, e’en then It were a curse; but when it frets through nerve And flesh and eats into the weary soul, Oh then it is a thing for every human Heart to loathe, and this was Israel’s fate, For when the chains were shaken from their limbs They failed to strike the impress from their souls While he who’d basked beneath the radiance Of a throne, ne’er turned regretful eyes upon The past, nor sighed to grasp again the pleasures Once resigned; but the saddest trial was To see the light and joy fade from their faces When the faithless spies spread through their camp Their ill report; and when the people wept In hopeless unbelief and turned their faces Egyptward, and asked a captain from their bands To lead them back where they might bind anew Their broken chains, when God arose and shut The gates of promise on their lives, and left Their bones to bleach beneath Arabia’s desert sands But though they slumbered in the wild, they died With broader freedom on their lips, and for their Little ones did God reserve the heritage So rudely thrust aside.

His work was done; his blessing lay Like precious ointment on his people’s head, And God’s great peace was resting on his soul. His life had been a lengthened sacrifice, A thing of deep devotion to his race, Since first he turned his eyes on Egypt’s gild And glow, and clasped their fortunes in his hand And held them with a firm and constant grasp. But now his work was done; his charge was laid In Joshua’s hand, and men of younger blood Were destined to possess the land and pass Through Jordan to the other side. He too Had hoped to enter there—to tread the soil Made sacred by the memories of his Kindred dead, and rest till life’s calm close beneath The sheltering vines and stately palms of that Fair land; that hope had colored all his life’s Young dreams and sent its mellowed flushes o’er His later years; but God’s decree was otherwise. And so he bowed his meekened soul in calm Submission to the word, which bade him climb To Nebo’s highest peak, and view the pleasant land From Jordan’s swells unto the calmer ripples Of the tideless sea, then die with all its Loveliness in sight. As he passed from Moab’s grassy vale to climb The rugged mount, the people stood in mournful groups, Some, with quivering lips and tearful eyes, Reaching out unconscious hands, as if to stay His steps and keep him ever at their side, while Others gazed with reverent awe upon The calm and solemn beauty on his aged brow, The look of loving trust and lofty faith Still beaming from an eye that neither care Nor time had dimmed. As he passed upward, tender Blessings, earnest prayers and sad farewells rose On each wave of air, then died in one sweet Murmur of regretful love; and Moses stood Alone on Nebo’s mount. Alone! not one Of all that mighty throng who had trod with him In triumph through the parted flood was there. Aaron had died in Hor, with son and brother By his side; and Miriam too was gone. But kindred hands had made her grave, and Kadesh Held her dust. But he was all alone; nor wife Nor child was there to clasp in death his hand, And bind around their bleeding hearts the precious Parting words. And yet he was not all alone, For God’s great presence flowed around his path And stayed him in that solemn hour.

He stood upon the highest peak of Nebo, And saw the Jordan chafing through its gorges, Its banks made bright by scarlet blooms And purple blossoms. The placid lakes And emerald meadows, the snowy crest Of distant mountains, the ancient rocks That dripped with honey, the hills all bathed In light and beauty; the shady groves And peaceful vistas, the vines opprest With purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crowned Green and golden, the pomegranates with crimson Blushes, the olives with their darker clusters, Rose before him like a vision, full of beauty And delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscape Till it faded from his view, and the wing Of death’s sweet angel hovered o’er the mountain’s Crest, and he heard his garments rustle through The watches of the night. Then another, fairer, vision Broke upon his longing gaze; ’twas the land Of crystal fountains, love and beauty, joy And light, for the pearly gates flew open, And his ransomed soul went in. And when morning O’er the mountain fringed each crag and peak with light, Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touched His eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.

Oh never on that mountain Was seen a lovelier sight Than the troupe of fair young angels That gathered ’round the dead. With gentle hands they bore him That bright and shining train, From Nebo’s lonely mountain To sleep in Moab’s vale. But they sung no mournful dirges No solemn requiems said, And the soft wave of their pinions Made music as they trod. But no one heard them passing, None saw their chosen grave; It was the angels secret Where Moses should be laid. And when the grave was finished They trod with golden sandals Above the sacred spot, And the brightest, fairest flowers Sprang up beneath their tread. Nor broken turf, nor hillock Did e’er reveal that grave, And truthful lips have never said We know where he is laid.

In a lovely garden, filled with fair and blooming flowers, stood a beautiful rose tree. It was the centre of attraction, and won the admiration of every eye; its beauteous flowers were sought to adorn the bridal wreath and deck the funeral bier. It was a thing of joy and beauty, and its earth mission was a blessing. Kind hands plucked its flowers to gladden the chamber of sickness and adorn the prisoner’s lonely cell. Young girls wore them ’mid their clustering curls, and grave brows relaxed when they gazed upon their wondrous beauty. Now the rose was very kind and generous hearted, and, seeing how much joy she dispensed, wished that every flower could only be a rose, and like herself have the privilege of giving joy to the children of men; and while she thus mused, a bright and lovely spirit approached her and said, “I know thy wishes and will grant thy desires. Thou shalt have power to change every flower in the garden to thine own likeness. When the soft winds come wooing thy fairest buds and flowers, thou shalt breathe gently o’er thy sister plants, and beneath thy influence they shall change to beautiful roses.” The rose tree bowed her head in silent gratitude to the gentle being who had granted her this wondrous power. All night the stars bent over her from their holy homes above, but she scarcely heeded their vigils. The gentle dews nestled in her arms and kissed the cheeks of her daughters; but she hardly noticed them;—she was waiting for the soft airs to awaken and seek her charming abode. At length the gentle airs greeted her, and she hailed them with a joyous welcome, and then commenced her work of change. The first object that met her vision was a tulip superbly arrayed in scarlet and gold. When she was aware of the intention of her neighbor, her cheeks flamed with anger, her eyes flashed indignantly, and she haughtily refused to change her proud robes for the garb the rose tree had prepared for her; but she could not resist the spell that was upon her, and she passively permitted the garments of the rose to enfold her yielding limbs. The verbenas saw the change that had fallen upon the tulip and dreading that a similar fate awaited them, crept closely to the ground, and, while tears gathered in their eyes, they felt a change pass through their sensitive frames, and instead of gentle verbenas they were blushing roses. She breathed upon the sleepy poppies; a deeper slumber fell upon their senses, and when they awoke, they too had changed to bright and beautiful roses. The heliotrope read her fate in the lot of her sisters, and, bowing her fair head in silent sorrow, gracefully submitted to her unwelcome destiny. The violets, whose mission was to herald the approach of spring, were averse to losing their identity. “Surely,” said they, “we have a mission as well as the rose;” but with heavy hearts they saw themselves changed like their sister plants. The snow drop drew around her her robes of virgin white; she would not willingly exchange them for the most brilliant attire that ever decked a flower’s form; to her they were the emblems of purity and innocence; but the rose tree breathed upon her, and with a bitter sob she reluctantly consented to the change. The dahlias lifted their heads proudly and defiantly; they dreaded the change, but scorned submission; they loved the fading year, and wished to spread around his dying couch their brightest, fairest flowers; but vainly they struggled, the doom was upon them, and they could not escape. A modest lily that grew near the rose tree shrank instinctively from her; but it was in vain, and with tearful eyes and trembling limbs she yielded, while a quiver of agony convulsed her frame. The marygolds sighed submissively and made no remonstrance. The garden pinks grew careless, and submitted without a murmur, while other flowers, less fragrant or less fair, paled with sorrow or reddened with anger; but the spell of the rose tree was upon them, and every flower was changed by her power, and that once beautiful garden was overrun with roses; it had become a perfect wilderness of roses; the garden had changed, but that variety which had lent it so much beauty was gone, and men grew tired of roses, for they were everywhere. The smallest violet peeping faintly from its bed would have been welcome, the humblest primrose would have been hailed with delight,—even a dandelion would have been a harbinger of joy; and when the rose saw that the children of men were dissatisfied with the change she had made, her heart grew sad within her, and she wished the power had never been given her to change her sister plants to roses, and tears came into her eyes as she mused, when suddenly a rough wind shook her drooping form, and she opened her eyes and found that she had only been dreaming. But an important lesson had been taught; she had learned to respect the individuality of her sister flowers, and began to see that they, as well as herself, had their own missions,—some to gladden the eye with their loveliness and thrill the soul with delight; some to transmit fragrance to the air; others to breathe a refining influence upon the world; some had power to lull the aching brow and soothe the weary heart and brain into forgetfulness; and of those whose mission she did not understand, she wisely concluded there must be some object in their creation, and resolved to be true to her own earth mission, and lay her fairest buds and flowers upon the altars of love and truth.