Poems; Iola Leroy

He stood before the sons of Heth, And bowed his sorrowing head;

"I've come," he said, "to buy a place Where I may lay my dead.

"I am a stranger in your land, My home has lost its light; Grant me a place where I may lay My dead away from sight."

Then tenderly the sons of Heth Gazed on the mourner's face, And said, "Oh, Prince, amid our dead, Choose thou her resting-place.

"The sepulchres of those we love, We place at thy command; Against the plea thy grief hath made We close not heart nor hand."

The patriarch rose and bowed his head, And said, "One place I crave; 'Tis at the end of Ephron's field, And called Machpelah's cave.

"Entreat him that he sell to me For her last sleep that cave; I do not ask for her I loved The freedom of a grave."

The son of Zohar answered him, "Hearken, my lord, to me; Before our sons, the field and cave I freely give to thee."

"I will not take it as a gift," The grand old man then said; "I pray thee let me buy the place Where I may lay my dead."

And with the promise in his heart, His seed should own that land, He gave the shekels for the field He took from Ephron's hand.

And saw afar the glorious day His chosen seed should tread, The soil where he in sorrow lay His loved and cherished dead.

She came from the East a fair, young bride, With a light and a bounding heart, To find in the distant West a home With her husband to make a start.

He builded his cabin far away, Where the prairie flower bloomed wild; Her love made lighter all his toil, And joy and hope around him smiled.

She plied her hands to life's homely tasks, And helped to build his fortunes up; While joy and grief, like bitter and sweet, Were mingled and mixed in her cup.

He sowed in his fields of golden grain, All the strength of his manly prime; Nor music of birds, nor brooks, nor bees, Was as sweet as the dollar's chime.

She toiled and waited through weary years For the fortune that came at length; But toil and care and hope deferred, Had stolen and wasted her strength.

The cabin changed to a stately home, Rich carpets were hushing her tread; But light was fading from her eye, And the bloom from her cheek had fled.

Slower and heavier grew her step, While his gold and his gains increased;

But his proud domain had not the charm Of her humble home in the East.

Within her eye was a restless light, And a yearning that never ceased, A longing to see the dear old home She had left in the distant East.

A longing to clasp her mother's hand, And nestle close to her heart, And to feel the heavy cares of life Like the sun-kissed shadows depart.

Her husband was adding field to field, And new wealth to his golden store; And little thought the shadow of death Was entering in at his door.

He had no line to sound the depths Of her tears repressed and unshed; Nor dreamed 'mid plenty a human heart Could be starving, but not for bread.

The hungry heart was stilled at last; Its restless, baffled yearning ceased. A lonely man sat by the bier Of a corpse that was going East.

From Rome's palaces and villas Gaily issued forth a throng; From her humbler habitations Moved a human tide along.

Haughty dames and blooming maidens, Men who knew not mercy's sway, Thronged into the Coliseum On that Roman holiday.

From the lonely wilds of Asia, From her jungles far away, From the distant torrid regions, Rome had gathered beasts of prey.

Lions restless, roaring, rampant, Tigers with their stealthy tread, Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery, Met in conflict wild and dread.

Fierce and fearful was the carnage Of the maddened beasts of prey, As they fought and rent each other Urged by men more fierce than they.

Till like muffled thunders breaking On a vast and distant shore,

Fainter grew the yells of tigers, And the lions' dreadful roar.

On the crimson-stained arena Lay the victims of the fight; Eyes which once had glared with anguish, Lost in death their baleful light.

Then uprose the gladiators Armed for conflict unto death, Waiting for the prefect's signal, Cold and stern with bated breath.

"Ave Caesar, morituri, Te, salutant," rose the cry From the lips of men ill-fated, Doomed to suffer and to die.

Then began the dreadful contest, Lives like chaff were thrown away, Rome with all her pride and power Butchered for a holiday.

Eagerly the crowd were waiting, Loud the clashing sabres rang; When between the gladiators All unarmed a hermit sprang.

"Cease your bloodshed," cried the hermit, "On this carnage place your ban;" But with flashing swords they answered, "Back unto your place, old man."

From their path the gladiators Thrust the strange intruder back, Who between their hosts advancing Calmly parried their attack.

All undaunted by their weapons, Stood the old heroic man; While a maddened cry of anger Through the vast assembly ran.

"Down with him," cried out the people, As with thumbs unbent they glared, Till the prefect gave the signal That his life should not be spared.

Men grew wild with wrathful passion, When his fearless words were said Cruelly they fiercely showered Stones on his devoted head.

Bruised and bleeding fell the hermit, Victor in that hour of strife;

Gaining in his death a triumph That he could not win in life.

Had he uttered on the forum Struggling thoughts within him born, Men had jeered his words as madness, But his deed they could not scorn.

Not in vain had been his courage, Nor for naught his daring deed; From his grave his mangled body Did for wretched captives plead.

From that hour Rome, grown more thoughtful, Ceased her sport in human gore; And into her Coliseum Gladiators came no more.

Let me make the songs for the people, Songs for the old and young; Songs to stir like a battle-cry Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres, For carnage nor for strife;

But songs to thrill the hearts of men With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary, Amid life's fever and fret, Till hearts shall relax their tension, And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children, Before their footsteps stray, Sweet anthems of love and duty, To float o'er life's highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged, When shadows dim their sight; Of the bright and restful mansions, Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary, Needs music, pure and strong, To hush the jangle and discords Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow, Till war and crime shall cease; And the hearts of men grown tender Girdle the world with peace.

The dying words of Goethe.

"Light! more light! the shadows deepen, And my life is ebbing low, Throw the windows widely open: Light! more light! before I go.

"Softly let the balmy sunshine Play around my dying bed, E'er the dimly lighted valley I with lonely feet must tread.

"Light! more light! for Death is weaving Shadows 'round my waning sight, And I fain would gaze upon him Through a stream of earthly light."

Not for greater gifts of genius; Not for thoughts more grandly bright, All the dying poet whispers Is a prayer for light, more light.

Heeds he not the gathered laurels, Fading slowly from his sight; All the poet's aspirations Centre in that prayer for light.

Gracious Saviour, when life's day-dreams Melt and vanish from the sight, May our dim and longing vision Then be blessed with light, more light.

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian Who weeps in her desolate home. You can mourn o'er the exile of Russia From kindred and friends doomed to roam.

You can pity the men who have woven From passion and appetite chains To coil with a terrible tension Around their heartstrings and brains.

You can sorrow o'er little children Disinherited from their birth, The wee waifs and toddlers neglected, Robbed of sunshine, music and mirth.

For beasts you have gentle compassion; Your mercy and pity they share. For the wretched, outcast and fallen You have tenderness, love and care.

But hark! from our Southland are floating Sobs of anguish, murmurs of pain, And women heart-stricken are weeping Over their tortured and their slain.

On their brows the sun has left traces; Shrink not from their sorrow in scorn. When they entered the threshold of being The children of a King were born.

Each comes as a guest to the table The hand of our God has outspread, To fountains that ever leap upward, To share in the soil we all tread.

When ye plead for the wrecked and fallen, The exile from far-distant shores, Remember that men are still wasting Life's crimson around your own doors.

Have ye not, oh, my favored sisters, Just a plea, a prayer or a tear, For mothers who dwell 'neath the shadows Of agony, hatred and fear?

Men may tread down the poor and lowly, May crush them in anger and hate,

But surely the mills of God's justice Will grind out the grist of their fate.

Oh, people sin-laden and guilty, So lusty and proud in your prime, The sharp sickles of God's retribution Will gather your harvest of crime.

Weep not, oh my well-sheltered sisters, Weep not for the Negro alone, But weep for your sons who must gather The crops which their fathers have sown.

Go read on the tombstones of nations Of chieftains who masterful trod, The sentence which time has engraven, That they had forgotten their God.

'Tis the judgment of God that men reap The tares which in madness they sow, Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime, And Sin is the consort of Woe.

"Build me a nation," said the Lord. The distant nations heard the word, Build me a nation true and strong, Bar out the old world's hate and wrong; For men had traced with blood and tears The trail of weary wasting years, And torn and bleeding martyrs trod Through fire and torture up to God.

While in the hollow of his hand God hid the secret of our land, Men warred against their fiercest foes, And kingdoms fell and empires rose, Till, weary of the old world strife, Men sought for broader, freer life, And plunged into the ocean's foam To find another, better home.

And, like a vision fair and bright The new world broke upon their sight. Men grasped the prize, grew proud and strong, And cursed the land with crime and wrong. The Indian stood despoiled of lands, The Negro bound with servile bands, Oppressed through weary years of toil, His blood and tears bedewed the soil.

Then God arose in dreadful wrath, And judgment streamed around his path; His hand the captive's fetters broke, His lightnings shattered every yoke. As Israel through the Red sea trod, Led by the mighty hand of God, They passed to freedom through a flood, Whose every wave and surge was blood.

And slavery, with its crime and shame, Went down in wrath and blood and flame The land was billowed-o'er with graves Where men had lived and died as slaves. Four and thirty years—what change since then! Beings once chattles now are men; Over the gloom of slavery's night, Has flashed the dawn of freedom's light.

To-day no mother with anguish wild Kneels and implores that her darling child Shall not be torn from her bleeding heart, With its quivering tendrils rent apart. The father may soothe his child to sleep, And watch his slumbers calm and deep. No tyrant's tread will disturb his rest Where freedom dwells as a welcome guest.

His walls may be bare of pictured grace, His fireside the lowliest place; But the wife and children sheltered there Are his to defend and guard with care. Where haughty tyrants once bore rule Are ballot-box and public school. The old slave-pen of former days Gives place to fanes of prayer and praise.

To-night we would bring our meed of praise To noble friends of darker days; The men and women crowned with light, The true and tried in our gloomy night. To Lundy, whose heart was early stirred To speak for freedom an earnest word; To Garrison, valiant, true and strong, Whose face was as flint against our wrong.

And Phillips, the peerless, grand and brave, A tower of strength to the outcast slave. Earth has no marble too pure and white To enrol his name in golden light. Our Douglass, too, with his massive brain, Who plead our cause with his broken chain, And helped to hurl from his bloody seat The curse that writhed and died at his feet.

And Governor Andrew, who, looking back, Saw none he despised, though poor and black; And Harriet Beecher, whose glowing pen Corroded the chains of fettered men. To-night with greenest laurels we'll crown North Elba's grave where sleeps John Brown, Who made the gallows an altar high, And showed how a brave old man could die. And Lincoln, our martyred President, Who returned to his God with chains he had rent.* And Sumner, amid death's icy chill, Leaving to Hoar his Civil Rights Bill. And let us remember old underground, With all her passengers northward bound, The train that ran till it ceased to pay, With all her dividends given away. Nor let it be said that we have forgot The women who stood with Lucretia Mott; Nor her who to the world was known By the simple name of Lucy stone. A tribute unto a host of others Who knew that men though black were brothers, Who battled against our nation's sin, Whose graves are thick whose ranks are thin. Oh, people chastened in the fire, To nobler, grander things aspire;

In the new era of your life, Bring love for hate, and peace for strife; Upon your hearts this vow record That ye will build unto the Lord A nobler future, true and grand, To strengthen, crown and bless the land. A higher freedom ye may gain Than that which comes from a riven chain; Freedom your native land to bless With peace, and love and righteousness, As dreams that are past, a tale all told, Are the days when men were bought and sold; Now God be praised from sea to sea, Our flag floats o'er a country free.

Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow Through our hearts in sadness ran When we felt in one sad hour That the world had lost a man.

He had clasped unto his bosom The sad fortunes of his land— Held the cause for which he perished With a firm, unfaltering hand.

On his lips the name of freedom Fainted with his latest breath. Cuba Libre was his watchword Passing through the gates of death.

With the light of God around us, Why this agony and strife? With the cross of Christ before us, Why this fearful waste of life?

Must the pathway unto freedom Ever mark a crimson line, And the eyes of wayward mortals Always close to light divine?

Must the hearts of fearless valor Fail 'mid crime and cruel wrong, When the world has read of heroes Brave and earnest, true and strong?

Men to stay the floods of sorrow Sweeping round each war-crushed heart; Men to say to strife and carnage— From our world henceforth depart.

God of peace and God of nations, Haste! oh, haste the glorious day

When the reign of our Redeemer O'er the world shall have its sway.

When the swords now blood encrusted, Spears that reap the battle field, Shall be changed to higher service, Helping earth rich harvests yield.

Where the widow weeps in anguish, And the orphan bows his head, Grant that peace and joy and gladness May like holy angels tread.

Pity, oh, our God the sorrow Of thy world from thee astray, Lead us from the paths of madness Unto Christ the living way.

Year by year the world grows weary 'Neath its weight of sin and strife, Though the hands once pierced and bleeding Offer more abundant life.

May the choral song of angels Heard upon Judea's plain Sound throughout the earth the tidings Of that old and sweet refrain.