I hear you croon a little lullaby,
I see you press his little lips to yours,
Again old scenes come to my memory,
As if Love’s stream had gained the long lost shores;
As if the tidal wave of human good
Had thrown o’er me the mantle of control;
As if the beauty of true motherhood
Had gained the premise of my common soul.
The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,
The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;
You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,
Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.
In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—
The power to make, the power to break apart;
The power to lift, the power again to lower
That burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart.
And am I speaking as in hapless rhymes
Of things at least that may not come to pass?
Or is it not the spirit of the times
All things that savour power to amass?
Canst thou not see within thine own pure soul
That which thy Race and all the world awaits,
The master-leader who will reach the goal
And hew with sword of flame the city gates?
O Negro mother, from the dust arise,
Take up your task with grace and fortitude,
Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,
But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.
Create anew the captains of the past;
Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,
That when the mighty quest is gained at last,
O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.
Ben E. Burrell.
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
You ’mind me of the winter’s eve
When low the sinking sun
Casts soft bright rays upon the snow
And day, now almost done,
In silence deep prepares to leave,
And calmly waits the signal “Go.”
Your eyes are faded vestal lights
That once the hearth illumed,
Where vestal virgins vigil kept,
And budding virtue bloomed:
Like stars that beam on summer nights,
Your eyes, by joy and sorrow swept.
Asleep, one night, an angel kissed
Your hair and on the morn
The raven threads were silv’ry gray;
The angel fair had borne
Your youth away ere it you missed
And left old age to bless your way.
Smile on, for when you smile, it seems
I cannot do a wrong;
Your smiles go with me all the while
And make life one sweet song;
And oft at night my troubled dream
Grows gay at thoughts of your bright smile.
Dark Africa with Caucasian blood
To tinge your veins combined,
Your proud head bowed to slavery’s thrall,
Your hands to toil consigned.
The Lord of hosts becalmed the flood,
The God Omnipotent o’er all.