ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXV, Issue 57, 8 March 1913, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

FIFTY YEARS OF EMANCIPATION. In connection with the fiftieth anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, the New York Times _ publishes a poem by one of the emancipated race, from which we select a few stanzas. It Is an eloquent plea for the rights of the black man, and an exhortation to courage and patience. 0 brother mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sjveeps our ken. Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand. Struck off our bonds and made us men. This land is ours by right of birth, This land is ours by right of toil ; We helped to turn its virgin earth, Our eweat is in ite fruitful soil. Where once the tangled forest stood, Where flourished once rank weed and thorn, Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood, The cotton white, the yellow corn. To gain these fruits that have been earned, To hold these fields that have been woB, Our arms have strained, our backs have burned, Bent bare beneath a ruthless eun. That Banner, which is now the type Of viotory on field and flood—; Remember, its first crimson stripe Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood. And never yet has come the cryWhen that fair flag has been assailed— For men to do, for men to die, That we have faltered or have failed. Then should we speak but servile words, Or shall we hang our heade i in shame ? Stand back of new-come foreign hordes, And fear our heritage to claim? No ! Stand erect and without fear, And for our foes let this suffloeiWe've bought a rightful 6onship here,. And we have more than paid the price. Because the tongues of GarrisonAnd Phillips now are cold m death, Think you their work can be undone? Or quenched the fires lit by their breath? Think you that John Brown's spirit etops ? That Loveioy was but ldljr slam ? Or do you think those precious drops From Lincoln's heart were Bh«d in vain ? That for which . millions prayed and sighed, That for which tens of thousands fought, For which so many freely diedi God cannot let it cjome to naught. —James W. Johnson. PAINTED ON A FAN. Dear little lady, dressed in colours bright, Always pleasant, always smiling, such a happy sight ! # Funny little lady, painted on a fan, Little, twisted, bowing lady of Japan! My I how smooth yot»r hair is rolled, very smooth and neat; t Peeping t out beaeaih that ' 6kirfc, eueh tiny little feet; Great wide sleeves, and parasol, to shield if they can— ( Pretty, modest, quiet little lady of Japan I Cherry-Blosspmu, pink and eweet, dancing in the air; Just one tiny little spray captured in your hair. Purple pale wistaria, climbing up and down Through the graceful flowing folds of my lady's gown. Would not an inviting cup of amber, steaming tea' Bring you tripping hare to sup a littl« while with .me ?4? 4 Tranquil, queer, illusive little lady of Japan, How I wish that you were not just painted on a fan 1 — Alice Hartish. Lippincott's Magazine. CHANSON. Regret? Because the'kies Was but a kiss,, - An instant's bliss, That left me this — Eyes wet? Forget ? Because pale pain Is ever fain To follow plain In rapture' 6 train, I fret? Not yet. While the old thrill Can touch me still No good or ill Can change my will, Cosette. — Leolyn Louise Everett. N.Y. Life. WISDOM. 1 know what the wild stare say now, And what the seven still planet* say, And why the oak trees mourn and bow Along the water edge all day. I know the words of the sea-song, And what the wheeling birds Would find That wail and circle ail night long Through the eight crossways of the wind. Oh, I am lonely! Dim the crowd And desolate the friended way. I know now what winds cry aloud And what the seven still planets say. — Margaret Widdemer. Craftsman. ;