finds that abode That lies at the end of the vanishing road.
Service
When we count out our gold at the end of the day, And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way, Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then Save the love we have shown to the children of men?
To the Martyred
O sacrificial throng whose lives Build up the yawning deeps O’er which we pass reflectively To broader lights and sweeps.
Know, that we hold with reverence The signal price you paid, And all our trophies, one by one, Upon your bier are laid.
To John Brown
We lift a song to you across the day Which bears through travailing the seed you spread In terror’s morning, flung with fingers red In blood of tyrants, who debarred the way To Freedom’s dawning. Hearken to the lay Chanted by dusky millions, soft and mellow-keyed, In minor measure, Martyr of the Freed, A song of memory across the day.
Truth cannot perish though the earth erase The royal signals, leaving not a trace, And time still burgeoneth the fertile seed, Though he is crucified who wrought the deed: O Alleghanies, fold him to your breast Until the judgment! Sentinel his rest!
To Abraham Lincoln
Within the temple of our heart Your sacred memory dwells apart, Where ceaselessly a censor swings Alight with fragrant offerings; Nor time, nor tide, nor circumstance Can dim this grand remembrance, And all the blood of Afric hue Beats in one mighty tide—for you!
To William Stanley Braithwaite
When time has rocked the present age to sleep, And lighter hearts are lilting to the sway Of rhythmic poesy’s enhanced lay, Recurring sequences shall fitly keep Your fame eternal, as they lightly sweep Aside the curtain to that potent day When you in primal fervor led the way Unto Apollo’s narrow winding steep.
None shall forget your travail, utter, sore, That oped the golden avenue of song, When, like a knight, so errantly you bore The mantled children valiantly along, Their homage as a rising incense sweet Shall permeate the heavens at your feet!
To W. E. B. DuBois—Scholar
Grandly isolate as the god of day— Blazing an orbit through the dank and gloom Of misty morning, far and fair you loom, Flooding the dimness with your golden ray— Cheering the mantled on the thorn-set way, Teaching of Faith and Hope o’er the tomb, Where both, though buried, spring to newer bloom— Strengthened and sweet from the mound of decay.
Soft! strains of Sanctus we lift on the air, Ere Nunc Dimittus at last shall be sung, Sing we our Sanctus to fitly declare Blessings that well up from hearts sorely wrung.
Lead, lead us on o’er the furthermost stair— Light of our impotence! Joy of our tongue!
To Ridgely Torrence—Playwright
All hail! fair vistas break upon the view, The gates swing wide and free with clanging sound, Rejoice! a mighty champion is found, Son of the morning, prescient and true. Upon the threshold of a cycle new He stands, and sentinels its virgin ground, Seer in his poet-visioning profound, Presaging vaster reaches—skies more blue.
Lifting their misty glances to the day, The prismic children pass the erstwhile bars, Exultant, swiftly, boundingly they stray, Awhile forgetful of deep, hidden scars Thus, as a golden legend time shall tell Of him who wrought so mightily and well!
To Richard R. Wright—Instructor
Son of a race, whose dusky visage shows The heel of fortune, those who walk unfree Though cradled in the hold of liberty, Whose shackled spirit every gamut knows Of Hate’s cadenza, through whose warm blood flows The royal ransom of love’s dynasty, Scion of these, he strides to meet his foes.
Erect, unbending, note his sable brow, The rugged furrows where deep feelings plough, The step of vigor and the noble air, The subtle halo of his wintry hair, Up from the furnace of the Earth’s red sea A man is fashioned for the years to be!
To Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, Upon Hearing His
Strange to a sensing motherhood, Loved as a toy—not understood, Child of a dusky father, bold; Frail little captive, exiled, cold.
Oft when the brooding planets sleep, You through their drowsy empires creep, Flinging your arms through their empty space, Seeking the breast of an unknown face.
To Emilie Bigelow Hapgood—Philanthropist
Far from the seried ranks you sway, Firm in your own believing In that frail brotherhood, who stray Sore anguishing, sore grieving. Such hands as yours, adown the years Enchain a faith unbroken, They stay the dreary waste of tears, And lift to Hope a token!
To Henry Lincoln Johnson—Lawyer
Quite firmly did you stand, and unafraid Before that haughty bar that sought to hold You fettered, lest you strengthen and grow bold To break a clearing through that fetid glade Which their benighted prejudice had made; They taunted you with darkling hints of gold, Preferring you were bought as you had sold, They weaved their webs like spiders in the shade.
But as a giant in the falling night Of storm, you forged afore with ruthless tread, To offer up your heart’s blood in the fight, Forgetting self, unmindful, unafraid, Nor pausing until thrice acclaimed the right To rally in the tents of those you led.
To Mary Church Turrell—Lecturer
A pioneer, she blazed a trail of light Through murky shadows, with a lithesome tread Unto those forums, where Hope’s beams are shed: Straight through the mighty cordon of the night, Rapt with a vision, soul-born, clear and bright, Leaving the South of frigid wrong, she sped Into the North, where hearts glow warm instead, A people’s tragedy to there recite.
Hope’s liquid pipings lift their tender lay, Morning is waking, flushed with rosy gleam, Night with its shadow winds with yesterday Adown the world-way as an inky stream, Seed time and harvest deftly interplay, And Life’s fruition is its vital dream!
To May Howard Jackson—Sculptor
You saw the vision in the face of clay, And fixed it through the magic of a hand Obedient unto the will’s command, In forms impervious to Time’s decay: Historian of bloods that interplay Confusedly within a cryptic land, You’ve chiseled, and your work of art shall stand To gem the archives of a better day.
Alone, far from the touch of kindred mind, You’ve mounted with a grim, determined zeal, Despite environment austere, unkind, Or frozen-fingers clenched to your
