So long but outlives a smile and A silken gown;

But I can wait the seven of moons, Or years I spare, Hoarding the heart’s plenty, nor spend A drop, nor share—

Sure and strong, mate for mate, such Love as culture fears;

Love is but desire and thy purpose fulfillment;        40 I, thy King, so say!

love is both bread and wine

The fiery wattles of the sun startle into flame The marbled towers of Shushan: So at each day’s wane, two peers—the one in Heaven, the other on earth—welcome with their        15 Splendor the peerless beauty of the Queen

I am tired of civilization

Pluck the stars out of the heavens. The stars mark our destiny. The stars marked my destiny.

It is better to die than it is to grow up and find out that you are colored

You will spend your days forgetting you married me and your nights hunting the warm gin Mike serves the ladies in the rear of the Last Chance Saloon

I will go down to the Last Chance Saloon, drink a gallon or two of gin, shoot a game or two of dice and sleep the rest of the night on one of Mike’s barrels.

I am tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else’s civilization

Now I can drink more gin than any man for miles around. Gin is better than all the water in Lethe

  ONCE I was good like the Virgin Mary and the Minister’s wife. My father worked for Mr. Pullman and white people’s tips; but he died two days after his insurance expired. I had nothing, so I had to go to work.

Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my

Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have told

high average of intelligence and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole.

black,so black that her toothless gums, revealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit of the old

Although the lack of early training had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevented him from doing a great deal of reading or from forming decidedly literary tastes.

He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself up to the position of stationery clerk, having charge of the distribution of the office supplies for the whole company. Although the lack of early training had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevented him from doing a great deal of reading or from forming decidedly literary tastes.

The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, declared that character and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership

Think you that John Brown's spirit stops?That Lovejoy was but idly slain?Or do you think those precious dropsFrom Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?

No! stand erect and without fear,

And never yet, - O haughty Land,Let us, at least, for this be praised -Has one black, treason-guided handEver against that flag been raised.

This land is ours by right of birth,This land is ours by right of toil;We helped to turn its virgin earth,Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.

O brothers mine, to-day we standWhere half a century sweeps our ken,Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Then into it he blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

Then into it he blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that he had made. He looked at his sun, And he looked at his moon, And he looked at his little stars; He looked on his world With all its living things, And God said: I'm lonely still.

Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his fingers to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around his shoulder

Then God himself stepped down – And the sun was on his right hand, And the moon was on his left; The stars were clustered about his head, And the earth was under his feet. And God walked, and where he trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

And God said: That's good!

Then God reached out and took the light in his hands, And God rolled the light around in his hands Until he made the sun;

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said: That's good!

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said: I'm lonely – I'll make me a world

I claim no race, no race claims me; I am    No more than human dregs; degenerate; The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;    I am—just what I am. . . . The race that fed Your wives and nursed your babes would do the same    Today. But I—

“Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we”?

Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!

How came this beast in human shape and form?    Speak man!—We call you man because you wear    His shape—How are you thus? Are you not from

See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air    Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!    No light is there; none, save the glint that shines    In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs Of some wild animal caught in the hunter’s trap.

It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news of the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in field and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring fragrance. One long,[Pg 16] golden sunbeam steals silently into the white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping face. Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown; violets and tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the air was filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some whispered that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago she had communed at an earthly alta

"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token

"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair.

The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, When there they lie in sodden mud and rain, Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain? You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream That beckons me—this pretty futile seam, It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?

sit and sew—my heart aches with desire— That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things Once men. My soul in pity flings Appealing cries, yearning only to go There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe— But—I must sit and sew.

I sit and sew—a useless task it seems, My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams— The panoply of war, the martial tred of men, Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death, Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath— But—I must sit and sew.

O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?

My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing;

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame:— I wonder could she have been thinking the same?

The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky,

It asks not joy again, But only seeks release.

All time seems cold and void, And naught but tears remain; Life’s music beats for me A melancholy strain.

You say that I should smile And drive the gloom away; I would, but sun and smiles Have left my life’s dark day.

You bid me hold my peace And dry my fruitless tears, Forgetting that I bear A pain beyond my years.

Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'— Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes!

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile? Who is it all de day nevah once tries Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? Whah did you git dem teef? My, you's a scamp! Whah did dat dimple come f'om in yo' chin? Pappy do' know you — I b'lieves you's a tramp; Mammy, dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in!

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes, Come to yo' pappy an' set on his knee. What you been doin', suh — makin' san' pies? Look at dat bib — you's es du'ty ez me. Look at dat mouf — dat's merlasses, I bet; Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his han's. Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat you up yit, Bein' so sticky an sweet — goodness lan's!

Go on and up! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise; Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring, and proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia's glory.

No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving; No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving.

Be proud, my race, in mind and soul; Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll In characters of fire. High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher.

I feel the rope against my bark,    And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe    The touch of my own last pain.

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,    And he raised his hand to the sky; But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,    And the steady tread drew nigh.

They'd charged him with the old, old crime,    And set him fast in jail: Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,    And why does the night wind wail?

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,    Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw,    Runs a shudder over me?

But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,    But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

I know why the caged bird beats his wing     Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;    For he must fly back to his perch and cling    When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;     And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars    And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing!

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!     When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;    When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,    And the river flows like a stream of glass;     When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,    And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels!

But let the world dream otherwise,        We wear the mask!

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise.

Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while        We wear the mask.

We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Frankie peeked over the transom And there to her surprise She saw her lovin-man Johnny With that high-browed Nellie Bly He was her man, and he was doing her wrong

She took a cab at the corner And said "Driver step on this can For you're looking at a desperate gal Been two-timed by her man He was my man, but he done me wrong"

ll, Frankie went down to the corner To get a bucket of beer She said to the fat bartender "Has my lovin' Johnny been here? He was my man, I think he's doing me wrong"

rankie and Johnny were lovers Oh lordy, how they could love Swore to be true to each other Just as true as the stars above He was her man, but he done her wrong

No more auction block for meNo more, no moreNo more auction block for meMany thousands gone

A black woman said of the song, "It can't be sung without a full heart and a troubled sperrit

I know that these songs are the articulate message of the slave to the world. They tell us in these eager days that life was joyous to the black slave, car

went, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels, and cheerfully sneered at, ever northward; and ever the magic of their song kept thri

I walk through the churchyard To lay this body down; I know moon–rise, I know star–rise; I walk in the moonlight, I walk in the starlight; I'll lie in the grave and stretch out my arms, I'll go to judgment in the evening of the day, And my soul and thy soul shall meet that day, When I lay this body down.

I am the Smoke King I am black! I am cursing ruddy morn, I am hearsing hearts unborn: Souls unto me are as stars in a night, I whiten my black men—I blacken my white! What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might? Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands— Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands! I am the Smoke Kin

I will be black as blackness can—

I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am wreathing broken hearts, I am sheathing love’s light darts; Inspiration of iron times Wedding the toil of toiling climes, Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes— Lurid lowering ’mid the blue, Torrid towering toward the true, I am the Smoke King, I am black.

I am swinging in the sky, I am wringing worlds awry; I am the thought of the throbbing mills, I am the soul of the soul-toil kills, Wraith of the ripple of trading rills; Up I’m curling from the sod, I am whirling home to God; I am the Smoke King I am black.

I am the Smoke King I am black!

AT THE end of my first year at Hampton I was confronted with another difficulty. Most of the students went home to spend their vacation. I had no money with which to go home, but I had to go somewhere. In those days very few students were permitted to remain at the school during vacation. It made me feel very sad and homesick to see the other students preparing to leave and starting for home. I not only had no money with which to go home, but I had none with which to go anywhere.

EDUCATION         ONE day, while at work in the coal-mine, I happened to overhear two miners talking about a great school for coloured people somewhere in Virginia. This was the first time that I had ever heard anything about any kind of school or college that was more pretentious than the little coloured school in our town.

estate.         My mother's husband, who was the stepfather of my brother John and myself, did not belong to the same owners as did my mother. In fact, he seldom came to our plantation. I remember seeing him there perhaps once a year, that being about Christmas time. In some way, during the war, by running away and following the Federal soldiers, it seems, he found his way into the new state of West Virginia. As soon as freedom was declared, he sent for my mother to come to the Kanawha Valley, in West Virginia. At that time a journey from Virginia over the mountains to West Virginia was rather a tedious and in some cases a painful

AFTER the coming of freedom there were two points upon which practically all the people on our place were agreed, and I find that this was generally true throughout the South: that they must change their names, and that they must leave the old plantation for at least a few days or weeks in order that they might really feel sure that they were free.

but she will never cease to track them till beyond mortal vision.

She started without delay. Before she reached her destination, a letter came to the parents announcing her death.

Neath the billows of the ocean,     Hidden treasures wait the hand,     That again to light shall raise them     With the diver's magic wand.

I'll beat the money out of her, if I can't get her worth any other way,"

Nig was in truth suffering much; her feelings were very intense on any subject, when once aroused. She read her Bible carefully, and as often as an opportunity presented, which was when entirely secluded in her own apartment, or by Aunt Abby's side, who kindly directed her to Christ, and instructed her in the way of salvation

Her anxiety increased; her countenance bore marks of solicitude unseen before; and though she said nothing of her inward contest, they all observed a change.

Other cares engross me, and my tired soul with emulative haste, Looks to its God." THE

Oh! did we but know of the shadows so nigh,     The world would indeed be a prison of gloom

black devils

Misery! we have known each other,     Like a sister and a brother,     Living in the same lone home     Many years—we must live some     Hours or ages yet to come.

I'll help you, if nobody else will."

LONELY MAG SMITH! See her as she walks with downcast eyes and heavy heart. It was not always thus. She HAD a loving, trusting heart. Early deprived of parental guardianship, far removed from relatives, she was left to guide her tiny boat over life's surges alone and inexperienced. As she merged into womanhood, unprotected, uncherished, uncared for, there fell on her ear the music of love, awakening an intensity of emotion long dormant

MAG SMITH, MY MOTHER.     Oh, Grief beyond all other griefs, when fate     First leaves the young heart lone and desolate     In the wide world, without that only tie     For which it loved to live or feared to die;     Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken     Since the sad day its master-chord was broken!

Thy bleeding hands abroad; Thy cry of agony shall reach And find the throne of God.

ecure by night and blest by day, Shall pass her happy hours; Within her peaceful bowers.

Redeemed from dust, and freed from chains, Her sons shall lift their eyes; From lofty hills and verdant plains Shall shouts of triumph rise

Yes, Ethiopia yet shall stretch Her bleeding hands abroad; Her cry of agony shall reach The burning throne of God.

Sorrow follows the footsteps of crime,          And Sin is the consort of Woe.

     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?

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

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.

No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks   Disturb the listening air:She is a mother, and her heart   Is breaking in despair.

They tear him from her circling arms,   Her last and fond embrace.Oh! never more may her sad eyes   Gaze on his mournful face.

He is not hers, although she bore    For him a mother’s pains; He is not hers, although her blood    Is coursing through his veins

She is a mother pale with fear,    Her boy clings to her side, And in her kyrtle vainly tries    His trembling form to hide.

The Slave Mother

Proud of her spotless name -- A woman who could bend to grief, But would not bow to shame.

Each gem that sparkles in my crown, Or glitters on my throne, Grows poor and pale when she appears, My beautiful, my own!"

"I've shown the treasures of my house, My costly jewels rare, But with the glory of her eyes No rubies can compare.

And what is wrong in woman’s life In man’s cannot be right.

That each the burden of his loss Must bear and bear alone

I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways, He does not see as man, Within His love I know there’s room For those whom others ban.

Crime has no sex and yet to-day

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold That the tempted, tempter turned; When he was feted and caressed And I was coldly spurned?

Can you blame me that I did not see Beneath his burning kiss The serpent’s wiles, nor even hear The deadly adder hiss?

Do you blame me that I loved him? If when standing all alone I cried for bread a careless world Pressed to my lips a stone.

The utmost power which God has given --- Conscious that the Almighty power    Will nerve the faithful soul with might, Whatever storms may round him lower,    Strikes boldly for the true and right.

When through the opening vista round,    Shines on him no pellucid ray, Like beam of early morning found,      The harbinger of perfect day; But like the midnight’s darkening frown,    When stormy tempests roar on high, When pealing thunder shakes the ground

  But, to his own fixed purpose true, The path which God and nature’s laws    Point out, doth earnestly pursue. When adverse clouds around him lower,    And stern oppression bars his way, When friends desert in trial’s hour,    And hope sheds but a feeble ray; When all the powers of earth and hell    Combine to break his spirit down, And strive, with their terrific yell,

I LOVE the man whose lofty mind    On God and its own strength relies; Who seeks the welfare of his kind,    And dare be honest though he dies; Who cares not for the world’s applause,

In freedom's cause their voices raise, And burst the bonds of every slave; Till, north and south, and east and west, The wrongs we bear shall be redressed.

As he reviews the scene of strife, Puts up to God a fervent prayer, To close his dark and troubled life. The cry of fathers, mothers, wives, Severed from all their hearts hold dear, And doomed to spend their wretched lives

When black and white fought side by side, Upon the well-contested field,— Turned back the fierce opposing tide,

Was it for this, that freedom's fires Were kindled by your patriot sires? Was it for this, they shed their blood, On hill and plain, on field and flood? Was it for this, that wealth and life Were staked upon that desperate strife, Which drenched this land for seven long years With blood of men, and women's tears?

America, it is to thee, Thou boasted land of liberty,— It is to thee I raise my song, Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong. It is to thee, my native land, From whence has issued many a band To tear the black man from his soil, And force him here to delve and toil; Chained on your blood-bemoistened sod, Cringing beneath a tyrant's rod, Stripped of those rights which Nature's God Bequeathed to all the human race, Bound to a petty tyrant's nod, Because he wears a paler face.

    I WAS born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece Page 12 of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two years younger than myself—a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings,

Dear Liberty! upon thy breast, I languish to respire; And like the Swan unto her nest, I’d like to thy smiles retire. Oh, blest asylum—heavenly balm! Unto thy boughs I flee— And in thy shades the storm shall calm, With songs of Liberty!

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face, And barbarism fly: I scorn to see the sad disgrace In which enslaved I lie.

Soar on the pinions of that dove Which long has cooed for thee, And breathed her notes from Afric’s grove, The sound of Liberty. Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize, So often sought by blood— We crave thy sacred sun to rise, The gift of nature’s God!

Say unto foul oppression, Cease: Ye tyrants rage no more, And let the joyful trump of peace, Now bid the vassal soar.

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound, Roll through my ravished ears! Come, let my grief in joys be drowned, And drive away my fears.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief This side the silent grave— To soothe the pain—to quell the grief And anguish of a slave?

How long have I in bondage lain, And languished to be free! Alas! and must I still complain— Deprived of liberty.

Alas! and am I born for this, To wear this slavish chain? Deprived of all created bliss, Through hardship, toil and pain!

Weep o'er peculiar swelling coffers void,Our treasures left, and all their banks destroyed;Their foundless notes replete with shame to all,Expecting every day their final fall,In quest of profit never to be won,Then sadly fallen and forever down!

Weep for the downfall o'er your heads and chief,Who sunk without a medium of relief;Who fell beneath the hatchet of their pride,Then like the serpent bit themselves and died!

Weep for the seas of blood the battle cost,And souls that ever hope forever lost!The ravage of the field with no recruit,Trees by the vengeance blasted to the root!

Weep for the loss the country has sustained,By which her now dependent is in jail;The grief of him who now the war survived,The conscript husbands and the weeping wives!

Weep for the country in its present state,And of the gloom which still the future waits;The proud confederate eagle heard the sound,And with her flight fell prostrate to the ground!

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach. I cease to wonder, and no more attempt Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound. But, O my soul, sink not into despair,Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head. Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse, Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss. Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread, And lead celestial Chastity along; Lo! now her sacred retinue descends, Arrayed in glory from the orbs above. Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years! O leave me not to the false joys of time! But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee, To give an higher appellation still, Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay, O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day! n/a

And lead celestial Chastity along; Lo! now her sacred retinue descends, Arrayed in glory from the orbs above. Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years! O leave me not to the false joys of time! But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.Greatness, or Goodness, say what I shall call thee, To give an higher appellation still, Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay, O Thou, enthroned with Cherubs in the realms of day!

Auspicious queen, thine heavenly pinions spread,

O thou bright jewel in my aim I strive To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach. I cease to wonder, and no more attempt Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound. But, O my soul, sink not into despair,Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head. Fain would the heaven-born soul with her converse, Then seek, then court her for her promised bliss.

Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach

    Fancy might now her silken pinions tryTo rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high:From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise,Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies,While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies.The monarch of the day I might behold,And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold,But I reluctant leave the pleasing views,Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse;Winter austere forbids me to aspire,And northern tempests damp the rising fire;They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea,Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain,O thou the leader of the mental train:In full perfection all thy works are wrought,And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought.Before thy throne the subject-passions bow,Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou;At thy command joy rushes on the heart,And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

may

    Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyesThe fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise;The frozen deeps may break their iron bands,And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands.Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign,And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain;Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round,And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd:Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose,And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

can

    Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,And soft captivity involves the mind

    From Helicon's refulgent heights attend,Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend:To tell her glories with a faithful tongue,Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

Thy various works, imperial queen, we see,    How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp by thee!Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand,And all attest how potent is thine hand.