About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

Destiny:

In far-off England, years ago, There dwelt a wise old sage Who, from the book of future years Could tare for you a page. One day there came into his home A youth of noble birth, Who asked that he’d unfold to him His mission on the earth.

"Lord Allsmere," spoke the rev’rend sage, "This day is born for you A wife, in far-off Italy, For whom, one day, you’ll sue. Your bride is born of humble birth, No gold or lands has she; But you will love her just the same, However poor she be."

"What!—I? How dare you say these things To me, Lord Allsmere’s heir! I take a beggar for my wife, With me my wealth to share? Ha! Ha! a fool you think me then. I’ll let my chances slip, And leave the wealth of all the land To kiss a pauper’s lip!"

You’ll see, young man," the sage replied, "That all I’ve said is true. In Venice, near the riverside A bride is born for you. You’ll know her by a blood-red mark That stains her slender arm; Upon that mark a leaf is traced, Quite like a stately palm."

"I’ll die before I’ll bring such shame Upon my noble home; I’ll seek this child, and murder her, And then o’er seas I’ll roam. ‘Tis well you’ve told me where she bides; I’ll leave England to-night. Farewell, old man, you’ll see that I Will make this thing allright."

Ah, man! thou egotist,—how vain To fight against thy fate; Know thou the laws of destiny Are powerful and great! And its decrees obscured from thee Thou trav’lest in the night! Bide thou with peace, thou’lt reach thy goal Without the aid of light.

The night was dark, the air was cold, The city slept in peace; A whistle shrill rung on the breeze But soon was made to cease. Two men, both clad in strange costumes Stole near the river’s side; They launched a babe within a crib Upon the flowing tide.

"At last, ’tis o’er; the babe will drown; She’ll be no bride of mine. I’ll show that old phlegmatic sage For her I’ll never pine. And now, away to Lady Clare, The woman of my heart! Oh, for that hour when we’ll be one, On earth, no more to part!"

Lord Allsmere traveled all that night, And reached his lady’s side, And pledged again his vows of troth To his intended bride. And he forgot the lonely babe He launched upon the deep, But God, who guards the sparrows’ nest, Watched o’er the babe in sleep.

And when the morning’s roseate tint Was seen to light the sky, A stray gondolier saw thecrib, And greatly wondered why An infant’s wail was loudly heard Upon the water’s breast. He took the crib within his boat, And soothed the babe to rest.

He landed with his precious charge And placed her near the gates Of old Count Dido’s stately home, Of whom the world relates Is seven times a millionaire, With neither kith nor kin. And there the babe was reared, and grew A maiden free from sin. "Bibb: Poems by Eloise Bibb," Microsoft® Encarta® Africana 2000. © 1999 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

Oh, list! to sounds that cheer the heart; Stay! ’tis the clarion’s peal; The harp is mingled with the tones That make the senses reel. And from the water’s surface blue I hear the light guitar; Some knight of Venice sings of love That is his guiding star.

And why this song and merriment? Count Dido gives a ball, And his adopted daughter stands Admired by one and all. And oh, who would not love to gaze Into those liquid eyes ! To clasp that slender, rounded form Would seem like paradise.

But Mariann knows nought of this, She see one form, one face; She hears the music of one voice, She notes the air of grace That marks her hero from the rest. Lord Allsmere owns her heart, And she not his?—Oh, dreadful thought That makes the tear-drops start.

But see! he, too, has stood apart From that gay company, And notes with eyes lit up with love, The charms that others see. "Ye stars! I’ve never loved before," Lord Allsmere cries amazed. "I thought I loved the Lady Clare, But pshaw! my brain was crazed.

"I’ve loved a score of times, and more, But ’twas not love like this! My heart’s on fire with doubt and fear, Yet ’tis a state of bliss. Oh, love, that wrings the human heart Who has not felt its pain! Who does not know its bitter sweets, That madden soul and brain!"

Lord Allsmere smiles on Mariann, And begs a moonlight walk. Her gentle hand is on his arm, And soon engrossed in talk— They near the famed Rialto’s arch, He finds for her a seat, And lays his sore and bleeding heart With fervor at her feet.

And oh! the joy that thrills her soul, To know she owns his heart. Such heaven, ah, yes! ’tis paradise! Will bliss like this depart? Two arms she lifts, such perfect limbs; Her hands are clasped in prayer. But oh! what is that blood-red mark He sees imprinted there?

He grasps the slender wrist, and looks Upon the lovely arm; And there a tiny leaf is traced Quite like a stately palm "The babe I drowned!" Lord Allsmere gasps. "Say! how can this be true? Explain!—I’m dazed!—Long years ago I sought to murder you!

"Aha! you’ve crossed my path again: The sage then spoke aright. Plebian! Ah, no! you’ll ne’er be mine, I’ll slay you, sure, to-night! And who is Destiny that dares Choose beggar for my bride; Ye powers above, I pluck this thorn That lingers in my side!"

"Oh, spare! Oh, spare! I thee implore, I’ll hide myself away. On thy dear face I’ll never look, Nor see the light of day. I love thee! Ah, my heart is sore, Why dost thou hate me so? And what is this that thou dost speak? Pray tell, I fain would know."

"Alas! I cannot do the deed, My heart a traitor proves He slowly hides his sword from view, And from his hand removes A brilliant ring with opals set, And lustrous stones that shine. "See here! this ring will now decide If you will e’er be mine.

"If e’en in days that are to come, I see your treacherous face, And on that hand I loathe and spurn, This ring finds not its place, I swear to you this night in truth— I swear I’ll have your heart! And if, instead, you wear this ring, We’ll wed, no more to part."

He throws the ring far in the deep, The water’s sink it low. He leaves her with an angry oath, To bear this dreadful blow. Weep not, O maid! dost thou not know That thou art led by fate? And it decreed e’er thou wast born That thou shouldst be his mate?

Ten years have passed; they’ve done their work On Allsmere’s stony heart. No longer proud, nor arrogant He feels love’s piercing dart. He longs again to touch that hand, To kiss that fevered cheek; Away! he hastens to that land His destined bride to seek.

He sees her by the water’s side, She kneels in tearful prayer. "What does she lisp? What are those words? What is that sparkling there? My ring! O Mariann, arise. My love! forgive thou me! My other soul! I strove in vain To baffle destiny."

"Lord Allsmere!—See, I wear thy ring?" The maid, uprising, cried. "In yonder fish, the cook, yestern, By chance, the diamond spied. And now, my love, no more this strife, My heart’s on fire for thee. Oh, thou canst never fathom, love; My heart’s deep agony!"

"Come, Mariann! fate’s chosen bride, Twin soul, I sought to slay. Come to my heart, thou’lt never know A care I cannot lay. Come, warm my life,—thou beacon-light, Shine thou, this night, on me, And I will bless forevermore My planning Destiny.

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

In Memoriam Frederick Douglass:

O Death! why dost thou steal the great, With grudging like to strongest hate, And rob the world of giant minds, For whom all nature mourns and pines.

So few have we upon the earth, Whom God ennobled at their birth, With genius stamped upon their souls, That guides, directs, persuades, controls.

So few who scorn the joys of life, And labor in contending strife, With zeal increased and strength of ten, To ameliorate the ills of men.

So few who keep a record clean, Amid temptations strong and keen; Who live laborious days and nights, And shun the storms of passion’s blights.

O, why cannot these linger here, As lights upon this planet drear; Forever in the public sight, To lead us always to the right?

O Douglass! thou wert ‘mong the few Who struggles and temptations knew, Yet bravely mounted towering heights, Amazing both to blacks and whites.

The sons of Ham feel desolate Without thee, O Douglass the Great; A nation’s tears fall now with mine, While mourning at thy sacred shrine.

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

Early Spring:

The early spring’s sweet blush, Like a maiden’s beauteous flush, Mounts the cheek of earth and sky, With radiance soft and shy. She comes like a virgin queen, From her couch of emerald green, Enrobed in garments bright, With sunny locks of light And gladness in her smile, Beguiling care the while, With music from the thrush, And the brook’s low warbling rush.

She stoops and whispers low, To the violets ‘neath the snow, On bended knee she peeps, In the home where the clover sleeps; Her warm and fragrant breath Has chased the gloom of death, That shrouded tree and sky, When winter’s tears were nigh. She dotes on the light and shade, Her curls and mantle made. O, ye who weep and sigh! Bid tears a long good-bye; Be not now overcast With scenes of the buried past; Forget the pangs of yore,

That made thy bosom sore; Know that the soul grows strong In battles great and long. Weep not, nor e’en be sad, Rejoice, for the world is glad!

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

Gerarda:

The day is o’er and twilight’s shade, Is darkening forest, glen and glade; It steals within the old church door, And casts its shadows on the floor; It throws its gloom upon the bride, And on her partner by her side: But ah! it has no power to screen The loveliest form that e’er was seen.

Sweet tones as from the angels’ lyre, Came pealing from the ancient choir; They rouse the brain with magic power, And fill with light that twilight hour. Some artist’s soul one easily sees, Inspires the hands that touch the keys; A genius sits and wakes the soul, With sounds that o’er the passions roll.

"Till death we part," repeats the bride, She shuddered visibly and sighed; And as she leaves the altar rail, She’s startled, and her features pale, For in the ancient choir above, The man who sits and plays of love, Has held her heart for many a year. Alas! her life is sad and drear.

He never dreamed he roused a thrill, Within that heart that seemed so still; He never knew the hours of pain, That racked that tired and troubled brain. He could not see that bleeding heart, From which his face would not depart; He never could have known her grief, From which, alas! there’s no relief.

At last she thought the fire had cooled, And love’s strong guardian she had ruled; ‘Twas then she vowed to be the bride Of him who stands at her side. Ill-fated hour! she sees too late, This man she cannot help but hate; He, whom she promised to obey, Until from earth she’s called away

This life is sometimes dark and drear, No lights within the gloom appear. Gerarda smiled and danced that night, As though her life had been all bright; And no one knew a battle waged, Within that heart so closely caged. The few who’ve never felt love’s dart, Know not the depth of woman’s heart.

Gerarda sat one summer day, With easel, brush, and forms of clay, Within her much-loved studio, Where all that makes the senses glow Were placed with great artistic skill; Content, perhaps, she seems, and still, She’d give this luxury and more, To ease that heart so bruised and sore.

Her paintings hang upon the wall, The power of genius stamps them all; On this material soil she breathes, But in her spiritual world she leaves Her mind, her thoughts, her soul, her brain, And wakes from fancy’s spell with pain. And thus her pictures plainly show, Not nature’s self but ideal glow.

And now to-day o’er canvas bent, She strives to place these visions sent From that bright world she loves so well, But fancy fails to cast her spell, And sick at heart, Gerarda sighs, And wonders why her muse denies The inspiration given before, When oft in heaven her soul would soar.

But now her ear has caugh a sound, That causes heart and brain to bound, With rapture wild, intense, sincere, For, list! those strains are coming near; She grasps the brush, her muse awoke, Within those notes her genius spoke; An Angelo might e’en be proud, Of forms that o’er her vision crowd.

What power is this that swells that touch, And sends it throbbing with a rush, That renders all its hearers dumb! If he be man, whence did he come? Lo! ’tis the same who played with power The wedding march that twilight hour; The strains seem caught from souls above, It is the very food of love.

And yet, he’s neither old nor bent, A comeliness to youth is lent; A radiant eye, a natural grace, An eager, noble, passionate face,— All these are his, with genius spark, That guides him safely through the dark, To hearts that throb and souls that feel, At every grand and solemn peal.

Triumphant Wagner’s soul he reads, And then with Mozart gently pleads, And begs the weary cease to mope, But rise and live in dreams of hope. The sounds have ceased, — how drear life seems! He wakes from out his land of dreams, And finds Gerarda rapt, amazed, In speechless ecstacy she gazed.

"Neville! thou king of heroes great, A tale of love thou dost relate, In tones that rend my heart in twain, With intense agony and pain, Forgive whate’er I say to-day, Thy touch has ta’en my sense away: O man that dreams, thou can’st not see, That I, alas! doth worship thee!

"Behold! thou Orpheus, I kneel And beg thee, if thou e’er canst feel, Or sympathize with my unrest, To thrust this dagger in my breast. Shrink not! I can no longer live Content in agony to writhe; And death with thy hand given to me, Will be one blissful ecstacy."

He starts, and lifts her from her knees, Her features pale, and soon he sees That tired heart so sick and sore Can bear its grief and woe no more. She swoons — her pulse has ceased to beat, A holy calm, divine and sweet, Has settled on the saintly face, Lit up with beauty, youth and grace.

Neville amazed, in rapture stands, Admiring hair, and face, and hands, Forgetful then of hour and place, He stoops to kiss the beauteous face, And at the touch the fire of love, So pure as to come from above, Consumes his heart and racks his brain, With longing fear and infinite pain.

The kiss, as with a magic spell, Has roused Gerarda, — it seems to tell, ‘Tis time to bid her conscience wake, And off her soul this burden shake. "Neville, forgive’" with downcast eyes, Gerarda sorrowfully cries; "I’ve told thee of my love and woe,— The things I meant thou should’st not know."

"Gerarda thou hast woke the heart, That ne’er before felt passion’s smart; Oh! is it true thou’rt lost to me, My love, my heart knows none but thee!" "Enough! Neville, we must forget, That in this hour our souls have met. Farewell! we ne’er must meet in life, For I’m, alas! a wedded wife."

Why ring those bells? what was that cry? The night winds bear it as they sigh; What is this crushing, maddening scene? What do those flames of fire mean? They surge above Gerarda’s home, Through attic, cellar, halls, they roam, Like some terrific ghost of night, Who longs from earth to take his flight.

Gerarda stands amid the fire, That leaps above with mad desire, And rings her hands in silent grief, She fears for her there’s no relief. But now she hears a joyous shout, A breathless silence from without, That tells her God has heard her prayer, And sent a noble hero there.

And here he comes, this gallant knight, Her heart rejoices at the sight, For ’tis Neville, with aspect grave. Who risked his life, his love to save. And all have perished now but she, Her husband and her family. Mid tears and sobs she breathes a prayer, For loved ones who are buried there.

Neville has brushed her tears away, Together silently they pray And bless the Lord with thankful prayer For all his watchfulness and care. "Gerarda, love," he whispers now, Implanting kisses on her brow, "This earth will be a heaven to me, For all my life, I’ll share with thee."

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

Class Song of ’91:

We are sighing, for time is flying, We are going from those so dear; Friends are severed, though ’round us gathered, With a cheer to greet us here. Hope is beck’ning, our fate we’re reck’ning, Life seems bright, all earth is light; Stars are gleaming, beacons of meaning, Lights of truth to human sight.

CHORUS

Then, fare you well, fare you well, Life for us has just begun; Don’t regret, ne’er forget This dear class of ninety one. Hours of pleasure, our mem’ries treasure, Life’s best moments for these we sigh; Thoughts of gladness will scatter sadness, When we’re dreaming of days gone by. We are sighing, for time is flying, Soon we part from friends so dear; Guiding teachers, God’s favor’d creatures, Ah! good-bye to all friends here. (Sung to the air of "What Care I," by Alice Hawthorne.")

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

The Hermit:

The hermit sat within his cave, A prey to anxious care; Distress sat gravely on his brow, And suffering slumbered there. His form is worn with constant fasts, His eyes are dimmed from tears, Within this gloomy wilderness, He’s spent full twenty years.

Yet ‘neath the lofty, classic brow, The window of his soul O’erlooks a face where beauty dwells, And strong emotions roll. To-night, the tempter’s crafty arts, Repeated oft before, Has stirred ambition’s smoldering fires, And roused the hopes of yore.

"Alone, alone;" he sadly sighs, No human voice I hear; For twenty years no son of Eve Has passed this prison, drear. No gentle hand has grasped my palm, And with its feeling touch, Taught me to value sympathy, My fate has ne’er been such.

"And yet, my vision can recall, A bright but buried past; The casket of those happy days, Too bright by far to last, Is strewn with hope’s dead blossom leaves, That withered, ay, too fast, Ere fragrance lent her added charm, They perished in the blast.

"Within those crumbled halls of time, With fancy’s kindly eyes, I see a form flit to and fro, With beauty’s soft surprise. Her smile is like the April sun That gladdens leaf and flower; Her tear of tender sympathy Is like to April’s shower.

"A hermit, near to nature’s heart, For twenty years I’ve lived; And dark temptations cloud my life, In agony I’ve writhed. But now, no more I’ll linger here, I’ll let the die be cast, I’ll live once more those days of yore, And breathe again that past."

The sun has sunk behind the hills, The day has gone to rest, A sweet repose has settled now On nature’s placid breast. A palace ‘mong the Syrian plains, Is all ablaze with light; The king of Ansarey’s divan, With splendor shines to-night.

Before his august presence now, There bows a stately knight, The hermit of the wilderness Is welcomed to his sight. His form is wasted now no more, And lustrous is his eye, A strong conceit replaced the look That once was calm and shy.

"Thy majesty will hear me now?" He asks with rising fear, "I’ve loved the princess Fakredeen, This many, many a year. Full twenty years ago, O king, Her shadow then was I, And if you say me nay, to-day, O Sovereign, I will die!"

"Most noble Englishman, Sir Luke, I’ve ne’er disclosed to thee; A sacred Pantheon I hold, That is beloved by me; Within its walls, the god of light, To Syria’s heart most dear, For centuries revealed to us Our future dangers here.

"Come thou, and Fakredeen, my love, We’ll to the fane repair, An answer to thy lover’s quest, We will elicit there. And if the gods approve the match, My blessing follows thee, If not, then thou, O noble knight, I must refuse to see."

He rose; and straightway followed him, The princess Fakredeen, The hermit of the wilderness, And subjects clothed in green, Who carried with them garlands fair, They lifted to the sky. As solemnly they chanted low, A hymn to Gods on high.

And silently, through portico, They neared the sacred fane, Where sculptured forms of ideal grace, Serene and calm remain. This noble hierarchy fair, The god, the nymph, the faun, New beauties rise and greet the view, As does the sky at dawn.

They paused before a statue made Of ivory and gold, The color pure and polished high, Displaced a matchless mold. "The god of Ansarey, O knight," The sovereign whispered now, "My father’s god, look thou on him, Thy knee before him bow."

"Before this figure, then, O king," The hermit calmly said, "Libations flowed from golden cups, And scores of steers were bled. O god of light, if power thou hast, Give Fakredeen to me, And with my pen I will proclaim Thy glorious deity."

"I must the god invoke, Sir Luke,— O god of Ansarey, Shall Fakredeen be given away? Give heed, O god, I pray. This knight from northern shores came he, My daughter fair to woo, He is a Christian, sacred god, Will he always prove true?"

"Hold thou! O Syrian ruler, brave," The god was heard to say, "Unless he vows to worship me, Thou sure must say him, nay. The God to whom he knelt in prayer, Who died at Calvary, He must denounce, and live to prove A dangerous enemy."

"Oh, heaven forbid!" the hermit cries With heartfelt agony. "An enemy to God, the Son?— Oh, that can never be. My God! I have abandoned thee, Alas! ’tis now too late To ask forgiveness, yet I know, Thee, I can never hate."

"O Luke, my own, remember thou," The princess whispered low, Those years of dark estrangement, love, And all my bitter woe. Admirers came, and suitors yearned, My heart for thee did pine, O Luke, forsake thy foolish creed, And let my god be thine.

"Ah, Fakredeen! my promised bride," The hermit then replied, "For twenty years a moment’s sight Of thee I was denied. O sovereign, king of Ansarey, Say to the god of light, That I denounce the Christian’s God, And bow to him to-night!"

"Hold thou! O Syrian Ruler brave," The god began anew, The man who to his god is false, To thee can ne’er be true. Give not the princess, Fakredeen To traitor false and vain, Lest he to thee, as to his God, Bring agony and pain."

"Almighty Father, wise and great," With sobs the hermit cried, "I see Thy hand beneath this cloud, That deadens all my pride. That faithful heart, so brave and true, Was never meant for me; Farewell, my love,

About the Author: Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.) In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

In Memory of Arthur Clement Williams:

"Alas! that such a soul should taste of death," Such lofty genius fade for want of breath, Such wit find refuge ‘mong the mournful dead,— Such brains lie silent in that narrow bed.

O, let the Negro weep most bitter tears! Our brightest star from earth now disappears; He would have stretched Ethiopia’s hand to God Had Death not early placed him ‘neath the sod.

Ne’er breathed a man who saw that classic brow, That did not then within himself allow He saw a fixed desire to raise his race, Imprinted on that noble, comely face.

There is one thought that pains me much to-night, Although of him I sing and sometimes write, I did not know this brave and gifted one, This gallant youth,—this good, obedient son.

Yet, ne’er-the-less, I sighed when others sighed; I wept to think of fondest hopes denied,— Of fleeting joys, of earthly woes and cares, Of all that mother’s tears and anxious prayers.

That soul so loved by all now rests in peace, He’s happy there where cares and sorrows cease; In that celestial home he dwells to-night, That place of love, of joy, of dazzling light.

(Son of Mrs. S. F. Williams. Written for the anniversary of his twenty-second birthday, August 23, 1891.)

Eloise Bibb (1878-1928?), the daughter of Catherine Adele and Charles H. Bibb was seventeen when she made her literary debut with Poems (1895), published by Monthly Review Press in Boston. This delicate collection includes "To the Sweet Bard of the Women’s Club," a tribute to another native of New Orleans, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, whose Violets and Other Tales was published by the same publisher and in the same year as Bibb’s Poems.

Eloise Bibb never expected to live off her writing, but plotted a course to be a teacher. After attending Oberlin College’s Preparatory Academy (1899-1901), she taught in the New Orleans public school system. In 1903, she left home again: this time for Washington, D.C., where she enrolled in Howard University’s Teacher’s College. Bibb graduated from Howard in the winter of 1908, and a few months later became head resident of the university’s Colored Social Settlement House.

Bibb left this job in 1911. This was the year she married Noah Davis Thompson, a widower and father of a young son. (Thompson’s first wife was Lillian B. Murphy, daughter of the founder of the Baltimore Afro-American and sister of Carl Murphy, who turned the Afro into one of the finest new era newspapers.)

Soon after their marriage, the Thompsons moved to Los Angeles. There, in and around various enterprises (including real estate), Noah contributed articles to various periodicals as did Eloise, with Los Angeles Tribune, Out West, and Morning Sun among her outlets. In 1927, when Noah was hired as business manager of the National Urban League’s journal Opportunity, the Thompsons moved to New York City, which is where Eloise Bibb Thompson died.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

A Prayer:

O Lord, the hard-won miles Have worn my stumbling feet: Oh, soothe me with thy smiles, And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen Where’er I trembling trod; The way was long between My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow Do thou my footsteps lead. My heart is aching so; Thy gracious balm I need.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Life:

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double; And that is life!

A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us; And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter; And that is life!

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Longing:

If you could sit with me beside the sea to-day, And whisper with me sweetest dreamings o’er and o’er; I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray, And not so loud the waves complaining at the shore.

If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day, And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old, I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray, Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold.

If you could walk with me upon the strand to-day, And tell me that my longing love had won your own, I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away, And I could give back laughter for the Ocean’s moan!

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Passion and Love:

A maiden wept and, as a comforter, Came one who cried, "I love thee," and he seized Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath, That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks. While evermore his boldly blazing eye Burned into hers; but she uncomforted Shrank from his arms and only wept the more.

Then one came and gazed mutely in her face With wide and wistful eyes; but still aloof He held himself; as with a reverent fear, As one who knows some sacred presence nigh. And as she wept he mingled tear with tear, That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower,— Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand!

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Retort:

"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart, "Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art, To be led astray by the trick of a tress, By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;" And my heart was in sore distress.

Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair, The light gleamed soft on her raven hair; And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air: "Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Song:

My heart to thy heart, My hand to thine; My lips to thy lips, Kisses are wine

Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade; Let me drink deep, then, my African maid.

Lily to lily, Rose unto rose; My love to thy love Tenderly grows. Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain, Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

Sunset:

The river sleeps beneath the sky, And clasps the shadows to its breast; The crescent moon shines dim on high; And in the lately radiant west The gold is fading into gray. Now stills the lark his festive lay, And mourns with me the dying day.

While in the south the first faint star Lifts to the night its silver face, And twinkles to the moon afar Across the heaven’s graying space, Low murmurs reach me from the town, As Day puts on her sombre crown, And shakes her mantle darkly down.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

The Lesson:

My cot was down by a cypress grove, And I sat by my window the whole night long, And heard well up from the deep dark wood A mocking-bird’s passionate song.

And I thought of myself so sad and lone, And my life’s cold winter that knew no spring; Of my mind so weary and sick and wild, Of my heart too sad to sing.

But e’en as I listened the mock-bird’s song, A thought stole into my saddened heart, And I said, "I can cheer some other soul By a carol’s simple art."

For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives Come songs that brim with joy and light, As out of the gloom of the cypress grove The mocking-bird sings at night.

So I sang a lay for a brother’s ear In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre, Though mine was a feeble art.

But at his smile I smiled in turn, And into my soul there came a ray: In trying to soothe another’s woes Mine own had passed away.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

The Mystery:

I was not; now I am—a few days hence I shall not be; I fain would look before And after, but can neither do; some Power Or lack of power says "no" to all I would. I stand upon a wide and sunless plain, Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright. Whene’er, o’ercoming fear, I dare to move, I grope without direction and by chance. Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand That draws them ever upward thro’ the gloom.

But I—I hear no voice and touch no hand, Tho’ oft thro’ silence infinite I list, And strain my hearing to supernal sounds; Tho’ oft thro’ fateful darkness do I reach, And stretch my hand to find that other hand.

I question of th’ eternal bending skies That seem to neighbor with the novice earth; But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes On me, as I one day shall do on them, And tell me not the secret that I ask.

About the Author: African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

The Path:

There are no beaten paths to Glory’s height, There are no rules to compass greatness known; Each for himself must cleave a path alone, And press his own way forward in the fight.

Smooth is the way to ease and calm delight, And soft the road Sloth chooseth for her own; But he who craves the flower of life full-blown, Must struggle up in all his armor dight!

What though the burden bear him sorely down And crush to dust the mountain of his pride, Oh, then, with strong heart let him still abide; For rugged is the roadway to renown, Nor may he hope to gain the envied crown Till he hath thrust the looming rocks aside.

African American poet, often remembered for his dialect poetry.Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poem, "The Poet," three years before his death in 1906 at the age of 34. Its words may express his own regrets about the direction of his literary career.

Dunbar was the most famous African American poet, and one of the most famous American poets, of his time.

His career brought him international fame and by any measure was a tremendous success. Although Dunbar felt his best work was his poetry in standard English, he was celebrated almost exclusively for his folk poetry about African Americans written in dialect—the "jingle in a broken tongue."

His identification with dialect poetry disappointed him during his lifetime and alienated some later African American readers. But Dunbar’s poetry has also been praised by readers, from W. E. B. Du Bois to Nikki Giovanni, who recognized the challenges Dunbar faced as a turn-of-the-century black poet trying to sound the "deeper note."

Dunbar’s parents had both been slaves on plantations in Kentucky. Although Dunbar was born in Dayton, Ohio, during Reconstruction, his parents’ stories about life as as slaves were the basis for some of his folk poetry. He attended Dayton public schools and was the only student of color at Dayton High School, where he was class president, editor of the school paper, president of the literary society, and class poet.

After graduating in 1891 Dunbar tried to pursue a career in journalism. He could not find a writing job because of his race, and he became an elevator operator. However, he continued writing, earning the nickname "the elevator boy poet."

Dunbar took out a loan to publish his first book, Oak and Ivy, in 1893. Later that year, he read his poetry at the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Illinois, where he was praised by Frederick Douglass and other prominent African Americans.

Dunbar became a crossover literary sensation in 1896, when his second book, Majors and Minors, was noticed by well-known white critic and writer William Dean Howells. Howells arranged for an expanded version of the book, titled Lyrics of Lowly Life, to be published by the mainstream white firm of Dodd, Mead.

The national publication, and the speaking tour that followed, made Dunbar famous among black and white audiences. His reputation soon spread overseas.

About the Author: Harper, Fances Ellen Watkins (1825-1911), African American writer and antislavery, women’s rights, and temperance activist.

As a lecturer, activist, poet, and novelist, Harper dedicated her life to promoting social uplift—of women, of African Americans, and of African American women in particular—in as many forums as she could find. In the process, she became one of the best-known and most respected black women of the 19th century.

Harper was born into a free black family in Baltimore, Maryland. She was orphaned at the age of two, and then raised by her uncle, the Rev. William Watkins, director of Baltimore’s prestigious Academy for Negro Youth. During her lifetime, Harper was commemorated through F.E.W. Harper Leagues, Frances E. Harper Woman’s Christian Temperance Unions, and chapters of other organizations that bore her name. Harper was also recognized by the Daughters of America and Patriots of the American Revolution.

The Revel:

He knoweth not that the dead are there.

In yonder halls reclining Are forms surpassing fair, And brilliant lights are shining, But, oh! the dead are there!

There’s music, song and dance, There’s banishment of care, And mirth in every glance, But, oh! the dead are there!

The wine cup’s sparkling glow Blends with the viands rare, There’s revelry and show, But still, the dead are there!

Neath that flow of song and mirth Runs the current of despair, But the simple sons of earth Know not the dead are there!

They’ll shudder start and tremble, They’ll weep in wild despair When the solemn truth breaks on them, That the dead, the dead are there!