The Complete Poems Of Paul Laurence Dunbar - Paul Laurence Dunbar

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hostilities and the prejudices which had so long constrained his race were destined to vanish in the arts; that these were to be the final proof that God had made of one blood all nations of men. I thought his merits positive and not comparative; and I held that if his black poems had been written by a white man, I should not have found them less admirable. I accepted them as an evidence of the essential unity of the human race, which does not think or feel, black in one and white in another, but humanly in all.

      Yet it appeared to me then, and it appears to me now, that there is a precious difference of temperament between the races which it would be a great pity ever to lose, and that this is best preserved and most charmingly suggested by Mr. Dunbar in those pieces of his where he studies the moods and traits of his race in its own accent of our English. We call such pieces dialect pieces for want of some closer phrase, but they are really not dialect so much as delightful personal attempts and failures for the written and spoken language. In nothing is his essentially refined and delicate art so well shown as in these pieces, which, as I ventured to say, described the range between appetite and emotion, with certain lifts far beyond and above it, which is the range of the race. He reveals in these a finely ironical perception of the negro’s limitations, with a tenderness for them which I think so very rare as to be almost quite new. I should say, perhaps, that it was this humorous quality which Mr. Dunbar had added to our literature, and it would be this which would most distinguish him, now and hereafter. It is something that one feels in nearly all the dialect pieces; and I hope that in the present collection he has kept all of these in his earlier volume, and added others to them. But the contents of this book are wholly of his own choosing, and I do not know how much or little he may have preferred the poems in literary English. Some of these I thought very good, and even more than very good, but not distinctively his contribution to the body of American poetry. What I mean is that several people might have written them; but I do not know any one else at present who could quite have written the dialect pieces. These are divinations and reports of what passes in the hearts and minds of a lowly people whose poetry had hitherto been inarticulately expressed in music, but now finds, for the first time in our tongue, literary interpretation of a very artistic completeness.

      I say the event is interesting, but how important it shall be can be determined only by Mr. Dunbar’s future performance. I cannot undertake to prophesy concerning this; but if he should do nothing more than he has done, I should feel that he had made the strongest claim for the negro in English literature that the negro has yet made. He has at least produced something that, however we may critically disagree about it, we cannot well refuse to enjoy; in more than one piece he has produced a work of art.

      W. D. HOWELLS.

      LYRICS OF LOWLY LIFE

      ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

      Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought

      The magic gold which from the seeker flies;

      Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,

      And make the waking world a world of lies,—

      Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,

      That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,—

      Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

      How all the griefs and heart-aches we have known

      Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise

      From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone,

      To work some potent spell, her magic plies.

      The past which held its share of bitter pain,

      Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,

      Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again,

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

      What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;

      What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise

      Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.

      What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,

      And pangs of vague inexplicable pain

      That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise,

      Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

      Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?

      Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies

      Tends her far course to lands of mystery?

      To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,

      Where shapes unknowable to being spring,

      Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies

      Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying,

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

      How questioneth the soul that other soul,—

      The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,

      But self exposes unto self, a scroll

      Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise,

      In characters indelible and known;

      So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,

      The soul doth view its awful self alone,

      Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

      When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,

      The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,

      And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize

      For kissing all our passions into calm,

      Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries,

      Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery,

      Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,

      At glooms through which our visions cannot see,

      When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.

      THE POET AND HIS SONG

      A song is but a little thing,

      And yet what joy it is to sing!

      In hours of toil it gives me zest,

      And when at eve I long for rest;

      When cows come home along the bars,

      And in the fold I hear the bell,

      As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,

      I sing my song, and all is well.

      There are no ears to hear my lays,

      No lips to lift a word of praise;

      But still, with faith unfaltering,

      I live and laugh and love and sing.

      What matters yon unheeding throng?

      They cannot feel my spirit’s spell,

      Since life is sweet and love is long,

      I sing my song, and all is well.

      My days are never days of ease;

      I till my ground and

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