Solon Stiles,,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Solon Stiles by Albery Allson Whitman
To town one day rode Solon Stiles,
O’er weary roads and rocky miles,
And thro’ long lanes, whose dusty breath,
Did nearly smother him to death;
By ragged fences, old and brown,
And thro’ great tall woods up and down.
Wide orchards robed in red and white,
Were singing on his left and right;
The forests carroled by his way,
The grass was chirping, green and gay,
And wild flow’rs, sweetest of their race,
Like country maids of bashful face,
Peeped thro’ the briery fences nigh,
With bright hues in each timid eye.
The farm cows whisked in their cool nook,
And splashed within their peaceful brook;
And on his fence, beneath the shade,
The plow boy’s pipe shrill music made.
Stiles saw all this, but what cared he,
When he was going the town to see?
The country he had always seen,
But into town had never been.
So on he rode, with head on high,
And great thoughts roaming thro’ the sky,
Not caring what he trotted by.
A little mule he sat astride,
With ropes for stirrups o’er him tied,
In which huge boots, as red as clay —
Red as a fox, some folks would say —
Swung loosely down, and dangled round,
As if in hopeless search of ground.
At first, when from the woods he rode,
And high in sight his small mule trode,
Rough seas of smoke rolled on his eye,
Great dizzy houses reared on high,
With steeples banging in the sky,
Then Solon stopped and said, “Umph, my!”
And next, a river deep and wide,
With houses floating up its tide
He met, and paused again to look,
And then to move on undertook.
And spurred and spurred, but looked around,
And lo! in deep amazement found
His small mule stuck, and as he spurred
The more, the thing’s ears only stirred.
“Hullo!” a swarm of blubbies cried,
“Whip on the critter’s hairy side!”
At this the mule insulted grew,
Took up its ears, and fairly flew,
Till near a great white bride it drew.
Across the bridge rode Solon Stiles,
By dusty shops and lumber piles,
And where tall houses o’er him stood,
Like cliffs within his native wood.
And furnaces with firey tongues,
And smoky throats and iron lungs,
Like demons coughed, and howled, and roared,
And fire from out their bowels poured.
Now on and on, up Sailor street,
The donkey whirled his rattling feet,
While either sidewalk loud upon
A swarm of oaths were chorused on.
One tall boy, in this surging sea
Of rags and young profanity,
High o’er the rest, on awkward shanks,
Like stilts, led on the swelling ranks.
His deep throat like a fog horn blew,
Till lesser blasts their aid withdrew.
Then Stiles communed thus with his mule:
“My! listen what a cussin’ school
This town lets out to fill the ears
Of God with! My! them babies swears!”
Meanwhile there came a light brigade,
To at the donkey’s heels parade,
Till up before and then behind,
His honor flew and then combined,
An old Dutch waltz and new quick-step,
That half a square of urchins swept,
As fast as leaves were ever seen,
Brushed by a whirlwind from the green.
The tall commander now in front,
Led oathing, as his pride was wont,
The new assault, when stock still stood
The mule away not half a rood;
For lo! with tomahawk in hand,
Before a neighb’ring cigar stand,
He saw a savage; to describe
A chieftain of some bloody tribe.
At Solon straight he raised a blow
And strained with all his might to throw,
But stayed his rage, for he beheld,
That with hot rage the donkey swelled.
Ah! Solon felt his blood run cold,
For oft his gran’dad him had told
Of Indians in an early day,
Beside the bockwoods cotter’s way,
Skulking to on some settler fly,
And scalp him ere he’d time to die.
“Throw if you dare!” aloud he cried,
And slid down at his donkey’s side.
At this he saw the savage stare,
And forthwith threw his coat off there.
With club in hand, the first he found,
Then on the foe at one great bound
He flew, and hard began to pound;
When thus a broad-brimmed vender fat,
Began to interview the spat:
“Vat vas yer dun, yer grazy ding;
Schoost schtop, yer petter don’t py jing!
Schoost vat yer broke my zine mit, aye,
Eh! petter yer don’t, yer go avay!”
“Well!” Solon thought, “If this is town,
I’ll give you leave to knock me down
If I ain’t lost; no, this ain’t me,
No, town ain’t what it seems to be,
Yes, here I am, and this is me,
But town ‘s not what it seems to be!”
Prosperity and Adversity,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Prosperity and Adversity by Albery Allson Whitman
When first the young year inhales the sweetened air,
And painted landscapes kiss her tender feet,
The constant throat of music everywhere
Is burdened with her meed of praises sweet.
The clear brook panting from the ivied steep,
A crystal tribute sings within the dell;
And in the branchy wood secluded deep
Soft echo marks the sounds that please her well.
Till blooming Summer drops her latest charms,
Contentment tunes her reed in labor’s ear;
Till russet plenty crowns the joyous farms,
The tongue of greetings hails the jovial year.
But when the sullen North begins to wail,
Old friends forsake her, leaving one by one;
Till all untended in her leafless vale,
The naked year is left to die alone.
Then saddened blasts convey her snowy bier,
And only blustry storm above her weeps,
While mournful woods attempt a feeble cheer,
And cold drear suns but glance at where she sleeps.
Pashepahos Speech to the Young Men,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Pashepahos Speech to the Young Men by Albery Allson Whitman
Pashepaho heard the young men
Till their lofty words had ended,
And in accents stern, thus answered:
“For your presents, I am thankful.
By your speeches I’m encouraged.
Peace now lighteth all the Nations
As a noon sun lights the prairies.
Time once was when peace was broken
Up in all our Western borders.
Horsed on fire, bloody battle
Rode throughout our ancient forests.
From his home within the sunrise,
From his land of bells and steeples,
From the regions of the East wind,
The hoar dwelling place of Wabun,
Then Spake the Great Father to us,
To his red tribes spake in loud tones
As of thunder in the forests.
“Now be peaceable, my children,
Dwell in friendship’s tents together,
You, my red sons and my white sons.”
Then he took his great war hatchet,
That could strike with blows of thunder,
And into the mountains wandered,
Went forth in the deepest valleys,
And at one blow hewed a pine down,
Fell a great pine of the valleys,
That looked upward into Heaven,
With the East winds in his left hand,
And the West winds in his right hand,
And the noon-beams in his forelocks;
Took this old pine of the valleys,
And to make a war-post, reared it.
Then he spake again, in this wise:
“Lo! the war-post now ascendeth!
See the war-post of the nations,
Now the Great Spirit beholds it;
See it pointing into Heaven
Like the finger of a giant!
Bury now your hatchets neath it,
And be peaceable my children,
Dwell in friendship’s tents together.”
Then the sky above the war-post,
Grew as clear as any crystal,
And the dreamy air was softened,
And the dazing blue seemed higher,
And the far off hills seemed farther,
And all sounds were low and solemn.
Then the red sons and the white sons,
Neath the war-post sat together.
When the red sons spake in this wise:
“Raise your eyes and look now, brothers,
See it now is Indian Summer.
Lo! the sky is all serene now,
And the hills are all a sleeping,
How the brown woods now are yawning?
Now the slow streams sing in whispers.
And the South wind passeth softly
In her moccasins of damp moss.
Lo! this now is Indian Summer,
And the time to go a hunting.
We wlll leave you now, and hasten
To the mountains for a bear hunt.
Our light canoes are waiting
By the waters. Brothers, farewell.
Then spake the Great Father to us,
As we stood beside the waters,
By the moorings of our canoes,
And shook hands with all our brothers.
“Thus your hunting grounds, my red sons,
Shall extend; my white sons know them.
From Kaskaskia to Cahokia,
From St. Vincennes to St. Louis,
Up the Wabash, Illinois,
The Wisconsin, and Great Water,
To the regions of the North wind,
Where the bold St. Lawrence spreadeth
Out the fingers of his right hand;
Where the dun moose snuffs the lake fog,
Snuffs the cold breath of the North Lakes,
And the slow bear baffles Winter,
In his sullen reign of deep snows;
Where the son of Giant waters
Rocks the earth as in a cradle,
And sings lullabys of thunder
In the ear of old Forever,
Till the darkness sighs and shudders,
And the white hills quake and whisper,
“Lo, Niagara is waking!”
From this birth-place of the hoar blasts,
To the wigwam of the South wind,
In the myriad-voiced prairies,
Where the wild goose sounds her pibroch,
And the wild duck talks her nonsense,
And the heron shoots her slant flights,
From her dreamings in the long grass;
These shall be — then loud he uttered —
Hunting grounds for you forever.”
Then said Pashepaho, turning
From his audience, and smoking,
“Peace now lighteth up our forests,
And our wigwams all are cheerful.”
Peace by Albery Allson Whitman,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Peace by Albery Allson Whitman
As the raindrop on a flower
When the bow’s behind a shower,
As the breeze that fans the forehead
Of the sunset, when his cheeks red
Nestle on his mountain pillow,
Or a sea without a billow;
So is Peace’s sweet libations,
To the bosom of the Nations.
While the Shepherd’s lone were tending
Flocks by night on Judah’s plain;
Angels bright above them bending,
Trumpeted their sweet refrain:
“Glory be to God in Heaven,
Peace on earth, good will to men,
To the world a Savior’s given,
Lo! he comes in Bethlehem.
Then a door in Heaven opened,
And a milk-white spirit flew
From the golden portals earthward —
And the Nation’s journeying thro’,
She touched the Conqu’ror’s sword, that thrust
Thro’ thousand hearts red honors wore;
The glitt’ring terror fell before
His eyes and crumbled into dust.
She breathed upon the warrior’s wreath,
And while applauses filled his ears,
And earth her tribute paid of tears,
His glory withered in her breath.
She stood behind the tyrant’s throne;
His sceptre vanished from his hand;
And lo! he saw on sea and land,
His gloomy power was gone.
She fanned the lab’rer’s care-worn brow,
And sunshine falling from her wing
Into his heart, forced him to sing
While leaning on his plow.
Then by his cot she turned her flight,
And blithe health to the doorway ran,
Contentment’s sweetest songs began,
And all within was light.
Old Abe The War Eagle of Wisconsin ,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Old Abe The War Eagle of Wisconsin by Albery Allson Whitman
Heard ye of “Old Abe,” the war eagle who went
From his home by the Lakes to the far sunny coasts,
To share the brave fortunes of that regiment
Which numbered the Eighth in Wisconsin’s proud hosts?
When army clouds mingled in that civil storm
Which hung o’er the Nation in deep low’ring gloom,
Above a horizon of breastworks his form,
The emblem of Liberty, proudly did plume.
Away in the dimness of uncertain strife
He spread his bold flight towards Victory’s sky —
Tho’ treason smote hard at the National life —
And soared to her parapets looking on high.
From whence mangled Slavery, low at the feet
Of proud stamping battle, he stooped then to spurn,
And homeward flew back with the brave boys to meet
The loved ones who wainted to hail their return.
Morton, an epic poem by Albery Allson Whitman, stands as a powerful and ambitious work in 19th-century African American literature. Published in 1884, the poem recounts the story of John Morton, a fictionalised freedom fighter and moral hero, set against the turbulent backdrop of slavery, war, and the struggle for justice. With elevated diction, classical structure, and sweeping narrative scope, Whitman sought to place African American voices firmly within the literary tradition of epic poetry. Through Morton, he not only celebrated black resilience and virtue but also challenged the dominant cultural narratives of his time, offering a dignified, heroic vision of African American identity and legacy.
Morton by Albery Allson Whitman
Freedom, thy son is dead!
Once more the solemn tread
Of the long, slow cortege echoes to throbs
Of a nation’s heart, and a great people’s sobs
Around their leader’s bier,
Burst on the sorrowing ear.
The lips of mirth are still,
And the eyes of beauty fill
With big tears;
The voice of love is low,
The hands of trade move slow,
And toil wears
A deep grief on his brow.
The tongues of sad bells cleaving
To the roofs of their mouths speak not;
And music’s bosom heaving
Beneath its burden is silent.
Fair Indiana weeps,
The central mourner of a group of States,
That come with tears to shed
Around the mighty dead.
Alas! poor Indiana!
Too late in him who sleeps,
Thou see’st a noble son,
So soon “worn out” and done!
His voice is hushed forever in thy gates.
Alas! poor Indiana!
Now is a time for memory and tears,
And lessons that fall from the lips of years.
Sit down in the shadow that like a dark pall
From this sad event doth over thee fall,
With a hand on thy heart, and a hand on thy head,
And mourn thy great loss in the glorious dead.
Thou hast sisters who may with the mourn,
But none for thee, for none thy loss have borne.
Now is a time for reflection.
A star has gone down.
But the light that shone,
Yet lingers on our sight;
And we turn in the direction
In which we last saw it going,
And pensively pause, scarce knowing
That all around is night.
Weep for Indiana!
Ye her sisters who gave
Our flag an arm of help in peril’s hour:
And raised the injured slave
From iron heeled oppression’s galling power.
Weep, States, for Indiana!
Her Morton saved her, when she strove the awful leap
Into Rebellion’s vortex dread to take.
The rocky jaws of ruin gaping deep
Beneath, began her head to dizzy make;
And wild hallucinations that did rise
From slavery’s hell of wrongs had sealed her eyes
To danger; on the brink a moment, lost
To Freedom’s sweet entreating voice, she tossed
Her tresses back, and in fair frenzy gazed
Upon our glorious flag; a mad cry raised,
And sprang for death; but seized by her great son,
Who to the awful rescue swift had run,
And forced in herculean arms away,
She mourns him, clothed in her right mind to-day.
Toll the bells for a nation’s sorrow,
Toll slow, toll slow!
Chant songs of a people’s sorrow,
Chant low, chant low.
Behold the great man borne
Towards the waiting tomb!
Open earth! Give him room!
Environed in the gloom
That lowers, mourn, people! mourn!
And with the solemn boom
Of cannon, and the knells
Of sad sorrowing bells,
Proclaim, proclaim his doom!
His glory was to serve his State —
She gave him none; — he was born great.
In his country’s woe he found his own,
His weal in his country’s weal,
Self in his great works never was known —
A patriot true as steel.
Born to rule, he knew the reins,
And knew the rod, and spared no pains
In using either, when they need be.
As restless as the uncontented sea,
He knew no stand still.
Stronger forever growing he
Was in man will.
He was the lion who could awe the weak
By lying still in massive dread reserve,
Or fly upon the strong opposer’s neck
With scornful glare, and blows of iron nerve.
And sun ne’er looked upon a day,
Since our Republic tore away
Her arms from Britain’s clutch,
That would not have seen him in front,
As in our times his life was wont;
The elements were such
In him, and so combined
Were all the powers of his vast mind.
His was no warrior’s wreath —
He not on cannon’s breath
O’er red fields rode to death
And immortality;
But strong for liberty
He rose in dreadful might —
Dreadful because of right —
And with the weapons bright
That genius gave her favorite son,
He dealt dismay and death to foes
Far mightier than those
Who dare the flash of steel and reeking gun.
When human slav’ry struggled to extend
Its snaky coil round California’s coasts,
And thro’ our trembling land from end to end,
Flaunting Secession made his open boasts,
He met the hissing wrong,
And cool, and brave, and strong,
Drove back its forked tongue.
When loyal heads hung down,
‘Neath mad opinion’s frown,
And tongues more fearful froze;
His was to oppose
With clearest words of stone,
Hewn from the loyal block,
Whose meaning always known,
With true energy thrown,
Smote like the rock.
When freedom’s columns waved,
And friends of the enslaved
Aghast fell back,
His courage knew no lack —
He hurried to the van,
The thickest dangers braved,
And e’er the battle saved;
So nobly he behaved —
The cause lived in the man.
He could endure, rebuke, compel, entreat,
Forbear, defy, but could not know defeat.
First always in the right,
Doing with all his might,
And last to yield the fight,
His friends learned to depend upon him,
And his foes feared to rush upon him,
And both joined to wonder at him,
And slander ceased to thunder at him,
And envy ceased to sneak behind him,
And everywhere applause would find him,
Till rumor held her speech before him;
And now he’s gone, we all adore him.
Two there were who fought
Our struggles dire;
One in the battle’s hell,
Met by destruction’s yell,
And the death rain of shot and shell,
For his country strove;
One the great work of love
With his mind’s arms wrought.
While war in the far-off South
Mowed fields of death at the cannon’s mouth;
His breath of fire and hail
Was not more dreadful that the wail
Of want in the North, whose shiv’ring blast,
To mothers’ hearts, and children’s homes laid waste.
When the disconsolate East was blowing,
And not a spray nor leaf of cheer was flowing
With life’s heavy stream;
And when the harsh skies hissing, snowing,
And low and dark and sullen growing,
Extinguished sun’s last gleam.
When little bare foot want was going
From door to door;
Her withered empty hands a showing,
Her eyes running o’er —
Telling of a father dead,
Who for his country had bled;
And of a sick mother’s bed,
Begging a crumb of bread;
When wretchedness her bare arms throwing
Around her children, looked thro’ tears
And murmured in her country’s ears
To help her in her sore distress
Feed those the war left fatherless;
When this hour came, the darkest hour
That e’er upon our flag did lower,
God called His man, as best He knows,
God called His man, and Morton rose.
Like some vast cliff whose tow’ring form
Awe, strikes but shelters from the storm,
He rose, to us a strong defense,
A tow’r of help, and good immense.
With Indiana on his back,
Her Legislature off the track,
And half the members pulling back,
He rose, the awful advocate,
And on the right road dragged his State.
Tho’ wealth hugged his Secession gold,
And with a nod the weak controlled,
Things had to move when he took hold,
And shook to life the feeble souled.
Statesman, patriot, sire, bear him away;
Inter him with a nation’s honors to-day!
He has seized slavery with fearless hands,
And thrown her gloomy castle from the sands,
His blows of massive wisdom strong,
Have hurled to earth the tow’ring wrong,
But ‘neath its falling columns crushed,
His matchless voice in death is hushed.
Beauty, cover him with flowers of his native shore.
Valor, with unfading laurels cover him o’er.
Freedmen, bring your tears,
And till life’s last years
Reach the echoless shore,
Tell his great deeds o’er.
And soldiers, wherever our standard flies;
Or where thou goest neath foreign skies,
Behold thy friend in death low lies!
Friend when you fronted the battle,
Friend when the cannon’s rattle
Mowed a harvest of death,
Friend when “worn out” you reeled
Home from the bloody field
To rest beneath
An humble shed,
Scanty of comfort, scanty of bread —
Weep for him soldiers! Weep for your friend!
And forget not till your lives shall end,
To honor the noble dead.
Custars Last Ride,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Custars Last Ride by Albery Allson Whitman
Forth on the fatal morn,
Proud as the waves of Horn
Rode the cavalier;
Followed by gallant men,
Far in a rocky glen
To disappear.
“Halt!” bands of Sioux are seen
O’er all the dark ravine,
Crouched in numbers vast;
“Halt!” and a hush, “Prepare!”
“Charge!” and the very air
Starts at the blast.
Long waves of horsemen break,
And hoofy thunders wake
On the steep glen sides.
Back roll the columns brave,
Back in a smoky grave,
Each hero rides.
“Ready!” their chieftain cries,
Steady his eagle eyes
Sweep the dark ground o’er.
Slowly the lines re-form,
Slowly returns the storm,
Yet dreadful more.
“Charge!” is the proud command,
Onward the daring band
Like a torrent dash;
On heaving gorges long,
On groaning rocks among,
With tempest crash.
Up from their ferny beds
Dart fields of pluming heads,
As if hideous earth,
Out of her rocky womb,
Out of an army’s tomb,
Doth give them birth.
“Rally!” but once is heard,
“Rally!” and not a word,
The brave boys rallying, speak.
Lightnings of valiant steel
Flash fast; the columns reel,
Bend — reel and break!
“Stand!” cries their Custar proud,
“Stand!” in the battle cloud
Echoes high around.
Answers the sabre’s stroke,
Tho’ in black waves of smoke
His fair form’s drown’d.
Firece hordes of painted braves
Melt down, for well behave
Horse and cavalier:
As round their chief they fall,
Cheered by his clarion call,
From front to rear.
No more their leader calls,
Pierced ‘mid his men he falls,
But sinks breathing, “Stand!”
And where the hero lies,
Each soldier till he dies,
Fights hand to hand.
A Dream of Glory,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
A Dream of Glory by Albery Allson Whitman
True glory on the earth is seldom seen,
Tho’ sought by many with a jealous eye;
For where the heavenly birth has ever been,
The heedless footsteps of the world pass by.
The fairest blooms are born of humble weeds,
That faint and perish in the pathless wood;
And out of bitter life grow noble deeds,
To pass unnoticed in the multitude.
But reared by care, within the garden neat,
Luxuriant chances beautify the whole;
While poison lurks beneath each painted sweet,
And shoots a sorrow thro’ the admiring soul.
Poor homeless hearts, unpitied by mankind,
And fortunes shattered in the adverse blast,
Are signals that have marked the march of mind,
Through boasted civ’lization’s glorious past.
The dauntless will that scorns threat’ning defeat,
And breaks thro’ penury’s strong prison bars;
Can plant on triumphs proud his tow’ring feet,
And walk a shining highway to the stars.
The Runaway-by Albery Allson Whitman. Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”.
He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
The Runaway by Albery Allson Whitman
Awake, my muse, ye goodly sights among,
The land of Boone and Kenton claims my song.
Thro’ other scenes our lovers take their flight,
See where their wand’ring footsteps pass in sight.
Lo! where yon pleasant valleys meet the eyes,
And goodly hills their forests lifting rise!
Here, as we pass, along our cheerful way,
Small farms adjoining, stretch in green array.
And small farm houses, looking great trees thro,’
And neat dressed orchards, dot th’ enlivened view;
And their quaint roofs by Autumn suns embrowned,
With wind-mills rude, and bird-box turrets crowned,
Look thro’ the branchy elms and locusts high,
And send a rustic welcome to the eye.
See where yon flocks their even pastures browse,
And lowing homeward, hear the sober cows,
And hear yon plowman whistling as he plows.
Here circling plenty meets returning suns,
And lucid cheer in ev’ry valley runs,
Loud satisfaction fills the evening air,
And jovial comfort soothes the ear of care.
Thrice hail! proud land, whose genius boasts a Clay!
The Cicero of slavery’s palmy day,
The gifted champion of Compromise,
Whose mien majestic filled a nation’s eyes;
And on the eloquence of whose wise tongue
A learned Senate in rapt silence hung;
A Senate, too, whose fame no one impugns,
Of Websters, Randolphs, Marshals and Calhouns.
And could a land that boasts a mind like this —
That bord’ring on the clime of freedom is —
Suffer a harlot with her whorings vile
To peacefully pollute her gen’rous soil?
Yes, green Kentucky with her native pride,
Proclaiming trust in the great Crucified,
Flaunting her prestige in the world’s wide face,
Boasting descent and precedence of race,
And by the greatest of all statesmen led,
Shared the pollutions of a slavish bed.
All o’er her fields, the blood-hound’s savage bay
Pressed the poor sable trembling runaway,
And sometimes by the home of Henry Clay!
In all her woods, the wail of wild distress
Was heard, as tattered starving wretchedness
Fled in the shrieking wrath of wintry storm;
Wrapping her babe in rags to keep it warm!
Can I forget the tears a parent shed
When her dear hand she placed upon my head,
And me embracing, tremulously said:
“My heart is sick whene’er the sad winds blow,
And all the ground is buried deep in snow,
For I remember, when I was a child,
The night was dark, the raving winds were wild,
The earth was still, the snow lay deep and white,
When at our door there came a footstep light.
We opened, and a strange black woman’s face
Looked in; she held a child in her embrace
And said: “Ize nearly froz to deaf’, oh wont
You let me in? Oh! don’t say no! Oh don’t!”
She came in, but before we said a word,
Her master’s voice was in the quarters heard!
She knew the sound, her babe close to her drew,
And back into the wintry tempest flew.
The morning came, and chilly miles away,
In snow half hid the lifeless mother lay!
But in her arms the babe alive did sleep,
And when discovered, woke, but did not weep!
And lo! uncovered to the mournful light,
The mother’s face was black — the babe’s was white!”
I love Kentucky; tho’ she merit scorn
I can’t despise the land where I was born.
Her name I cherish, and expect to see
The day when all her sons will cherish me.
Her many sins have all in common been
With other sisters’ who their sins have seen.
Yes, I will pray for that good time to come
When I can say: Kentucky is my home.
And this I now ask at my country’s hand,
If I must die in some far distant land,
Then let my countrymen, when I am dead,
Where I was born, make my eternal bed.
But here our lovers are again;
Awake, my muse, thy wonted strain!
The hounds at day-break struck a trail
In deep Green River’s lonely vale,
And thro’ the dusk of dewy morn,
Echoed the hunter’s rousing horn.
“What is it?” flew from tongue to tongue,
As to his horse each rider sprung.
A moment in their saddles still,
They heard the baying on the hill
Not far away, and full well knew
A runaway before them flew.
The chase began, the horses dashed
Away, and thro’ the bushes crashed,
Like birds that flutter on the wing
All thro’ the wild copse scattering.
Each horseman pressing for the lead
Bore on and on, with champing speed.
On, on and on, and on, o’er hills,
And winding valleys, leaping rills
And fallen trunks like startled hinds,
Wild as a flood, as swift as winds.
The hounds’ loud clamor rolled and broke
Morn’s drowsy stillness, and awoke
The sleepy hills, that answered back
The lusty tonguing of the pack.
Within his quiet farmhouse wood,
The early rustic list’ning stood,
The plowman whistling in his lane,
Paused, listened, paused and paused again,
Surmised, went on, went on, surmised,
And at their loud speed stood surprised;
As o’er his fences passing near,
He heard them in their mad career.
Their loud tongues on the morning breeze
Now Rodney heard, as if the trees
Were yearning in their sympathy,
And stretched, and sighed and whispered “fly.”
And fly he did, and as away he sped,
Soon of the pack a length’ning space ahead;
His nimble limbs grown strong by punishment,
Bore manly up as on and on he went.
O’er fences high, and gullies wide he leapt,
Skimmed level fields and thro’ the briars crept,
Now pricked by these, now by the wanton thorn,
And now by knotty bamboos hung and torn.
His footsteps now had gained a wooded hight,
Now fields and houses all were out of sight;
He paused to listen, heard his heart’s quick beat,
And thought it was the sound of coming feet.
Another instant and the flying slave,
Was trying if his legs could well behave.
Thro’ pond’rous woods and darkling shades he ran,
Three miles or more from where his flight began,
Sometimes along the wild boar’s narrow way,
Sometimes where hunted wolves in cover lay.
He soon could hear the fierce hound on his rear,
Baying out inbred hate, and drawing near.
Loud in the distance angry signals wound,
And furious yells urged on the flying hound.
Dread oaths were muttering on the morn’s still air,
Enough to hush the jungle’s roaring lair.
Now Rodney, bursting from the wood,
An instant on the high bluffs stood
And gazed upon Green River’s flood,
That tossed and growled and rolled beneath,
Like torments in the vaults of death.
The rocks look’d down with angry awe,
And feeble shrubs leant back and saw.
Few moments more the worst must bring,
For now the worst had poised its wing!
The hounds are on him! “Save! oh save!”
Right downward leaping cries the slave,
But not into a watery grave!
With arms of steel he mounts the wave,
He grapples with the dizzy tide,
Turns downward, where the cliffs doth hide,
And then with strokes manful to see,
He pulls for life and liberty.
Meanwhile the hounds have ceased to bay,
The hunters look and turn away,
And “Ah! he’s drowned!” all seem to say.
Three nights or more curtain the skies,
And now we turn our weary eyes
To where the Creole mother flies.
Thro’ dangers led by friends at night,
By day concealed from mortal sight,
Thus far, secure has been her flight.
A storm was low’ring, and the sun was low,
The Creole’s weary steps were short and slow,
The air grew sightless, and the fields were still,
The woods were restless on the solemn hill,
The earth seems shrinking from the threat’ning skies,
As night on rayless wings athwart the sun’s path flies.
All nature trembles! Lo! the cloud-folds break,
The mountains with their thunder-tongues awake,
While livid lightnings glare on every peak,
And with their arms of flame, their warring lances take.
The startled clouds flee out into the deep
Of troubled night; and headlong down each steep
Rush dizzy torrents from the flood-drenched hills,
And foam along the overflowing rills.
But hark! in all this storm a woman’s wail!
A mother’s anguish doth the ear assail!
Beneath yon beetling rocks, oh raise thine eyes,
To where Leeona lifts her tender cries!
See now she sinks into the cliff’s embrace,
And turns to heaven her entreating face
In tearful beauty! Hark! for help she cries!
And thunders answer from the wrathful skies!
Between the surges of tumultous winds,
Her cry a passage thro’ the tempest finds.
“Oh God! my child! my child!” she wails distrest,
And clasps the tender sorrow to her breast.
But like the vaulty whispers of the tomb,
Her words come back from hollow-throated night’s deep gloom.
Oh! Heaven, can’st thou thus be pitiless,
And hear, unmoved, the cry of loveliness?
Cause thy rebellious winds to war no more,
The loud disturbers of a nightly shore!
Ah! how the torrents now are pouring down,
They seem as if the whole earth they would drown;
But this last flood descending, hope creates,
For when it slackens, then the storm abates.
The rain has ceased; but the belabored wood
Yet waves and trembles in a troubled mood.
The frantic Creole lifts a piercing cry,
Hoping to rouse some woodsman dwelling nigh;
But in the bluffs above her wolves reply.
“Oh! Heaven,” shrinking in the rock she gasps,
And in her arms her infant tighter clasps,
“The wolves are howling, Ah! What shall I do?
Beset by beasts and human monsters too!”
Then like some doe when dogs and horns surround,
That starts, stops, listens, starts with sudden bound,
Flies from her covert, leaps rock, fence and hedge,
And leaves the baying dangers of the sedge.
Right so Leeona stops, and starts, and leaps,
And bounding onward leaves the howling steeps.
The flashing heavens make her footing good
In darksome paths, through the abodeless wood,
As on she flies, a spirit of the night,
But knows not where her heaven assisted flight.
Day came — an ugly, wet and sluggish day —
When in the woods, far on Leeona’s way,
A band of sun-browned cleavers she beheld,
That near their lonely homes their forests felled.
Their great rough arms, as rough as oak limbs are,
Dropt on their knees, and to their elbows bare;
Held up their chins, as from their logs they gazed
Upon the fleeing woman, sore amazed.
And when she came to them with tales of woe,
They pressed around her eagerly to know
From whence she was, and whither she would go.
And then they grouped and muttered to themselves,
Smote on their breasts, and seized their pond’rous helves,
And breathing out a gale of oaths and threats,
They led her to their humble forest seats.
Of how the Creole, by these woodsmens’ aid,
Her further flight toward Ohio made;
Of how she wandered two long months, beset
By shrewd suspicions, and by mistrust met,
By day concealed, by night hurried along,
Cannot be uttered on the tongue of song,
But raise your eyes to where the verging land
Of Bondage touches Freedom’s holier strand.
Low in the cheerless West, deceitful rays
Kindle their fires to a feeble blaze.
The leafless woods send up a ceaseless howl,
As looking down upon them with a scowl,
From voiceless hills, the wintry blasts doth stand,
And shake their shrieking tops from hand to hand.
The hoarse Ohio chafes his bleak shores gray,
And sullen, rolls to warmer climes away.
But list! is that the moaning of a gale
Disconsolate, within yon leafless vale?
Draw nearer, listen, now it rises high,
Now lower sinks, recedes, and now comes nigh.
Is it the blast of all its mildness shorn?
Ah! no, ’tis poor Leeona that dost mourn!
See where on yonder rising rock she stands,
And holds her tattered garments in her hands;
Scarce able to rescue them from the wind,
That flings them, with her streaming locks behind;
Unwraps her perfect limbs, that white and bare,
Empurple in the bitter Northern air.
From her bare feet blood trickles down the stone!
Ah, God! Why is she here? Why thus alone?
Oh, what hath driven her from home away,
And Comfort’s hearth, upon this ruthless day?
Ah! see her driven from warm Care’s embrace
A lone sweet exile of the Creole race!
By heaven forsaken, and denied by earth,
As if too crime-stained to deserve a birth.
By native streams no more in peace to rove,
And hear the sylvan music of the grove.
No more to pluck the fruits of gen’rous growth,
And gather flowers of the fragrant South,
How can she meet the fierce wrath of the North,
Houseless and clotheless, thus to wander forth?
Ah! Ask you? Turn to where yon hounds pursue,
And circle swift the clam’ring forests thro.’
Hark! how loud horns resound upon her rear,
Oh! heaven save her! Is no helper near?
Must she beneath the angry tide be borne,
Or by the savage hounds be seized and torn?
Beyond the river is a fisher’s hut,
Close in a cove beneath tall forests shut;
Beyond the hut a narrow path climbs o’er
The crescent bluffs, and winds along the shore.
Within this hut Ben Guildern sate all day,
Mending his nets and lines, and smoked away.
He dreamed of this wide world and all its cares,
Its hopes and doubts, its pleasures, pains and snares,
Of man’s pilgrimage to a better bourne,
Where toil shall rest, and man shall cease to mourn;
And of the days and other faces gone,
Ere he was left to pass thro’ life alone;
Of pleasant tasks his manly arms had wrought,
Of slumbers sweet that toil remitting brought;
And of the many times he climbed that hill,
And found a wife and children waiting still;
And supper smoking, and a ready plate,
When all day’s luckless toil had made him late.
“All gone!” within his wave-tossed soul he sighs,
And o’er the waters lifts his tear-dimmed eyes,
“A cold and blustry night the boat went down,
And my poor wife and babes were left to drown!”
He sees a signal from the other shore —
A woman beckons him to set her o’er;
He hears the hounds, and not a word is said,
A fugitive he sees imploring aid;
His boat is launched, and from her moorings thrown,
The tide awaits her, rolling up and down,
A moment near the shore she slow doth move,
And waits another and another shove;
This way and that the eddy smooth she tries,
Ventures and darts, and with the current flies.
So when the speedy roe is brought to bay,
Where rising cliffs oppose her woody way,
Within some nook embraced by rocks and logs,
She turns her head upon the bristling dogs,
Bends here and there until her way is clear,
Flies through her foes and leaves them on the rear.
Seized by the heaving tide, the feath’ry boat,
Midway the river down begins to float,
But Guildern with his strong arms grasps the oars,
Plies all his strength, and up the current soars.
The angry billows clamor at his keel,
And on his prow in sudden fury wheel,
Till, at an angle of a good degree
Above the hound-pressed Creole pausing, he
Wheels short his flight, athwart the current shaves,
And shoreward glides before the rolling waves.
So when the untiring mistress of the winds
Discovers in the covert feeding hinds,
Midway she meets the current of the skies,
And by its adverse strength succeeds to rise,
Till high above the destined point she swings,
Drops from the clouds and shaves on level wings.
The shore is touched, the Creole boards the boat
With child in arms, and all are now afloat.
Old Guildern speaks not, but plies all his skill,
And looks the firm monition, “now be still,”
Leeona’s heart with hope and awe is swelled,
She meets an eye that danger never quelled,
A face as rough as wintry hills, but bland,
An arm of massive strength, but gentle hand,
And mien of dreadful soberness, that braves
The sullen fury of the wind and waves.
The boat is now far out into the stream,
And as her quick oars in the low sun gleam,
Rides up and down the wave, and oe’r and oe’r,
And level swims towards the other shore.
Ah! nobly bearing up her precious freight,
How steadily she rocks beneath the weight!
Her keel has touched, it cleaves the yellow sand,
Thank God! thank God! they land, they land! they land!
Within a fisher’s hut all night,
And leaving by the early light
Of bleak December’s lurid morn,
Leeona passes into sight,
Cast down and faint, and travel-worn.
From naked hills loud shrieking flew the blast,
And out of hearing moaned along the waste,
Like some torn beggar all disconsolate,
That mutters from harsh Opulence’s gate;
As ‘Ona trudged along her lonly way,
Beneath a nightly vault of starless gray.
Her murmuring infant shivered in the blast,
As houses by her way she hurried past,
Where rustic comfort sat with smiling pride,
At honest labor’s genial fireside.
Thus thro’ the hoary landscape’s wintry scorn,
She forced her mind’s consent to journey on till morn.
The clouds dispersed as night wore slowly on,
And stars from their high glist’ring fields looked down,
Till late the moon-top’d hills in white arose,
And peerless night unveiled her shivering realms of snows.
Ah! bent and trembling, see that gentle form,
Where shelt’ring rocks oppose the wrathful storm,
Chased like some beast, that hovers with her young
In yawning caves, and desert rocks among.
Her tender infant in her arms is prest,
Hushed are its cries — it gently seems to rest.
Where vagrant swine their wintry beds have made
Of leaves and branches from the forest shade,
Now ‘Ona stoops to rest her darling’s head,
When lo! she starts, she shrieks — her child is dead!
Her wounded bosom feels a nameless dart,
A ghastly sorrow clutches at her heart —
Nor fear assails, tho’ now to leave she tries,
But trying stays, her babe embraces, cries,
The cold cliffs groan, and hollow night replies.
The dismal gorges murmur at the sound,
And empty fields spread echoless around.
Beside her babe the weeping mother kneels,
With anguish dumb its pulseless hands she feels;
Its placid cheek against her face is prest,
Her ear is leant upon its silent breast;
Her hopes are gone! and Heaven’s pure ear hears
Deep grief entreating thro’ a flood of tears.
Above the cliffs where winds a country way,
A voice is heard in cautious tones to say:
“Leeona! Oh Leeona! Oh my dear!
Is it my ‘Ona’s mournful voice I hear?”
The Creole hushed, afraid to trust her soul,
The felt a mighty burden sudden roll;
Quick claspt her bosom in aching suspense,
But now distincter heard the voice commence:
“Leeona! Oh, my ‘Ona! are you near?”
The Creole answers, “Rodney, I am here!”
Rodney had heard along Leeona’s way,
Of her wild flight, and her pursued all day.
Now down the cliffs in breathless haste he flies,
And clasps his life, as thus to him she cries:
“Oh! see, my Rodney; see where baby lies!”
The bosom that had life-long sorrow borne,
The heart which had so long been taught to mourn,
With real manly sympathetic heaves,
Bent o’er the little corpse and raised it from the leaves.
“Poor harmless comer!” then he gently said,
“Better for thee that thy pure soul has fled
With angel watches to the waiting skies,
Where peace e’er flows, and happier climes arise.
Conceived in trouble and in sorrow born,
Thy life rose clouded in its very morn,
And wore along with unpropitious suns;
But to a happy close at last it runs!
Sweet be thy rest upon this lonely shore,
Rocked in the cradle of the winds no more,
And ne’er awakened by the tempest’s roar.”
This said, to roll the stone away he stoops,
And in its bed a hasty resting scoops,
Commits his tender burden to the ground,
In poor Leeona’s last torn apron wound.
She from a mother’s anguish pours out cries,
Bends o’er her infant where entombed it lies,
Its calm cheek moistens from her tender eyes,
Its pale lips kisses o’er and o’er and o’er,
And deeper sobs with each long last once more,
Till Rodney’s kindly touch she feels implore;
Then murmurs, “good-bye, good-bye, mamma’s May!”
And with a loud wail tears her wounded heart away.
Here sadness ends,
A new sun lends
His beams to light our way,
And pleasant sights,
And fair delights
Unite to rise our lay.
Where Freedom is what Freedom means,
Our lovers pass to other scenes.
The Lute of Africs Tribe- by Albery Allson Whitman. Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”.
He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
The Lute of Africs Tribe by Albery Allson Whitman
When Israel sate by Babel’s stream and wept,
The heathen said, “Sing one of Zion’s songs;”
But tuneless lay the lyre of those who slept
Where Sharon bloomed and Oreb vigil kept;
For holy song to holy ears belongs.
So, when her iron clutch the Slave power reached,
And sable generations captive held;
When Wrong the gospel of endurance preached;
The lute of Afric’s tribe, tho’ oft beseeched,
In all its wild, sweet warblings never swelled.
And yet when Freedom’s lispings o’er it stole,
Soft as the breath of undefiled morn,
A wand’ring accent from its strings would stroll —
Thus was our Simpson, man of song and soul,
And stalwart energies, to bless us born.
When all our nation’s sky was overcast
With rayless clouds of deepening misery,
His soaring vision mounted thro’ the blast,
And from behind its gloom approaching fast.
Beheld the glorious Sun of Liberty.
He sang exultant: “Let her banner wave!”
And cheering senates, fired by his zeal,
Helped snatch their country from rebellion’s grave
Looked through brave tears upon the injured slave,
And raised the battle-arm to break his gyves of steel.
But hushed the bard, his harp no longer sings
The woes and longings of a shackled mind;
For death’s cold fingers swept its trembling strings,
And shut the bosom of its murmurings
Forever on the hearing of mankind.
The bird that dips his flight in noonday sun,
May fall, and spread his plumage on the plain;
But when immortal mind its work hath done
On earth, in heaven a nobler work ‘s begun,
And it can never downward turn again.
Of him, whose harp then, lies by death unstrung —
A harp that long his lowly brethren cheered,
May’nt we now say, that, sainted choirs among,
An everlasting theme inspires his tongue,
Where slaves ne’er groan, and death is never feared?
Yes, he is harping on the “Sea of glass,”
Where saints begin, and angels join the strain;
While Spheres in one profound, eternal bass,
Sing thro’ their orbs, illumined as they pass,
And constellations catch the long refrain.
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