Prologue by Albery Allson Whitman,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

Prologue by Albery Allson Whitman

The shepherd-king of Judah’s olden days,
Waked his sweet harp to sing Jehovah’s praise,
Then this his theme was in his happy hour:
“Captivity hath lost her horn of power.

The mighty Arm hath broke oppression’s staff,
And drives the spoiler’s hosts, as wind drives chaff,
And moves his kingdoms as the thistle down,
By wanton whirlwinds here and there is blown

“How panting thousands of his faithful tribe,
Drank this sweet strain, no mortal can describe.
Young freedom then first raised his voice sublime,
And spoke his triumphs in the ear of Time.

The soldier sang it on his tented hill,
The maiden at her toilsome slow hand-mill;
The shepherd piped it where he sauntered ‘mong
His bleating folds, and desert paths along;
And morn and eventide, the Temple’s choir
Poured forth the strain, by matron joined and sire.

The wilderness and solitary waste,
With gladsome music woke, and joyous haste;
Engedi’s palmy hills their voices gave,
And echo answered from the prophet’s cave; —
“Ye seed of Jacob sound the jubilee,

The Lord hath triumphed and His hosts are free.
Spread thro’ the heathen’s land the joyous news,
The Mighty God ‘s the refuge of the Jews!
Our shield and strength, our everlasting Sun,

And who shall gainsay what His hand hath done?”
Their sister nations heard the swelling strain,
And ages answered ages back again,
Till yet along the march of centuries
The idea of God and Freedom flies.

Sweet strain! How rapture in it yet is heard
Wherever righteousness her horn hath reared!
Remoteness lends a sweetness to the sound
By changes undisturbed, by lore not bound.

It lives while empires sink and pass away,
Wisdoms go out, and languages decay.

High o’er the heights of tall ambitions gaze,
Beyond proud emulation’s wildest maze,
And Freedom there hath set her glorious stars,
Eternal more than Jupiter or Mars.

Her Washington rides first upon our sky,
Lending his brilliance to the thousands nigh.
Next Lincoln, whom a grateful nation mourns,
Shoots blazing from the age which he adorns.

Sinks on the eve of dreadful war’s alarms,
But sinks with a saved nation in his arms!
And Old John Brown of Harper’s Ferry fame,
Peace to his shade, and honor to his name,

The negro’s light of hope, the friend of right,
Looms on life’s deep, a melancholy light;
The comet of his age, ominous, lone,
And saddest that on earth has ever shone.

But peerless champion of Equal Rights,
Great Sumner stands, like those majestic hights
That guard New England shores from Ocean’s shocks,
With lifted arms of everlasting rocks;

And with the strength of ages in their locks.
‘Twas he who, on his bosom, bore a race,
And met their proud oppressor face to face;
Rose like some Ajax, in his ponderous strength,
And drove his lance, with all its trenchant length,

Full on the brazen disk of slav’ry’s shield,
Until the monster wrong, beneath it reeled.
And when the smoke of war had cleared away,
And in the nation’s sky there broke new day;
‘Twas he, who, mailed in all the might of lore,

The valiant friends of mankind went before,
To wipe the blots of caste from freedom’s code,
And all its axioms of wrong explode;
Lift equal justice up, exalt her laws,
And in her temple plead the black man’s cause.

Let love lorn bards illuminate their lays,
With moonlight soft, and sing some Juno’s praise;
Or whine with cadence sweet, and sickly sweet,
Their few torn hopes at some Diana’s feet;

Let school-house heroes rave around the walls,
Where patriotism rises, treason falls,
Sing loud heroics of a glorious strand,
A freedom’s eagle, and a white man’s land;

Let fools pass by and wag their empty heads,
Deride the sons of Slavery’s humble sheds,
And statesmen prate of law and precedence,
My pen appeals to right and common sense.
The black man has a cause, deny who dares,
And him to vindicate my muse prepares.

A part of this great nation’s hist’ry, he
Has made in valor and fidelity.
His sweat has poured to swell our ample stores,
His blood run freely to defend our shores;
And prayers ascended to the Lord of all,
To save the nation from a direful fall.

Who has not felt in childhood’s heart the thrill
Of bloody Georgetown and of Bunker’s Hill?
Who has not heard the drums of freedom swell,
When Putnam triumphed and when Warren fell?

Proud were our sires, Ticonderoga’s boast,
Fearless defenders of Atlantic’s coast.
When from fair freedom’s terraced hights, we turn
A backward gaze, our grateful bosoms burn,

To see those heroes with red battle clenched,
Till in brave blood their humble fields are drenched.
With Valley Forge’s snowy locks to see
The desp’rate fingers of young liberty,

Grappling, and see his valiant misery;
And then o’er Delaware’s rough wint’ry stream,
To see a thousand loyal muskets gleam
In night’s cold face; and hear the strong brave oars
That meet the hurrying ice between the shores!
And can we then forget that patriots, black,
Marched with white brothers to the dread attack?

 

And when in these late years, the war fiend came,
On tempest horsed, and waved a sword of flame,
When giant treason shook his locks of gore,
And from the East to West the Union tore;

When our free institutions shook and reeled,
Hope turned her eyes towards the battle-field;
And loyal hearts that ne’er before had quaked,
Then quaked, and all their hoarded riches staked.

A nation’s hands were then imploring raised,
While freedom’s arch with bolts of ruin blazed.
Where then the prowess of a century,
The loud boast of white-handed chivalry?

Where, when in triumph wild, the Southern hordes
Unbent their strength, and drew their fearless swords?
Ah! well, we prayed, and God in his own time,
His sable answer sent on Dixie’s clime.

The strong armed negro threw off slavery’s yoke,
And loud as thunder on the world’s ear broke
His shouts of onward! To the front he went,
And in the smoke and din of battle blent,

With brothers white, where color nothing meant.
And there, till our victorious banner swept
Once more the hights of freedom, and we wept
For joy, he stood beneath our startlit dome,
Until a grateful Union called him home.

Now let the nation fling him from her arms,
Forget the part he bore, when war’s alarms
Were rumbling hoarsely in her troubled ear,
And direful overthrow was plainly near;

Forget the hands that caught her falling stars,
And tore loud triumph from the flaunting bars
Of treason; yea, despise the sable race,
And music then will breathe the name with praise!

 

 

 

One Snowy Night,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

One Snowy Night by Albery Allson Whitman

The laughter of sleigh bells was heard on the lips of the snow storm
All day long, and passers were scarcely seen thro’ the falling flakes
Hurriedly going, wrapped close, and one not speaking to another.
‘Twas bitter cold, and the stiffened forests tossed in the northern blast;

And the great old pines, as the gale smote their snowy heads, grumbled,
And seemed in their anguish to mutter: “Let loose our hair and our whiskers!”
The slow wreathes of smoke curled dreamily thro’ the still branches
That burdened with snow, stooped down and were sad-hearted and silent.
All sounds of the barn-yard were hushed in the chill breath of Winter.
The cottage was still, and within doors the cotter kept quiet.

The nightfall came, and still the flakes were coming thickly down.
“How it snows,” said Leeona, as she shut the neat door of her cottage.
Then she drew her chair near Rodney, and sat before a warm fire of logs.
This night the little green cottage was unusually cozy;

The cat on the rug sung low to the slumbering puppy,
Who yelped in a dream, and nipped at the heels of a rabbit.
The light of the fire-place, streaming across the clean hearth,
Glared on the walls, and flashed from the chairs and the tables,
Like the recollections of childhood flinging their cheer across life’s path.

Now thus to her lord spoke the heroine of the Savannas:
“The approaching Christmas throws the shadows of mirth into Sussex.
Never before was there such buying of presents among us;
Never before such love without dissimulation.”

 

Of a sudden Leeona hushed and fixed her eyes upon Rodney.
“Whoa!” cried a voice at the door, as rough as the oaths of a seaman,
“Still, Sorrel!” and a sleigh had stopped at the door of the cottage.
Leeona rose up quickly, but Rodney sat still and listened
Till she had opened the door and looked out in the darkness.

A dim lamp in the driver’s hand streamed thro’ the falling flakes
And discovered two men in the sleigh and one woman.
The men in their great coats wrapped dismounted, and then the woman,
Muffled in heavy furs, and veiled, stepped down between them;
When the driver reined his horses and dashed away in the silence.
The strangers entered the door and Father Eppinck before them,
And bowing, he said: “These are my friends of whom I spoke aforetime.”

Rodney arose and stood erect in speechless wonder and silence,
As the tall and lovely form of Dora, the heroine of Saville,
Stood in the midst of the floor of his humble dwelling, and reached
The white hand of recognition, saying, with the sweetness of other days:
“Do mine eyes behold thee, oh Rodney, my dearest benefactor!

I have heard of you here and have come to remove you to Montreal.
My home is a home for you, and the days of your toil are ended.”
For the tears of gladness and gratitude the manly hero
Of a thousand trials hard could not speak, but he seized the small hand
Extended, and wept a benediction of tears upon it, and kissed it.

His great stern face of simple fidelity and manhood brave,
Was now lighted up with a glow exceeding portrayal,
And in its effulgence approaching those who stand in white robes
Ever, within the tidal glory of the Throne Eternal.
There were greetings then, and the joy of all hearts was running over;
And there countenances all shone with the light of the Kingdom of Heaven.

 

 

Nanawawas Lakelet,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

Nanawawas Lakelet by Albery Allson Whitman

Where the dark ash upward towereth,
And the maple drops her brown shade,
And the rough oak spreads his broad arms,
And the wild vine weaves her festoons;

Where the noon breeze pants for sunlight,
And the sunbeams wandereth shyly,
And the night-winds wrestleth lightly,
With the lone leaf of the forest;

Where the moon-beams creepeth softly,
In a dim veil looking faintly;
In this ancient grand high forest,
In the right hand of Kaskaskia,

And the left hand of Cahokia,
And the regions of the Wabash;
Was the little rush bound lakelet,
Of the forest — Nanawawa’s.

Tall trees in the solemn old woods,
On the western slopes and hilltops,
Threw their shadows in the bottoms.
Parting ferns and water-lilies,

And the rushes, that with wet lips
Sipped the lakelet’s clear, cool waters;
Nanawawa’s birch canoe flashed
Light and noiseless as the shadow

Of a cloud upon a meadow.
In this fleet canoe sat White Loon,
But the oars held Nanawawa,
And the boat plied with her bare arms,
And to White Loon talked in whispers.

Now a moon rose o’er the forest
Of the great Northwestern Country,
And looked down into the lakelet
As a maid looks in her mirror.

All the air was in a slumber,
And the forests, in a deep nap,
Breathed not as soft light stole o’er them,
Wrapt in fleecy garb of thin mists,

Night had gently closed her eyelids,
Clasping all the world in silence;
Save the creek that in the lake leapt,
Coming from the wooded hillside,
Saying strange things to the clear moon.

 

As the boat flashed thro’ the moonlight,
White Loon near to Nanawawa
Drew his face, and spoke in this wise:
“White Loon loves you, Nanawawa!”

When these words fell, both her oars fell,
And she upward at the moon gazed,
With both hands dropped in the water.
As the forest maiden’s soul swam

In her eyes, White Loon leaned o’er her,
Drew her naked bosom to him,
Drew her to him close and listened;
With his breathings half suspended,

Listened to her words of music
Dropping like a wasted shower
Thro’ the leafy depths of Autumn;
“Nanawawa loves you, White Loon,

“White Loon you must build a wigwam.”
White Loon raised his eyes and answered:
“By yon cascade in the mountains,
High above the village looking,

I will build my great birch wigwam,
Ere the wintry hours approacheth.”
And his heart with aspen lightness
Turned toward a happy future.

Forest-love brings forethought with it.
Nuptial care dwells in the wildwood;
In the Indian’s poor wigwam
Love’s bright sunshine casteth shadows.

Thus it was that White Loon, wooing
On the lakelet of the forests,
In the clear and placid moonlight,
Saw a happy future rising
And its pleasant tasks revealing.

Thus it was he built a wigwam,
Dressed it carefully with bear skins,
And the door adorned with stag’s horns,
To abide the bridal entrance.

Then it was he went a hunting,
Went far off into the mountains,
Seeking food to meet the winter.
Saying, as he clambered onward,

With the eager warrior’s hunted;
“I will soon return, I’m hoping,
Let our hunting time be short now.”

 

 

Hymn To The Nation ,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

Hymn To The Nation by Albery Allson Whitman

When Science, trembling in the lengthened shade
Of monster superstitions, and menaced
By raving Bigotry, a dream embraced
Of prosperous worlds by mortal unsurveyed,

Genoa’s seaman and a daring few,
Wide Ocean’s stormy perils rent and brought her bounds to view.

Who then had thought that with the Eternal mind,
That in vast Future’s covered bosom bound —
Shut up — by these sea-roamers to be found,
Was this green home of poor, abused mankind,
This land of exiles, and the peaceful borne,
Where Babel’s scattered tongues shall yet to one great speech return.

Fair Freedom travailed ‘neath an unknown sky,
And tho’ the tyrant shook his envious chain,
And tho’ the bigot reared a gloomy fane,
She bore our darling of the azure eye;
Baptized its childhood in brave blood and tears,
But trumpted her independence in Great Britain’s ears.

Astonished kingdoms heard of the new birth,
And royal vengeance drew her warring blade,
And bloody strokes upon Columbia laid,
To smite the young offender to the earth;
Colonial hardships shivered where she went,
And border horrors thro’ the years a thrill of sadness sent.

But patriotism bold, sustained the blow,
Returning deeper wounds with daring might —
For Freedom ever steels the stroke of right —
And cool determined Valor’s proud arm so
Dismayed the imperial hosts, that baffled George
Saw he could ne’er enslave the men who withstood Valley Forge.

 

A century has spun around the wheel
Of ages, and the years in noiseless flight
Have heaped their golden tributes to the right;
Till now religion in her heavenly zeal,
To mend life’s ills walks hand in hand with lore,
Where clank the chains of slaves in Law’s offended ears no more.

Here honest labor trembles at the nod
Of no despot; and penury no more
Must with her gaunt and withered arm implore
Scant life, at Charity’s closed hands; but God
Doth lead the bounteous thousands as a flock,
And Peace’s happy voices echo from the Nation’s Rock.

Tho’ at the name Republic tyrants mocked,
Columbia has lived a hundred years
Thro’ trials, triumphs, hopes, and doubts and fears,
And still she lives, tho’ often tempest-rocked.
Republic yet, united, one and free,
And may she live; her name the synonyme of Liberty!

Go forth ye children of the valiant land,
Go, sound the timbrel of her praises loud!
Ye Alleghenies, in your ascent proud
Thro’ cloud-surrounded realms, the winds command
That revel in your soaring locks, to raise
One harmony, and mingle all their hoarsest notes in praise!

Ye Rocky mountains, as with awful glee,
Or icy scorn, ye stare against the sun
Whose shafts glance harmless your strong front upon,
And splintered fall, awake the Western Sea
To join the thunders of your snowy reign,
And speak responsive to your neighbors tow’ring o’er the plain!

Stride on, thou dread Niagara, stride on!
Thou lord of waters, in thy mighty wrath,
And thy earth-rocking leap into the bath
Of thunders, stride on! Omnipotent, alone!
And from thy stony lungs her praises sound,
Till Mexic’s potent Sea reply and Oceans shout around!

 

 

Death of Pashepaho ,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

Death of Pashepaho by Albery Allson Whitman

Lo! the old Sac village slumbered
In the basin of the Wabash,
And the doorway of the vallies,
Like some brown old matron napping

On the threshold of her cottage,
When her distaff lieth idle.
All the plaintive vale was cooing,
And the hazy hills were piping,

And the mournful gales were flapping
Thro’ their somber realms of sere woods.
Sang the crane migrating southward,
Answered the itin’rant heron

In her dank and grassy rev’rie,
By the blue and pensive waters.
Then it was that sate the Stabber;
In the middle of his tent floor;

Sate with sober words and features,
Talking of the times he once knew,
Now with the departed past blent,
Now deep in the grave of years laid.

At his side sat Nanawawa,
And her voice like running waters
O’er a pebbly bed descanting,
Sank upon his ears with rapture;

With a wild and lonely rapture,
As she asked him of the old times.
“Nanawawa,” said he, trembling,
“You had better take a husband.

 

From the great tribes of the west plains,
Take a strong ond valiant young chief,
For I soon must go and leave you.
From the wigwam of your mother,

Sixteen years ago you followed;
From the lone spot where we left her,
Where the mournful vine entwines her,
Where the wild briar blooms above her,

Where the wild birds sing unto her;
From that spot I love to think of,
Sixteen years ago you followed
To this wide and unknown country.

Since that time you’ve e’er been with me,
E’er been sunlight in my tent door,
Ever been the joy of old age;
But my daughter, Oh! my daughter,

Oh! my hind, my Nanawawa!
I am now upon a journey,
And you now cannot go with me!”
Nanawawa could not answer,

And for tears saw not the Stabber,
As he leaned upon the tent floor,
And went on to utter faintly:
“What is that I hear a coming?

Don’t I hear the sound of footmen
Coming from a distant country?
Ah! I hear the tread of warriors,
They are coming in a hurry!

I behold great lands before me,
Now I see green mountains rising,
And I see the peaceful wigwams,
Just across the river yonder!

Nanawawa, I must leave you!
Come and see me in the morning.
Oh! my daughter, come and see me!”
Nanawawa caught her father,

Stooping o’er him, called and called him,
Pressed his face against her pale cheek,
Held his hands and watched his still lips.
Then a wail burst from the wigwam;
Pashepao had ceased breathing

 

 

Ye Bards of England,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

Ye Bards of England by Albery Allson Whitman

England, cannot thy shores boast bards as great,
And hearts as good as ever blest a State?
When arts were rude and literature was young,
And language faltered with an uncouth tongue;

When science trembled on her llttle hight,
And poor religion blundered on in night;
When song on Rome’s vast tomb, or carved in Greek,

Like epitaphs with marble lips did speak,
Thy Chaucer singing with the Nightingales,
Poured forth his heart in Canterbury tales,
With rude shell scooped from English pure, and led
The age that raised the muses from the dead.

And gentle Thompson, to thy mem’ry dear,
Awake his lyre and sang the rolling year.
The dropping shower the wild flower scented mead,
The sober herds that in the noon shade feed,

The fragrant field, the green and shady wood,
The winding glen, and rocky solitude,
The smiles of Spring and frowns of Winter gray,
Alike employed his pure and gentle lay.

The wrath of gods, and armies’ dread suspense,
Celestial shouts and shock of arms immense,
In all his song ne’er move us to alarm,
But earth’s pure sounds and sights allure and charm.

 

To Missolonghi’s chief of singers too,
Unhappy Byron is a tribute due.
A wounded spirit, mournful and yet mad,
A genius proud, defiant, gentle, sad.

‘Twas he whose Harold won his Nation’s heart,
And whose Reviewers made her fair cheeks smart;
Whose uncurbed Juan hung her head for shame,
And whose Mazzeppa won unrivaled fame.

Earth had no bound for him. Where’er he strode
His restless genius found no fit abode.
The wing’d storm and the lightning tongued Jungfrau,
Unfathomable Ocean, and the awe

Of Alpine shades, the avalanche’s groan,
The war-rocked empire and the falling throne,
Were toys his genius played with. Britain, then
Urn Byron’s dust — a prodigy of men.

But Shakspeare, the inimitable boast
Of everybody and of every coast;
The man, whose universal fitness meets
Response in every heart of flesh that beats,

No tongue can tell him. One must feel his hand
And see him in his plays, to understand.
All thought to him intuitively ‘s known,
The prate of clowns, and wisdoms of the throne,

The sophist’s puzzles and the doctor’s rules,
The skill of warriors and the cant of fools.
When Shakespeare wrote, the tragic muse saw heights,
Before nor since ne’er tempted in her flights.

 

 

The Tramps Soliloquy,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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 Tramps Soliloquy by Albery Allson Whitman

Had I an envied name and purse of gold,
My friends were more than all my wants twice told;
Reduced to rags and born of title small,
Vast tho’ my wants I have no friends at all.

Anxiety consumes away my years
And failure melts my manhood down in tears.
My down-cast eyes some guilt seem to disclose
And I’m shut in a lazar house of woes.

I am not what I was, my drooping form
Partakes of what is loathsome in the worm.
Pittied hut not respected I may be,
I shun myself, and e’en the dogs shun me.

The rich to chide the poor may adulate
The few torn pleasures of a scanty state;
But cold experience tells her story plain,
Want breeds with bitterness and brings forth pain.

 

 

The Little Green Cottage,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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 Little Green Cottage by Albery Allson Whitman

Canadian farmers came oft to the little green cottage,
To see their new neighbors and hear them tell over their troubles.
The tales of their pilgrimage e’er to their hearers had new charms;
And instances, once told, cloyed not in repeating them over.

Thus it was that farmers, as rough as the oaks in their forests,
But open, and clever, and frank as the brooks in their meadows,
Came oft in the twilight and sat in the door of the cottage,
And said: “We would hear of the land of the poor sable bondman.”

And forward they leant, and sat mute as they heard the dark stories
That sully the borw of America’s proudest endeavors.
And regarding Leeona with pity, they sighed: “Lord have mercy;”
As her words, soft and tender, fell on their great hearts with sweet pathos.

With wonder they look’d as they heard of the bayou and cane-brake;
Their breasts smote and murmured to hear of poor fugitive mothers
Chased down by fell bloodhounds, and dragged from the cypress swamps bleeding.
And their faces flamed red, and they plucked their long beard for resentment,

To hear of slave-holders who bought pure beauty and defiled it;
Blighting the hopes of the sweetest, the fairest, and youngest;
Adorning their harems with flowers all ruined but lovely!
And wringing from hoar age’s heart submission to these vile abuses.

But they raised their broad hats, and shouted and stamped with boist’rous gladness,
To hear of Leeona escaping with Rodney her lover.

Thus it was that many an evening Rodney’s friends came around him,
And far went the fame of the heroine of the savannas.
The same brave Rodney whose blows were too hard for the savage;
Whose feet were too swift, and whose arms were too strong for the bloodhound,

In his secret heart felt his whole life’s fairest triumph
When he saw his Leeona the pride of all the great farmers.
Certain was he in his poverty and humble endeavors;
His little green cottage, tho’ lowly, had its attractions —
Leeona, the womanly model of gentleness lived there.

Not young was she now, and radiant as she was aforetime,
Not thoughtlessly shy and blushing with reluctance so fawn-like,
Her arms were not smooth and round as they once were; her cheeks not so ruddy;
Her eyes were not so brilliant, and playful, and winning;

But softened by love, they beamed steadier and overcame more.
They were not the first stars that peep shyly thro’ the whisp’ring twilight,
But the last sober-beaming ones that patiently linger
Above the familiar wood that watches the homes of our childhood.

She was not the bright light that once dazzled and charmed with its brilliance;
But settled and modest, the amiable light of the hearth-stone,
That draws all close about it, and sets all near hearts a chirping.

The wife of a good man, content to be his and to love him,
Ambitious to rival herself in his strong affections,
And ready always to lay hold with her hands and be happy.
A good wife was she, and loved all who loved her good husband;
And ever was ready to set him in the eyes of her friends
By kindness. Thus was she the idol of Rodney and his friends.

Not least among those who frequented the little green cottage
Was Father Eppinck, the good priest of the parish of Sussex.
A great and good man was he, and a true shepherd to all of his fold.
Were any by poverty shorn of the comforts of this life,
His mantle of care he threw around them, with love warmed.

 

Were the young gone astray in the dangerous wastes of transgression,
He followed their way, and returned with them prest to his bosom,
Were the old with woes pregnant, and burdened with great tribulations,
He led them, and gently pointed them to a more blessed future.

Thus it was that he came to the home of Leeona and Rodney,
With treasures of kind words. He called them his two loving children,
And always on leaving, he left them his best benediction.
He too loved Leeona, and came to hear of her pilgrimage.

‘Twas a balmy afternoon in the joyous vale of the Sussex,
And the voices of Autumn were heard in all of the north land.
The fields were shorn of their harvests, and the golden sheaves were gathered in,
And stacked in the barn-yards. The mill complained in the valley,
The distant glen echoed and sang with the music of axes,

And the wain came down from the deep woods groaning beneath its logs.
The forests wore gay colors, but sighed and were melancholy.
Then Father Eppinck, as he sate in the door of the cottage,
Lifted up his eyes and beheld the fair vale of the Sussex.

He saw the sweet tokens of peace that appeared in the heavens;
And he heard the voice of contentment that went up from the earth beneath;
The sweet words of plenty he heard, and the loud shouts of strong health;
And then he raised his voice and said: “O my God, I bless Thee!
For the rolling seasons and the full year, I magnify thee!
I thank thee for the hills and the high rock, and the great forests.

I thank thee for the pleasant valleys and their full fields of grain,
For their flowing streams, and the burdened orchards on their green banks.
I thank thee for plenty, for health, and for homes; but, oh my God!
I extol thee for freedom, the hope of the church of the Savior.

Here peace spreads her white wings, and sun never looks on a bondman.
Here earth yields her increase, and no slave’s sweat ever falls upon it.
Oh God I bless thee for Canada and the Crown of England!

“When Father Eppinck had finished this saying, with kind words
He turned to Leeona and Rodney and said: “Now I leave you.
I go up to Montreal by the first coach to-morrow.
If the morning be fair, I hope to be off before cock crow.

A month shall I be gone, and now that the Autumn is far spent,
My coming to Sussex again will be in the Winter.
What time I am in Montreal, I will be in the house of a merchant,
A good man, whose wealth has kept pace with his increasing goodness;

A Christian, whose devotion to Christ and his holy Apostles
In alms deeds is shown. Samaritan-like he goes forward
Into the highways of this life, and gathers up the wounded
Spirit, and bears him in the arms of his wealth to the inn of comfort;
And when nakedness cries in the street, he hears her, and lends her help,
And asks not; “But why are you naked? Why did you not save in harvest?”

And his lovely wife, the center of Montreal circles,
A brave hearted, noble, merciful and fair life consort,
Throws around him the arms of encouragement in all his good deeds.
She is happiest always among those that her hands have made happy.

Her heart is a fountain of kind words, and like Aquila of old,
She delights in the church of God, in Christ and his holy Apostles.
Her accomplishments drag after her a train of admirers;
Her beauty a train of worshippers, her charity a host
Of grateful lovers; while her affectionate fidelity
Lights up her home so that her husband says: ‘A star is Dora.'”

Now Rodney hung his head when this last word, Dora, fell on his ears;
And as he bade Father Eppinck adieu, he looked up and sighed;
And the light of recollections flashed across his manly face
Like a burst of sun that thro’ white clouds lights waving harvests.

 

 

Sussex Vale Canada ,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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:

 

 

Sussex Vale Canada by Albery Allson Whitman

Sweet vale of the Sussex! the pride of the Queen,
Whose life has a reign of beneficence been;
The flow’r of Britana’s possessions afar
In the cold land, that lies beneath the North star.

No slaveholder’s foot e’er polluted thy soil,
No slave in thy fields ever bended to toil.
As Bunyan’s poor Christian who, fleeing for life,
Left the land of Destruction, and children and wife,

And saw as the shadow of Calv’ry he crost,
His burden rolled down and forever was lost;
So, when the poor fugitive, foot-sore and wan,
From the land of oppressors for liberty ran;

He found that his shackles would crumble and fall,
As he stood in the shadow of proud Montreal.

Asylum, fair Sussex, art thou of the free,
And of all the oppressed, that to thy arms flee
From “the land of the free, and home of the brave —
Ah! land of the bound and the hell of the slave.

 

O, Sussex! dear Sussex! the scenes I remember,
As down thee I wander’d in yellow September!
The gay tinted woods in the sunset’s gold gleaming,
The creek down thy midst like a sheet of light streaming,

The busy mill near it, and brown barns above,
And blithe childhood shouting in the deep still grove;
The lowing of herds, and the milkmaid calling,
And the tinkling of folds thro’ the twilight falling.

And lo! a neat cottage with windows of green,
Scarce thro’ the thick boughs of yon elms is seen!
There now the free lovers, that once were the slave,
The maid of the rice swamp and Rodney the brave,

Are dwelling in wedlock’s dear holiest ties,
The objects of comment and pride for all eyes.
The stranger who passes thro’ Sussex must hear
On the lips of the cottager, far and near,

The love of these new comers pointedly told,
And telling it over, it never grows old.

 

 

Solon Stiles,,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19^th 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!”