In the following poems, “Lincoln,” “To My Father,” “Shakespeare,” “In Memoriam (Frederick Douglass),” and “William Lloyd Garrison,” Cordelia Ray celebrates figures to whom she feels indebted. In ecstatic language, she conjures complex images while nodding to work of English Romantic poets. Ray’s poetry pays homage to the black experience of her time while also attempting to transcend it.
“Lincoln” (1876)
SOURCE: H. Cordelia Ray. “Lincoln.” Emancipation: Its Course and Progress. (Normal School Steam Power Press Print, 1882)
To-day, O martyred chief, beneath the sun
We would unveil thy form; to thee who won
Th’applause of nations for thy soul sincere,
A loving tribute we would offer here.
’Twas thine not worlds to conquer, but men’s hearts;
To change to balm the sting of slavery’s darts;
In lowly charity thy joy to find,
And open “gates of mercy on mankind.”
And so they come, the freed, with grateful gift,
From whose sad path the shadows thou didst lift.
Eleven years have rolled their seasons round,
Since its most tragic close thy life-work found.
Yet through the vistas of the vanished days
We see thee still, responsive to our gaze,
As ever to thy country’s solemn needs.
Not regal coronets, but princely deeds
Were thy chaste diadem; of truer worth
Thy modest virtues than the gems of earth.
Stanch, honest, fervent in the purest cause,
Truth was thy guide; her mandates were thy laws.
Rare heroism, spirit-purity,
The storied Spartan’s stern simplicity,
Such moral strength as gleams like burnished gold
Amid the doubt of men of weaker mold,
Were thine. Called in thy country’s sorest hour,
When brother knew not brother—mad for power—
To guide the helm through bloody deeps of war,
While distant nations gazed in anxious awe,
Unflinching in the task, thou didst fulfill
Thy mighty mission with a deathless will.
Born to a destiny the most sublime,
Thou wert, O Lincoln! in the march of time,
God bade thee pause and bid the oppressed go free—
Most glorious boon giv’n to humanity.
While slavery ruled the land, what deeds were done?
What tragedies enacted ’neath the sun!
Her page is blurred with records of defeat,
Of lives heroic lived in silence, meet
For the world’s praise; of woe, despair and tears,
The speechless agony of weary years.
Thou utteredst the word, and Freedom fair
Rang her sweet bells on the clear winter air;
She waved her magic wand, and lo! from far
A long procession came. With many a scar
Their brows were wrinkled, in the bitter strife,
Full many had said their sad farewell to life
But on they hastened, free, their shackles gone;
The aged, young,—e’en infancy was borne
To offer unto thee loud paeans of praise,—
Their happy tribute after saddest days.
A race set free! The deed brought joy and light!
It bade calm Justice from her sacred height,
When faith and hope and courage slowly waned,
Unfurl the stars and stripes, at last unstained!
The nations rolled acclaim from sea to sea,
And Heaven’s vault rang with Freedom’s harmony.
The angels ’mid the amaranths must have hushed
Their chanted cadences, as upward rushed
God’s ceaseless benison the action sealed.
As now we dedicate this shaft to thee,
True champion! in all humility
And solemn earnestness, we would erect
A monument invisible, undecked,
Save by our allied purpose to be true
To Freedom’s loftiest precepts, so that through
The fiercest contests we may walk secure,
Fixed on foundations that may still endure,
When granite shall have crumbled to decay,
And generations passed from earth away.
Exalted patriot! illustrious chief!
Thy life’s immortal work compels belief.
To-day in radiance thy virtues shine,
And how can we a fitting garland twine?
Thy crown most glorious to a ransomed race!
High on our country’s scroll we fondly trace,
In lines of fadeless light that softly blend,
Emancipator, hero, martyr, friend!
While Freedom may her holy sceptre claim,
The world shall echo with Our Lincoln’s name.
“To My Father” (1893)
SOURCE: H. Cordelia Ray, “To My Father,” “Shakespeare,” Sonnets (New York: J. J. Little and Co., 1893).
A leaf from Freedom’s golden chaplet fair,
We bring to thee, dear father! Near her shrine
None came with holier purpose, nor was thine
Alone the soul’s mute sanction; every prayer
Thy captive brother uttered found a share
In thy wide sympathy; to every sign
That told the bondman’s need thou didst incline
No thought of guerdon hadst thou but to bear
A loving part in Freedom’s strife. To see
Sad lives illumined, fetters rent in twain,
Tears dried in eyes that wept for length of days—
Ah! was not that a recompense for thee?
And now where all life’s mystery is plain,
Divine approval is thy sweetest praise
“Shakespeare” (1893)
We wonder what the horoscope did show
When Shakespeare came to earth. Were planets there,
Grouped in unique arrangement? Unaware
His age of aught so marvelous, when lo!
He speaks! men listen! what of joy or woe
Is not revealed! love, hatred, marking care,
All quivering ’neath his magic touch. The air
Is thick with beauteous elves, a dainty row,
Anon, with droning witches, and e’en now
Stalks gloomy Hamlet, bent on vengeance dread.
One after one they come, smiling or scarred,
Wrought by that mind prismatic to which bow
All lesser minds. They by thee would be fed,
Poet incomparable! Avon’s Bard!
“In Memoriam (Frederick Douglass)” (1897)
SOURCE: H. Cordelia Ray, “In Memoriam (Frederick Douglass)” in In Memoriam: Frederick Douglass. Ed. Helen Douglass. (Philadelphia: John. C. Yorston & Co. Publishers, 1897).
One whose majestic presence ever here
Was as an inspiration held so dear
Will greet us nevermore upon the earth.
The funeral bells have rung; there was no dearth
Of sorrow as the solemn cortege passed;
But ours is a grief that will outlast
Who was this hero that they buried then,
With saddest plaint and sorrow-stricken face?
Ay! ’twas a princely leader of his race!
And for a leader well equipped was he;
Nature had given him most regally
E’en of her choicest gift
s. What matter then
That he in chains was held, what matter when
He could uplift himself to noblest heights.
E’en with his native greatness, neither slights
Nor wrongs could harm him; and a solemn wrath
Burned in his soul. He well saw duty’s path;
His days heroic purposes did know,
And could he then his chosen work forego?
Born to a fate most wretched, most forlorn!
A slave! alas! of benefits all shorn
Upon his entrance into life, what lot
More destitute of hope! Yet e’en that blot
Could not suffice to dim the glowing page
He leaves to History; for he could wage
Against oppression’s deadliest blows a war
That knew no ending, until nevermore
Should any man be called a bondman. Ay!
Such was a conflict for which one could die!
Panting for freedom early, he did dare
To throw aside his shackles, for the air
Of slavery is poison unto men
Molded as Douglass was; they suffer, then
Manhood asserts itself; they are too brave,
Such souls as his, to die content a slave.
So being free, one path alone he trod,
To bring to liberty—sweet boon from God—
His deeply injured race; his tireless zeal
Was consecrated to the bondman’s weal.
He thought of children sobbing round the knees
Of hopeless mothers, where the summer breeze
Blew o’er the dank savannas. What of woe
In their sad story that he did not know!
He was a valiant leader in a cause
Than none less noble, though the nation’s laws
Did seem to spurn it; and his matchless speech
To Britain’s sea-girt island shores did reach.
Our Cicero, and yet our warrior knight,
Striving to show mankind might is not right!
He saw the slave uplifted from the dust,
A freeman! Loyal to the sacred trust
He gave himself in youth, with voice and pen,
He had been to the end. And now again
The grandest efforts of that brain and heart
In ev’ry human sorrow bore a part.
His regnant intellect, his dignity,
Did make him honored among all to be;
And public trusts his country gladly gave
Unto this princely leader, born a slave!
Shall the race falter in its courage now
That the great chief is fallen? Shall it bow
Tamely to aught of injury? Ah, nay!
For daring souls are needed e’en to-day.
Let his example be a shining light,
Leading through duty’s paths to some far height
Of undreamed victory. All honored be
The silv’ry head of him we no more see!
Children unborn will venerate his name,
And History keep spotless his fair fame.
The Romans wove bright leafy crowns for those
Who saved a life in battle with their foes;
And shall not we as rare a chaplet weave
To that great master-soul for whom we grieve?
Yea! Since not always on the battle-field
Are the best vict’ries won; for they who yield
Themselves to conquer in a losing cause,
Because ’tis right in God’s eternal laws,
Do noblest battle; therefore fitly we
Upon their brows a victor’s crown would see.
Yes! our great chief has fallen as might fall
Some veteran warrior, answering the call
Of duty. With the old serenity,
His heart still strung with tender sympathy,
He passed beyond our ken; he’ll come no more
To give us stately greeting as of yore.
We cannot fail to miss him. When we stand
In sudden helplessness, as through the land
Rings echo of some wrong he could not brook,
Then vainly for our leader will we look.
But courage! no great influence can die.
While he is doing grander work on high,
Shall not his deeds an inspiration be
To us left in life’s struggle? May not we
Do aught to emulate him whom we mourn?
We are a people now, no more forlorn
And hopeless. We must gather courage then,
Rememb’ring that he stood man among men.
So let us give, now he has journeyed hence,
To our great chieftain’s memory, reverence!
“William Lloyd Garrison” (1905)
SOURCE: H. Cordelia Ray, “William Lloyd Garrison,” Poems (New York: Grafton Press, 1910).
Some names there are that win the best applause
Of noble souls; then whose shall more than thine
All honored be? Thou heardst the Voice Divine
Tell thee to gird thyself in Freedom’s cause,
And cam’st in life’s first bloom. No laggard laws
Could quench thy zeal until no slave should pine
In galling chains, caged in the free sunshine.
Till all the shackles fell, thou wouldst not pause.
So to thee who hast climbed heroic heights,
And led the way to where chaste Justice reigns,
An anthem,—tears and gratitude and praise,
Its swelling chords,—uprises and invites
A nation e’en to join the jubilant strains,
Which celebrate thy consecrated days.
35
SARAH E. FARRO
(1859–after 1937)
Sarah Farro’s novel, True Love (1891), was only recently rediscovered in the course of research by scholar Gretchen Gerzina. Unlike writers in this anthology who write about experiences in America, Farro situated her novel in Victorian England and populated it with white characters, in the model of her favorite writers, Charles Dickens and William Thackeray. Farro’s work was widely publicized and sold well. The Washington Post of May 8, 1892, announced, “The first negro novelist has appeared, Miss Sarah E. Farro, of Chicago, a woman of good education, aged about 26. The melancholy story “True Love” is not a book of especial promise, but the first edition is nearly exhausted, and the author is writing another story.” There is no record of a second work and Farro’s novel faded from view even as earlier novels published by black women, such as Our Nig, were rediscovered. True Love was most likely neglected by scholars and anthologizers in the twentieth century because it contains no black characters and does not engage with issues of race.
Chapter 1, “Mrs. Brewster’s Daughters,” introduces the novel’s main characters and sets the stage for the romance to follow. Note the use of dollars, rather than pounds, signaling the author’s American sensibilities.
Chapter 1 from True Love: A Story of English Domestic Life (1891)
SOURCE: Sarah E. Farro, True Love: A Story of English Domestic Life (Chicago: Donohue & Henneberry, 1891).
Mrs. Brewster’s Daughters.
A fine old door of oak, a heavy door standing deep within a portico inside of which you might have driven a coach, brings you to the residence of Mrs. Brewster. The hall was dark and small, the only light admitted to it being from windows of stained glass; numberless passages branched off from the hall, one peculiarity being that you could scarcely enter a single room in it but you must first go down a passage, short or long, to get to it; had the house been designed by an architect with a head upon his shoulders and a little common sense
within it, he might have made a respectable house to say the least; as it was, the rooms were cramped and narrow, cornered and confined, and the good space was taken up by these worthless passages; a plat of ground before it was crowded with flowers, far too crowded for good taste, as the old gardener would point out to her, but Mrs. Brewster loved flowers and would not part with one of them. Being the daughter of a carpenter and the wife of a merchant tailor, she had scrambled through life amidst bustle and poverty, moving from one house to another, never settled anywhere for long. It was an existence not to be envied, although it is the lot of many. She was Mrs. Brewster and her husband was not a very good husband to her; he was rather too fond of amusing himself, and threw all the care upon her shoulders; she spent her time nursing her sickly children and endeavoring to make one dollar go as far as two. One day, to her unspeakable embarrassment, she found herself changed from a poor woman in moderate circumstances to an heiress to a certain degree, her father having received a legacy from a relative, and upon his death it was willed to her. She had much sorrow, having lost one child after another, until she had but two left. Then she lost her husband and father; then settled at Bellville near her husband’s native place, upon her limited means. All she possessed was the interest upon this sum her father had left her, the whole not exceeding $2,000. She had two daughters, Mary Ann and Janey; the contrast between them was great, you could see it most remarkably as they sat together, and her love for them was as contrasted as light is with darkness. Mary Ann she regarded with an inordinate affection amounting almost to a passion; for Janey she did not care; what could be the reason of this; what is the reason that parents, many such may be found, will love some of their children and dislike others they cannot tell any more than she could; ask them and they will be unable to give you an answer. It does not lie in the children; it often happens that those obtaining the least love will be the most deserving of it. Such was the case here. Mary Ann Brewster was a pale, sickly, fretful girl, full of whims, full of complaints, giving trouble to everybody about her. Janey, with her sweet countenance and her merry heart, made the sunshine of her home; she bore with her sister’s exacting moods, she bore with her mother’s want of love, she loved them both and waited on them, and carrolled forth her snatches of song as she moved around the house, and was as happy as the day was long. Ask the servants—they kept only two—and they would tell you that Mrs. Brewster was cross and selfish, but Miss Janey was worth her weight in gold; the gold was soon to be transplanted to a home where it would be appreciated and cherished, for Janey was the affianced wife of Charles Taylor. For nearly a mile beyond Bellville lived Charles Taylor, a quiet, refined gentleman, and the son of a wealthy capitalist; his father had not only made a fortune of his own, but had several bestowed upon him; he had died several years before this time, and his wife survived him one year. There were three sisters, a cousin and two servants that had lived in this family for a number of years.