THE NEGRO SINGER
O'er all my song the image of a face
Lieth, like shadow on the wild, sweet flowers.
The dream, the ecstasy that prompts my powers,
The golden lyre's delights, bring little grace
To bless the singer of a lowly race.
Long hath this mocked me: aye, in marvelons hours,
When Hera's gardens gleamed, or Cynthia's bowers,
Or Hope's red pylons, in their far, hushed place!
But I shall dig me deeper to the gold;
Fetch water, dripping, over desert miles
From clear Nyanzas and mysterious Niles
Of love; and sing, nor one kind act withhold.
So shall men know me, and remember long,
Nor my dark face dishonor any song.
Death has silenced the muse of this dark singer, one of the best hitherto. That his endowment was uncommon and that his achievement, as evinced by these poems, is one of distinction, to use Mr. Howells's word, every reader equipped to judge of poetry must admit.
III. A Group of Singing Johnsons
In all rosters the name Johnson claims liberal space. Five verse-smiths with that cognomen will be presented in this book, and there is a sixth. These many Johnsons are no further related to one another, so far as I know, than that they are all Adam's offspring, and poets. Only three of
