Magnolia Leaves

By Mary Weston Fordham.

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Introductory

I give my cordial endorsement to this little book of poems, because I believe it will do its part to awaken the Muse of Poetry which I am sure slumbers in very many of the sons and daughters of the race of which the author of this work is a representative.

The Negro’s right to be considered worthy of recognition in the field of poetic effort is not now gainsaid as formerly, and each succeeding effort but emphasizes his right to just consideration.

The hope, I have, is, that this volume of poems may fall among the critical and intelligent, who will accord the just meed of praise or of censure, to the end that further effort may be stimulated, no matter what the verdict.

The readers I trust will find as much to praise and admire as have I done.

Booker T. Washington,
Prin. Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute.

Tuskegee, AL, December 6th, 1897.

Preface

This little volume is launched on the doubtful sea of literature with the hope that the breezes of public opinion may give an impetus to its voyage. I hope that it will be kindly received as simply the harbinger of what may be expected from the generations to come; and shall consider its mission as being fulfilled if it should be the means of arousing and stimulating some of our youth to higher and greater efforts along this line.

Commending it to an intelligent and impartial criticism, I am, respectfully, The Author.

Dedication

To
Mrs. S. S. Forbes,
of
Massachusetts,
and
Miss Floride Cunningham,
of
South Carolina,
These “Leaves”
Are Respectfully Dedicated
By the Author.

Magnolia Leaves

Creation

“The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth his handiwork.”

O Earth, adore creative power,
That made and gave to man as dower,
This world of beauty rare,
With hills and vales of verdant green,
With rills and brooks of crystal sheen,
Lovely beyond compare.

O Sun, bright ruler of the day,
When first thy power thou did’st display,
Earth must have shrank in fear,
When like a meteor burst thy light,
Turning to day the long, long night,
With radiance wondrous fair.

Thou Moon, pale sister of the Sun,
When he his daily work has done,
Thou comest forth a queen;
A queen in silvery robe adorned,
With tiara of jewels formed,
Of starry orbs unseen.

Ye twinkling stars of milder light,
Though now ye gleam like sapphires bright,
Across yon azure dome,
The day will dawn, that last dread day,
When from yon heaven you’ll fall away,
And man to Judgment come.

Thunder and Lightnings burst and gleam,
Frightful and fierce to us they seem
Rending the darkened sky.
Like giants tread the thunder’s peal,
The vivid lightnings swiftly steal,
And men in terror fly.

O filmy clouds, of purest white,
With robes of gossamer cased in white,
Ye floating waters pure,
Sometimes to burst in cooling showers,
Sometimes to deluge wintry hours
With your relentless pour.

Thou beauteous Rainbow bursting forth,
With varied hues encircling earth;
The sign to Noah made.
“I place amid the Clouds my Bow”
To show that I will nevermore
Deluge with angry flood.

Mountains and Hills whose snow capped tops
The vast horizon overlooks,
Pyramids strong and sure;
Nor lightnings fierce nor earthquake shock
Can ever sway, for firm as rock
Ye ever will endure.

Thou Ocean vast, oftimes thy breast,
Is calm and still as if at rest,
Like one in quiet sleep;
But soon in anger thou may’st roar,
And madly toss from shore to shore,
And human harvest reap.

Fountains and Rivulets so clear,
That gush amid the valleys fair,
With soft and mellow ring;
As coming forth from glade and wood
Your babblings whisper “God is good,”
Ye make the vales to sing.

Now when all nature swells the song,
When beast and birds the strain prolong,
Shall man from praise refrain?
Then would the rocks and hills proclaim,
All nature crying out for shame,
They who their Maker’s image wear,
Should shout and sing till rent the air
With rhapsodies sublime.

Shipwreck

Night and a starless sky,
Ship on wild billows tost,
With tattered sails and opening seams.
And deck bestrewn with falling beams.
Swift plunging to her doom.

Red lightnings round her flash,
Loud thunders crash and roar,
And the noble vessel mounts the crest
Of the reeking waves, then sinks to rest
Mid carnival of woe.

The Petrel soars aloft,
Wailing her hymn of death,
And the dirgelike sounds pierce the blackened sky,
While the crew send forth one anguished cry,
Sinking to lowest depth.

Some ships go out to sea
That never more return,
Souls that from heaven in infancy come,
Tarnished and ruined by sin may become,
Like the Dove to the Ark they never return,
But sink as ship to doom.

The Washerwoman

With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders low bent,
She stands all day, and part of the night
Till her strength is well-nigh spent.
With her rub—rub—rub,
And her wash, rinse, shake,
Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks,
And the bones begin to ache.

At morn when the sunbeams scatter
In rays so golden and bright,
She yearns for the hour of even,
She longs for the restful night.
Still she rubs—rubs—rubs,
With the energy born of want,
For the larder’s empty and must be filled—
The fuel’s growing scant.