Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/54

 And labour's painful sweat-beads made
 * A consecrating chrism.

No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack,
 * So seldom stooped to grieving;

No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men
 * So noble in forgiving.

Go on and up! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise;
 * Our ears shall list thy story

From bards who from thy root shall spring, And proudly tune their lyres to sing
 * Of Ethiopia's glory.

the corn's all cut and the bright stalks shine
 * Like the burnished spears of a field of gold;

When the field-mice rich on the nubbins dine,
 * And the frost comes white and the wind blows cold;

Then it's heigho! fellows and hi-diddle-diddle, For the time is ripe for the corn-stalk fiddle.

And you take a stalk that is straight and long,
 * With an expert eye to its worthy points,

And you think of the bubbling strains of song
 * That are bound between its pithy joints—

Then you cut out strings, with a bridge in the middle, With a corn-stalk bow for a corn-stalk fiddle.

Then the strains that grow as you draw the bow
 * O'er the yielding strings with a practised hand!

And the music's flow never loud but low
 * Is the concert note of a fairy band.

Oh, your dainty songs are a misty riddle To the simple sweets of the corn-stalk fiddle.

When the eve comes on, and our work is done,
 * And the sun drops down with a tender glance,

With their hearts all prime for the harmless fun,
 * Come the neighbor girls for the evening's dance,

And they wait for the well-known twist and twiddle—