The Work of Afro-American Women
BY GRACE A. MAPPS.
Oh harvest sun, serenely shining
On waving fields and leafy bowers,
On garden wall and latticed vine
Thrown brightly as in by-gone hours;
Oh ye sweet voices of the wind,
Wooing our tears, in angel tones;
Friends of my youth, shall I not weep?
Ye are still here, but
I see the maples, tossing ever
Their silvery leaves up to the sky;
Still chasing o'er the old homestead's walls
The trembling light, their shadows fly.
Familiar forms and gentle faces
Once glanced beneath each waving bough,
And glad tones rung; shall I not weep
That all is lone and silent now?
Nay, for like heavenly whispers stealing,
Comes now this memory divine,
Where thy clear beams, Oh sun of autumn,
Through the stained windows richly shine;
A solemn strain, the organ blending,
Like a priest's voice, its glorious chord,
Is on the charmed air ascending;
"Come, let us sing unto the Lord."
And while the earth, year after year,
Puts all her golden glory on,
And like it, God's most holy love
Comes now, with every morning's dawn,
"Singing unto the Lord," I love,
With all the hosts that speak His praise.
I may not walk the earth alone,
Nor sorrow for departed days.
I know the friends I loved so well,
Through the years of their life-long race,
Lifted sweet eyes of faith to God,
And now they see His blessed face.
Thou, Lord, forever be my song,
And I'll not weep for days gone by;
But give Thee back each hallowed hour,
A seed of immortality.
Here and there, from this garden of poesy, we have culled a blossom; but how many gardens
of beauty have we not looked upon? And yet, we must close, knowing "the half hath not been