deliberation and joy.

Then along that river, a thousand miles, With growing
The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
Pioneer angels cleared the way
For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
Gone were the skull-faced witch-men

lean.

There, where the wild ghost-gods had In a rather

wailed

A million boats of the angels sailed

With oars of silver, and prows of blue And silken pennants that the sun shone through.

'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation.

Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;

And on through the backwoods clearing

flew :

'Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle. Never again will he hoo-doo you. Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and

the men,

And only the vulture dared again

By the far, lone mountains of the moon
To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:-
"Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
Mumbo... Jumbo . . . will .

high key as delicately as

possible.

whisper.

TO A GOLDEN HAIRED GIRL IN A

LOUISIANA TOWN

You are a sunrise,

If a star should rise instead of the sun.

You are a moonrise,

If a star should come in the place of the moon. You are the Spring,

If a face should bloom instead of an apple-bough. You are my love,

If your heart is as kind

As your young eyes now.

THE TRAVELLER

The moon's a devil jester
Who makes himself too free.
The rascal is not always
Where he appears to be.

Sometimes he is in my heart—
Sometimes he is in the sea;
Then tides are in my heart,
And tides are in the sea.

O traveller, abiding not
Where he pretends to be!

A NEGRO SERMON:-SIMON LEGREE

Legree's big house was white and green.
His cotton-fields were the best to be seen.

He had strong horses and opulent cattle,

And bloodhounds bold, with chains that would rattle.
His garret was full of curious things:
Books of magic, bags of gold,

And rabbits' feet on long twine strings.
But he went down to the Devil.

Legree, he sported a brass-buttoned coat,
A snake-skin necktie, a blood-red shirt.
Legree, he had a beard like a goat,
And a thick hairy neck, and eyes like dirt.
His puffed-out cheeks were fish-belly white,
He had great long teeth, and an appetite.
He ate raw meat, 'most every meal,
And rolled his eyes till the cat would squeal.
His fist was an enormous size

To mash poor niggers that told him lies:
He was surely a witch-man in disguise.
But he went down to the Devil.

He wore hip-boots, and would wade all day.
To capture his slaves that had fled away.
But he went down to the Devil.

He beat poor Uncle Tom to death

Who prayed for Legree with his last breath.

Then Uncle Tom to Eva flew,

To the high sanctoriums bright and new;
And Simon Legree stared up beneath,

And cracked his heels, and ground his teeth:
And went down to the Devil.

He crossed the yard in the storm and gloom;
He went into his grand front room.
He said, "I killed him, and I don't care."
He kicked a hound, he gave a swear;
He tightened his belt, he took a lamp,
Went down cellar to the webs and damp.
There in the middle of the mouldy floor
He heaved up a slab; he found a door—
And went down to the Devil.

His lamp blew out, but his eyes burned bright. Simon Legree stepped down all night

Down, down to the Devil.

Simon Legree he reached the place,

He saw one half of the human race,

He saw the Devil on a wide green throne, Gnawing the meat from a big ham-bone, And he said to Mister Devil:

"I see that you have much to eat-
A red ham-bone is surely sweet.
I see that you have lion's feet;
I see your frame is fat and fine,
I see you drink your poison wine—
Blood and burning turpentine."

And the Devil said to Simon Legree:
"I like your style, so wicked and free.
Come sit and share my throne with me,
And let us bark and revel."

And there they sit and gnash their teeth,
And each one wears a hop-vine wreath.
They are matching pennies and shooting craps,
They are playing poker and taking naps.
And old Legree is fat and fine:

He eats the fire, he drinks the wine-
Blood and burning turpentine-

Down, down with the Devil;

Down, down with the Devil;

Down, down with the Devil.

1

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT

MIDNIGHT

* 1

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

*See pages 51, 114, 123, 245, 252, 323.

Reprinted by permission of the publishers, The Macmillan Company, from The Chinese Nightingale and Other Poems by Vachel Lindsay.