Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

MARY E. HARPER.

Atlanta Offering
POEMS

BY

FRANCES E. W. HARPER

PHILADELPHIA:

1006 BAINBRIDGE STREET

1895

Copyrighted, 1895, by

FRANCES E. W. HARPER.

GEORGE S. FERGUSON CO.,

PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS.

Whereas thou hast been forsaken and hated, so that no man went through thee, I will make thee an eternal excellency, a joy of many generations.—Isaiah 60:15.

1006 Bainbridge Street,

Philadelphia, Pa.

My Mother’s Kiss.

My mother’s kiss, my mother’s kiss,

I feel its impress now;

As in the bright and happy days

She pressed it on my brow.

You say it is a fancied thing

Within my memory fraught;

To me it has a sacred place—

The treasure house of thought.

Again, I feel her fingers glide

Amid my clustering hair;

I see the love-light in her eyes,

When all my life was fair.

Again, I hear her gentle voice

In warning or in love.

How precious was the faith that taught

My soul of things above.

The music of her voice is stilled,

Her lips are paled in death.

As precious pearls I’ll clasp her words

Until my latest breath.

The world has scattered round my path

Honor and wealth and fame;

But naught so precious as the thoughts

That gather round her name.

And friends have placed upon my brow

The laurels of renown;

But she first taught me how to wear

My manhood as a crown.

My hair is silvered o’er with age,

I’m longing to depart;

To clasp again my mother’s hand,

And be a child at heart.

To roam with her the glory-land

Where saints and angels greet;

To cast our crowns with songs of love

At our Redeemer’s feet.

A Grain of Sand.

Do you see this grain of sand

Lying loosely in my hand?

Do you know to me it brought

Just a simple loving thought?

When one gazes night by night

On the glorious stars of light,

Oh how little seems the span

Measured round the life of man.

Oh! how fleeting are his years

With their smiles and their tears;

Can it be that God does care

For such atoms as we are?

Then outspake this grain of sand

“I was fashioned by His hand

In the star lit realms of space

I was made to have a place.

“Should the ocean flood the world,

Were its mountains ’gainst me hurled,

All the force they could employ

Wouldn’t a single grain destroy;

And if I, a thing so light,

Have a place within His sight;

You are linked unto his throne

Cannot live nor die alone.

“In the everlasting arms

Mid life’s dangers and alarms

Let calm trust your spirit fill;

Know He’s God, and then be still.�

Trustingly I raised my head

Hearing what the atom said;

Knowing man is greater far

Than the brightest sun or star.

The Crocuses.

They heard the South wind sighing

A murmur of the rain;

And they knew that Earth was longing

To see them all again.

While the snow-drops still were sleeping

Beneath the silent sod;

They felt their new life pulsing

Within the dark, cold clod.

Not a daffodil nor daisy

Had dared to raise its head;

Not a fair-haired dandelion

Peeped timid from its bed;

Though a tremor of the winter

Did shivering through them run;

Yet they lifted up their foreheads

To greet the vernal sun.

And the sunbeams gave them welcome,

As did the morning air—

And scattered o’er their simple robes

Rich tints of beauty rare.

Soon a host of lovely flowers

From vales and woodland burst;

But in all that fair procession

The crocuses were first.

First to weave for Earth a chaplet

To crown her dear old head;

And to beautify the pathway

Where winter still did tread.

And their loved and white haired mother

Smiled sweetly ’neath the touch,

When she knew her faithful children

Were loving her so much.

The Present Age.

Say not the age is hard and cold—

I think it brave and grand;

When men of diverse sects and creeds

Are clasping hand in hand.

The Parsee from his sacred fires

Beside the Christian kneels;

And clearer light to Islam’s eyes

The word of Christ reveals.

The Brahmin from his distant home

Brings thoughts of ancient lore;

The Buddhist breaking bonds of caste

Divides mankind no more.

The meek-eyed sons of far Cathay

Are welcome round the board;

Not greed, nor malice drives away

These children of our Lord.

And Judah from whose trusted hands

Came oracles divine;

Now sits with those around whose hearts

The light of God doth shine.

Japan unbars her long sealed gates

From islands far away;

Her sons are lifting up their eyes

To greet the coming day.

The Indian child from forests wild

Has learned to read and pray;

The tomahawk and scalping knife

From him have passed away.

From centuries of servile toil

The Negro finds release,

And builds the fanes of prayer and praise

Unto the God of Peace.

England and Russia face to face

With Central Asia meet;

And on the far Pacific coast,

Chinese and natives greet.

Crusaders once with sword and shield

The Holy Land to save;

From Moslem hands did strive to clutch

The dear Redeemer’s grave.

A battle greater, grander far

Is for the present age;

A crusade for the rights of man

To brighten history’s page.

Where labor faints and bows her head,

And want consorts with crime;

Or men grown faithless sadly say

That evil is the time.

There is the field, the vantage ground

For every earnest heart;

To side with justice, truth and right

And act a noble part.

To save from ignorance and vice

The poorest, humblest child;

To make our age the fairest one

On which the sun has smiled;

To plant the roots of coming years

In mercy, love and truth;

And bid our weary, saddened earth

Again renew her youth.

Oh! earnest hearts! toil on in hope,

’Till darkness shrinks from light;

To fill the earth with peace and joy,

Let youth and age unite;

To stay the floods of sin and shame

That sweep from shore to shore;

And furl the banners stained with blood,

’Till war shall be no more.

Blame not the age, nor think it full

Of evil and unrest;

But say of every other age,

“This one shall be the best.�

The age to brighten every path

By sin and sorrow trod;

For loving hearts to usher in

The commonwealth of God.

Dedication Poem.

Dedication Poem on the reception of the annex to the home for aged colored people, from the bequest of Mr. Edward T. Parker.

Outcast from her home in Syria

In the lonely, dreary wild;

Heavy hearted, sorrow stricken,

Sat a mother and her child.

There was not a voice to cheer her

Not a soul to share her fate;

She was weary, he was fainting,—

And life seemed so desolate.

Far away in sunny Egypt

Was lone Hagar’s native land;

Where the Nile in kingly bounty

Scatters bread throughout the land.

In the tents of princely Abram

She for years had found a home;

Till the stern decree of Sarah

Sent her forth the wild to roam.

Hour by hour she journeyed onward

From the shelter of their tent,

Till her footsteps slowly faltered

And the water all was spent;

Then she veiled her face in sorrow,

Feared her child would die of thirst;

Till her eyes with tears so holden

Saw a sparkling fountain burst.

Oh! how happy was that mother,

What a soothing of her pain;

When she saw her child reviving,

Life rejoicing through each vein.

Does not life repeat this story,

Tell it over day by day?

Of the fountains of refreshment

Ever springing by our way.

Here is one by which we gather,

On this bright and happy day,

Just to bask beside a fountain

Making gladder life’s highway.

Bringing unto hearts now aged

Who have borne life’s burdens long,

Such a gift of love and mercy

As deserves our sweetest song.

Such a gift that even heaven

May rejoice with us below,

If the pure and holy angels

Join us in our joy and woe.

May the memory of the giver

In this home where age may rest,

Float like fragrance through the ages,

Ever blessing, ever blest.

When the gates of pearl are opened

May we there this friend behold,

Drink with him from living fountains,

Walk with him the streets of gold.

When life’s shattered cords of music

Shall again be sweetly sung;

Then our hearts with life immortal,

Shall be young, forever young.

A Double Standard.

Do you blame me that I loved him?

If when standing all alone

I cried for bread a careless world

Pressed to my lips a stone.

Do you blame me that I loved him,

That my heart beat glad and free,

When he told me in the sweetest tones

He loved but only me?

Can you blame me that I did not see

Beneath his burning kiss

The serpent’s wiles, nor even hear

The deadly adder hiss?

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold

That the tempted, tempter turned;

When he was feted and caressed

And I was coldly spurned?

Would you blame him, when you draw from me

Your dainty robes aside,

If he with gilded baits should claim

Your fairest as his bride?

Would you blame the world if it should press

On him a civic crown;

And see me struggling in the depth

Then harshly press me down?

Crime has no sex and yet to-day

I wear the brand of shame;

Whilst he amid the gay and proud

Still bears an honored name.

Can you blame me if I’ve learned to think

Your hate of vice a sham,

When you so coldly crushed me down

And then excused the man?

Would you blame me if to-morrow

The coroner should say,

A wretched girl, outcast, forlorn,

Has thrown her life away?

Yes, blame me for my downward course,

But oh! remember well,

Within your homes you press the hand

That led me down to hell.

I’m glad God’s ways are not our ways,

He does not see as man;

Within His love I know there’s room