Virginia dreams / Maggie Pogue Johnson [electronic text]

Poet of Our Race

[Dedicated to the memory of Paul Laurence Dunbar.]

Oh, Poet of our Race, We reverence thy name As thy hist'ry we retrace, Which enfolds thy widespread fame.

We loved thee, yea, too well, But He dids't love thee more And called thee up with Him to dwell On that Celestial shore.

Thy sorrows here on earth, Yea, more than thou coulds't bear, Burdened thee from birth E'en in their visions fair.

And thou, adored of men, Whose bed might been of flowers, With mighty stroke of pen Expressed thy sad, sad hours.

Thou hast been called above, Where all is peace and rest, To dwell in boundless love, Eternally and blest.

And, yet, thou still dost linger near, For thy words, as sweetest flowers, Do grow in beauty 'round us here To cheer us in sadest hours.

Thy thoughts in rapture seem to soar So far, yea, far above, And shower a heavy downpour Of sparkling, glittering love.

Thou, with stroke of mighty pen, Hast told of joy and mirth, And read the hearts and souls of men As cradled from their birth.

The language of the flowers, Thou hast read them all, And e'en the little brook Responded to thy call.

All Nature hast communed And lingered, yea, with thee, Their secrets were entombed But thou hast made them free.

Oh, Poet of our Race, Thou dost soar above; No paths wilt thou retrace But those of peace and love.

Thy pilgrimage is done, Thy toils on earth are o'er, Thy victor's crown is won, Thou'lt rest forever more.