IN MEMORY OF ARTHUR CLEMENT WILLIAMS. 
 

"Alas! that such a soul should taste of death," 
Such lofty genius fade for want of breath, 
Such wit find refuge 'mong the mournful dead,-- 
Such brains lie silent in that narrow bed. 
 

O, let the Negro weep most bitter tears! 
Our brightest star from earth now disappears; 
He would have stretched Ethiopia's hand to God 
Had Death not early placed him 'neath the sod. 
 

Ne'er breathed a man who saw that classic brow, 
That did not then within himself allow 
He saw a fixed desire to raise his race, 
Imprinted on that noble, comely face. 
 

There is one thought that pains me much to-night, 
Although of him I sing and sometimes write, 
I did not know this brave and gifted one, 
This gallant youth,--this good, obedient son. 
 

Yet, ne'er-the-less, I sighed when others sighed; 
I wept to think of fondest hopes denied,-- 
Of fleeting joys, of earthly woes and cares, 
Of all that mother's tears and anxious prayers. 
 

That soul so loved by all now rests in peace, 
He's happy there where cares and sorrows cease; 
In that celestial home he dwells to-night, 
That place of love, of joy, of dazzling light.

From Poems by Eloise Bibb, Monthly Review Press, Boston, Mass., 1895. 

On, on to the darkest continent, 
As the Adriatic sailed, 
In Eighteen Hundred and Ninety, 
Many sad good-byes were wailed. 
When two brave sons left their homes, 
Their kindred, yea their blood, 
To wade in Africa's unkankind. 
 

Servants of God most holy, 
Who stoop to man most lowly, 
To lift him up and give him liberty, 
What though to-day's unpleasant! 
Ye live not in the present; 
Your life is in the infinite TO BE. 
 

Your words of love sincere, 
Now spoken in the ear, 
Where Mammon's priests bend at his altar brazen, 
And lift the suppliant eye, 
In foul idolatry-- 
All tongues shall trumpet, and on house-tops blazon. 
 

Yea, and your 'name and praise,' 
That, in these slavish days, 
So many vainly dream are soon to perish, 
As in the coming age 
They shine on History's page, 
The proud shall envy, and the good shall cherish. 
 

1842.

ETHIOPIA. 

OH ILL-STARRED Ethiopia-- 
My weak and trampled race! 
With fathomless emotion, 
Thy dismal path I trace. 
 

Thy bright and stalwart, swarthy, sons, 
Thy meek-eyed daughters, fair, 
I trace through centuries by-gone, 
Of misery and despair. 
 

Thy fathers' fathers long were taught; 
Nay, forced by tyrants, bold, 
To worship at a mortal shrine, 
With humble heart and soul. 
 

So long hath slav'ry's blasting hand, 
O'er thee its power swayed, 
That now, though freedom sweet is thine, 
I see thee cowed and dazed. 
 

The sin is at thy tyrant's door; 
The curse is at thine own; 
And e'er shall rest upon thy head, 
Till thou shalt cast it down. 
 

Oh! rouse thy slumb'ring manhood, strong! 
A foothold boldly earn; 
And scorn thy brothers' patronage, 
When he's thy fellow-worm. 
 

Tear down those idols thou hast built, 
In weakness to the proud! 
Knowest thou that in thy blindness, deep, 
Thou desecrate thy God? 
 

Oh rise in union great and strong! 
Hold each black brother, dear; 
And form a nation of thine own, 
Despite thy tyrant's jeers! 
 

We need not reek in blood and groans, 
This is a war within; 
We need but conquer cow' ring self, 
And rise a man with men. 
 

What though our number may be few? 
Hath not the Jews long stood, 
In unions strong, 'mid myriads 
Of foes, who craved their blood? 
 

Then rise, oh fainting Ethiopes! 
And gather up thy strength; 
For by repeated efforts, strong, 
Thou'lt gain thy grounds at length. 
 

The same God hath created thee, 
That did thy fairer brother; 
Thinkst thou, that in His justice, great, 
He'd prize one 'bove the other?

THE FUGITIVE. 
 

WITH BLEEDING back, from tyrant's lash,: 
A fleet-foot slave has sped, 
All frantic, past his humble hut, 
And seeks the wood instead. 
Once in the woods, his manhood wakes; 
Why stand this bondage, wroth? 
With diabolic, reckless heart, 
He turns he, to the North. 
 

He flings his crude hat to the ground, 
And face the northern wind; 
Fleet in his tracks, the blood-hounds bay, 
He leaves them far behind. 
 

By devious way, cross many a stream, 
He fiercely pressed that day, 
With deadly oaths for brush or brake, 
That chance to block his way. 
 

Erelong, when kind and soothing night, 
Had hushed the strife of man, 
He wades waist-deep, unto a tree, 
To rest awhile and plan. 
 

He knows no friends or shelter, kind, 
To soothe his deadly grief, 
He only knows, that farther north, 
A slave may find relief. 
 

No lore of book, or college craft, 
Lends cunning to his plan, 
Fresh from the tyrant's blasting touch. 
He stands a crude, rough, man. 
 

But Providence, with pity, deep, 
Looked down upon that slave, 
And mapped a path, up through the South, 
And strength and courage gave. 
 

Sometimes, a friendly fellow-slave, 
Chance, spying where he hid, 
At night would bring his coarse, rough, fare, 
And God speed warmly bid. 
 

And sometimes, when to hunger fierce, 
He'd seem almost to yield, 
A bird would fall into his clutch, 
A fish would shake his reel. 
 

And when on reaching colder climes, 
A sheep-cote shelter made, 
Or, law-abiding Yankee, stern, 
Clandestinely, lent aid. 
 

Till after many a restless day, 
And weary, toiling, night, 
All foot-sore, worn, and tired of limb, 
His haven looms in sight. 
 

His tired feet press Canadian shore, 
Friends tell him he is free; 
He feels a craving still, to hide, 
It seems it cannot be. 
 

But from suspense and thralldom freed, 
His manhood wakes at last, 
And plies he hand and brain with might, 
To mend his ruthless past. 
 

And Providence, in years that came, 
Sent blessings rife, his way, 
With grateful heart he journeyed through, 
His free, allotted days.