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III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION

A good old negro in the slums of the town
Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,
His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,
Starting the jubilee revival shout.

And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,
And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
And they all repented, a thousand strong,
From their stupor and savagery and sin and

wrong

And slammed with their hymn books till they

shook the room

With "Glory, glory, glory,"

And "Boom, boom, Вooм."

THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH

THE BLACK,

CUTTING THROUGH

GOLDEN TRACK.

THE JUNGLE WITH A

And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil And showed the Apostles with their coats of mail.

In bright white steel they were seated round And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.

And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high,

Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly

cry:

"Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;

Heavy bass.
With a literal
imitation of
camp-meeting
racket, and trance.

Exactly as in the first section. Begin with terror and power, end with joy.

Never again will he hoo-doo you,
Never again will he hoo-doo you."

Then along that river, a thousand miles,
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 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 . . . hoo-doo . . .

you."

Sung to the tune of Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.

With growing deliberation and joy.

In a rather high key -as delicately as possible.

To the tune of Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.

Dying off into a penetrating, terrified whisper

- Vachel Lindsay

THE DUNGEON

FROM Osorio, Act V

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us
Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt, till, chang'd to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot!
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks-

And this is their best cure! uncomforted

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,

And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

Seen through the steams and vapor of his dungeon,

By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,

Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure

To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,

His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd

By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE?

FROM An Ode in Imitation of Alcaus

What constitutes a State?

Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall, or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride;
No:- MEN! high-minded men,

Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a State.

-William Jones

EACH AND ALL

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Dreams not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;

I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;
He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;

The gay enchantment was undone,

A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, "I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;

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