Priscilla Jane Thompson, (1871–1942), a poet and lecturer. She taught at Sunday school at Zion Baptist Church and self-published two books of poetry, Ethiope Lays (1900) and Gleanings of Quiet Hours (1907). Her work inspired the Harlem Renaissance.
A VALENTINE
Priscilla Jane Thompson
Out of the depths of a heart of love,
Out of the birth-place of sighs,
Freighted with hope and freighted with fear,
My all in a valentine, hies.
Oh, frail little missive
Of delicate texture,
Speed thee, on thy journey,
And give her a lecture!
Fathom her heart, that seems to me, cold,
Trouble her bosom, as mine,
Let it be mutual, this that I crave,
Her ‘yes’ for a valentine.
Oh, frail little missive,
In coy Cupid’s keeping,
Oh! speed back a message,
To set my pulse leaping.
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EMANCIPATION
Priscilla Jane Thompson
’Tis a time for much rejoicing;
Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!
Many a time in days now ended,
Hath our fathers’ courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
Ne’er they to their, Maker, railed,
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.
As of old the Red Sea parted,
And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from the North, the bold South, started,
And a fissure wide she drew;
Drew a cleft of Liberty,
Through it, marched our people free.
And, in memory, ever grateful,
Of the day they reached the shore,
Meet we now, with hearts e’er faithful,
Joyous that the storm is o’er.
Storm of Torture! May grim Past,
Hurl thee down his torrents fast.
Bring your harpers, bring your sages,
Bid each one the story tell;
Waft it on to future ages,
Bid descendants learn it well.
Kept it bright in minds now tender,
Teach the young their thanks to render.
Come with hearts all firm united,
In the union of a race;
With your loyalty well plighted,
Look your brother in the face,
Stand by him, forsake him never,
God is with us now, forever.
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THE MUSE’S FAVOR
Priscilla Jane Thompson
Oh Muse! I crave a favor,
Grant but this one unto me;
Thou hast always been indulgent,
So I boldly come to thee.
For oft I list thy singing,
And the accents, sweet and clear,
Like the rhythmic flow of waters,
Falls on my ecstatic ear.
But of Caucasia’s daughters,
So oft I’ve heard thy lay,
That the music, too familiar,
Falls in sheer monotony.
And now, oh Muse exalted!
Exchange this old song staid,
For an equally deserving: —
The oft slighted, Afric maid.
The muse, with smiles, consenting,
Runs her hand the strings along,
And the harp, as bound by duty,
Rings out with the tardy song.
The Song
Oh, foully slighted Ethiope maid!
With patience, bearing rude upbraid,
With sweet, refined, retiring, grace,
And sunshine lingering in thy face,
With eyes bedewed and pityingly,
I sing of thee, I sing of thee.
Thy dark and misty curly hair,
In small, neat, braids entwineth fair,
Like clusters of rich, shining, jet,
All wrapt in mist, when sun is set;
Fair maid, I gaze admiringly,
And sing of thee, and sing of thee.
Thy smooth and silky, dusky skin,
Thine eyes of sloe, thy dimple chin,
That pure and simple heart of thine,
‘Tis these that make thee half divine;
Oh maid! I gaze admiringly,
And sing of thee, and sing of thee
Oh modest maid, with beauty rare,
Who e’er hath praised thy lithe form, fair?
Thy tender mien, thy fairy tread,
Thy winsome face and queenly head?
Naught of thy due in verse I see,
All pityingly I sing of thee.
Who’s dared to laud thee ‘fore the world,
And face the stigma of a churl?
Or brook the fiery, deep, disdain,
Their portion, who defend thy name?
Oh maiden, wronged so cowardly,
I boldly, loudly, sing of thee.
Who’ve stood the test of chastity,
Through slav’ry’s blasting tyranny,
And kept the while, their virtuous grace,
To instill in a trampled race?
Fair maid, thy equal few may see;
Thrice honored I, to sing of thee.
Let cowards fear thy name to praise,
Let scoffers seek thee but to raze;
Despite their foul, ignoble, jeers,
A worthy model thou appear,
Enrobed in love and purity;
Oh, who dare blush, to sing of thee?
And now, oh maid, forgive I pray,
The tardiness of my poor lay;
The weight of wrongs unto thee done,
Did paralize My falt’ring tongue;
‘Twas my mute, innate, sympathy,
That staid this song, I sing of thee.
====
Priscilla Jane Thompson
Washed to shore, a precious pearl;
Tossed it, hidden half with sea-weeds,
To our dingy, sordid, world.
On the beach, four little children,
Each engaged in sportive play,
Piling sand, or hunting sea-shells,
Idly, passed the time away.
One, while hunting ‘mid the sea-weeds,
For the shells, in childish play,
In his lack of understanding,
Found, but tossed the pearl away.
Then, anon, his brother found it,
Treasured it away with mirth,
But, when burden down with sea-shells
He too, cast it to the earth.
Then atlength the third child found it,
Hoarded it within his hand,
But in search of showier treasures
Likewise, tossed it to the sand.
Lastly came the fourth child meekly,
And the precious pearl he fonnd,
Joyfully, he grasped the jewel,
Flung his sea-shells to the ground.
For he valued high the jewel,
That his brother, late had spurned,
And his wise consideration
Fruitful compensation earned.
Ah! how many grown up children,
Figuring in the play of life,
In the search of gold or pastime,
Slight the Pearl of Greatest Price.
SONG OF THE MOON
Priscilla Jane Thompson
Oh, a hidden power is in my breast,
A power that none can fathom;
I call the tides from seas of rest,
They rise, they fall, at my behest;
And many a tardy fisher’s boat,
I’ve torn apart and set afloat,
From out their raging chasm.
For I’m an enchantress, old and grave;
Concealed I rule the weather;
Oft set I, the lover’s heart a blaze,
With hidden power of my fulgent rays,
Or seek I the souls of dying men,
And call the sea-tides from the fen,
And drift them out together.
I call the rain from the mountain’s peak,
And sound the mighty thunder;
When I wax and wane from week to week,
The heavens stir, while vain men seek,
To solve the myst’ries that I hold,
But a bounded portion I unfold,
So nations pass and wonder.
Yea, my hidden strength no man may know;
Nor myst’ries be expounded;
I’ll cause the tidal waves to flow,
And I shall wane, and larger grow,
Yet while man rack his shallow brain,
The secrets with me still remain,
He seeks in vain, confounded.