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Rating: 
Summary: "Poet Laureate of the Negro Race"
Review: Paul Laurence Dunbar was the first great Black poet; Booker T. Washington called him the "Poet Laureate of the Negro Race". Dunbar, the son of ex-slaves, grew up in Dayton, OH, where he was friendly with the Wright Brothers. He had a successful high school career--founding editor of the school paper and elected class president of the predominantly white school--but upon graduation, he was forced to work as an elevator operator. His second book of poetry was praised by William Dean Howells and by age 24, he was one of the most renowned Black literary figures in America. Dunbar wrote in two different styles. On the one hand, he wrote straightforward classic verse that was filled with racial pride: THE COLORED SOLDIERS IF the muse were mine to tempt it And my feeble voice were strong, If my tongue were trained to measures, I would sing a stirring song. I would sing a song heroic Of those noble sons of Ham, Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam! In the early days you scorned them, And with many a flip and flout Said "These battles are the white man's, And the whites will fight them out." Up the hills you fought and faltered, In the vales you strove and bled, While your ears still heard the thunder Of the foes' advancing tread. Then distress fell on the nation, And the flag was drooping low; Should the dust pollute your banner? No! the nation shouted, No! So when War, in savage triumph, Spread abroad his funeral pall-- Then you called the co]ored soldiers, And they answered to your call. And like hounds unleashed and eager For the life blood of the prey, Sprung they forth and bore them bravely In the thickest of the fray. And where'er the fight was hottest, Where the bullets fastest fell, There they pressed unblanched and fearless At the very mouth of hell. Ah, they rallied to the standard To uphold it by their might; None were stronger in the labors, None were braver in the fight. From the blazing breach of Wagner To the plains of Olustee, They were foremost in the fight Of the battles of the free. And at Pillow! God have mercy On the deeds committed there, An the souls of those poor victims Sent to Thee without a prayer. Let the fulness of Thy pity O'er the hot wrought spirits sway Of the gallant colored soldiers Who fell fighting on that day! Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom, And they won it dearly,too; For the life blood of their thousands Did the southern fields bedew. In the darkness of their bondage, In the depths of slavery's night, Their muskets flashed the dawning, And they fought their way to light They were comrades then and brothers, Are they more or less to-day? They were good to stop a bullet And to front the fearful fray. They were citizens and soldiers, When rebellion raised its head; And the traits that made them worthy,-- Ah! those virtues are not dead. They have shared your nightly vigils, They have shared your daily toil; And their blood with yours commingling Has enriched the Southern soil. They have met as fierce a foeman, And have been as brave and true. And their deeds shall find a record In the registry of Fame; For their blood has cleansed completely Every blot of Slavery's shame. So all honor and all glory To those noble sons of Ham-- The gallant colored soldiers Who fought for Uncle Sam! WE WEAR THE MASK We wear the mask that grins and lies, It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-- This debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, And mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, In counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us, while We wear the mask. We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile Beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream other-wise, We wear the mask! But on the other hand, he was a master of dialect poems: AN ANTE-BELLUM SERMON. WE is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In dis howlin' wildaness, Fu' to speak some words of comfo't To each othah in distress. An' we chooses fu' ouah subjic' Dis--we 'll 'splain it by an' by; "An' de Lawd said, 'Moses, Moses,' An' de man said, 'Hyeah am I.'" Now ole Pher'oh, down in Egypt, Was de wuss man evah bo'n, An' he had de Hebrew chillun Down dah wukin' in his co'n; 'Twell de Lawd got tiahed o' his foolin', An' sez he: "I 'll let him know-- Look hyeah, Moses, go tell Pher'oh Fu' to let dem chillun go." "An' ef he refuse to do it, I will make him rue de houah, Fu' I 'll empty down on Egypt All de vials of my powah." Yes, he did--an' Pher'oh's ahmy Was n't wuth a ha'f a dime; Fu' de Lawd will he'p his chillun, You kin trust him evah time. An' yo' enemies may 'sail you In de back an' in de front; But de Lawd is all aroun' you, Fu' to ba' de battle's brunt. Dey kin fo'ge yo' chains an' shackles F'om de mountains to de sea; But de Lawd will sen' some Moses Fu' to set his chillun free. An' de lan' shall hyeah his thundah, Lak a blas' f'om Gab'el's ho'n, Fu' de Lawd of hosts is mighty When he girds his ahmor on. But fu' feah some one mistakes me, I will pause right hyeah to say, Dat I 'm still a-preachin' ancient, I ain't talkin' 'bout to-day. But I tell you, fellah christuns, Things 'll happen mighty strange; Now, de Lawd done dis fu' Isrul, An' his ways don't nevah change, An' de love he showed to Isrul Was n't all on Isrul spent; Now don't run an' tell yo' mastahs Dat I 's preachin' discontent. 'Cause I is n't; I 'se a-judgin' Bible people by deir ac's; I 'se a-givin' you de Scriptuah, I 'se a-handin' you de fac's. Cose ole Pher'oh b'lieved in slav'ry, But de Lawd he let him see, Dat de people he put bref in,-- Evah mothah's son was free. An' dahs othahs thinks lak Pher'oh, But dey calls de Scriptuah liar, Fu' de Bible says "a servant Is a-worthy of his hire." An' you cain't git roun' nor thoo dat, An' you cain't git ovah it, Fu' whatevah place you git in, Dis hyeah Bible too 'll fit. So you see de Lawd's intention, Evah sence de worl' began, Was dat His almighty freedom Should belong to evah man, But I think it would be bettah, Ef I 'd pause agin to say, Dat I 'm talkin' 'bout ouah freedom In a Bibleistic way. But de Moses is a-comin', An' he 's comin', suah and fas' We kin hyeah his feet a-trompin', We kin hyeah his trumpit blas'. But I want to wa'n you people, Don't you git too brigity; An' don't you git to braggin' 'Bout dese things, you wait an' see. But when Moses wif his powah Comes an' sets us chillun free, We will praise de gracious Mastah Dat has gin us liberty; An' we 'll shout ouah halleluyahs, On dat mighty reck'nin' day, When we 'se reco'nised ez citiz'-- Huh uh! Chillun, let us pray! Inevitably, in a Reconstruction America that was both nostalgic and regionalist, his dialect poems were wildly popular & tended to overshadow his more serious verse. As a result, he has always been a figure of some controversy in Black America; alternately dismissed for popularizing a derogatory stereotype of Blacks and hailed as a great literary figure. Dunbar captures this dichotomy in his own poem, The Poet: The Poet He sang of life, serenely sweet, With , now ant then, a deeper note. From some high peak, nigh yet remote, He voiced the world's absorbing beat. He sang of love when earth was young, And Love, itself, was in his lays. But ah, the world, it turned to praise A jingle in a broken tongue. Given the perspective of 100 years, it seems to me that he deserves to be read by all Americans. GRADE: B+
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