Poems by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Do you blame me that I loved him?

Do you see this grain of sand

Only a little scrap of blue

Oh, children of the tropics,

The treacherous sands had caught our boat,

You can sigh o'er the sad-eyed Armenian

He stood before the sons of Heth,

Make me a grave where'er you will,

Welcome children of the Spring,

'Twas a fearful night - the tempest raved

Dedication Poem on the reception of the annex to the home for aged colored people, from the bequest of Mr. Edward T. Parker.

Do not cheer, for men are dying

I had a dream, a varied dream:

Go work in my vineyard, said the Lord,

God bless our native land,

She came from the East a fair, young bride,

The conies had their hiding-place,

"It shall be a royal mansion,

There was grief within our household

The dying words of Goethe.

Maceo dead! a thrill of sorrow

Two little children sit by my side,

My mother's kiss, my mother's kiss,

It is nothing to me, the beauty said,

Till our world, so sad and weary,

Onward to her destination,

The prison-house in which I live

Like Dives in the deeps of Hell

To comfort hearts that sigh and break,

Let me make the songs for the people,

Thank God for little children,

"Build me a house," said the Master,

We may sigh o'er the heavy burdens

They heard the South wind sighing

Life was trembling, faintly trembling

From Rome's palaces and villas

Year after year the artist wrought

"Tim Thompson, a little negro boy, was asked to dance for the amusement of some white toughs. He refused, saying he was a church member. One of the men knocked him down with a club and then danced upon his prostrate form. He then shot the boy in the

Twas a night of dreadful horror, -

Say not the age is hard and cold -

They shall see Him in the crimson flush

He stood before my heart's closed door,

Too frail to soar - a feeble thing -

"Build me a nation," said the Lord.

A rock, for ages, stern and high,

She leaned her head upon her hand