The title-piece of Mr. Jones’s first volume reveals his mastery of effective form and his command of the language of passionate appeal. The World War, in which the Negroes of the country gave liberally and heroically, both of blood and treasure, for democracy, quickened failing hopes in them and kindled anew their aspirations. In this poem the writer speaks for his entire race:
THE HEART OF THE WORLD
In the heart of the world is the call for peace—
Up-surging, symphonic roar.
’Tis ill of all clashings; it seeks release
From fetters of greed and gore.
The winds of the battlefields echo the sigh
Of heroes slumbering deep,
Who gave all they had and now dreamlessly lie
Where the bayonets sent them to sleep.
Peace for the wealthy; peace for the poor;
Peace on the hillside, and peace on the moor.
In the heart of the world is the call for right:
For fingers to bind up the wound,
Slashed deep by the ruthless, harsh hand of might,
When Justice is crushed to the ground.
’Tis ill of the fevers of fear of the strong—
Of jealousies—prejudice—pride.
“Is there no ideal that’s proof against wrong?”
Man asks of the man at his side.
Right for the lowly; right for the great;
Right all to pilot to happiness’ gate.
