Fifty years Other Poems | Page 3

bought a rightful sonship here,?And we have more than paid the price.
And yet, my brothers, well I know?The tethered feet, the pinioned wings,?The spirit bowed beneath the blow,?The heart grown faint from wounds and stings;
The staggering force of brutish might,?That strikes and leaves us stunned and daezd;?The long, vain waiting through the night?To hear some voice for justice raised.
Full well I know the hour when hope?Sinks dead, and 'round us everywhere?Hangs stifling darkness, and we grope?With hands uplifted in despair.
Courage! Look out, beyond, and see?The far horizon's beckoning span!?Faith in your God-known destiny!?We are a part of some great plan.
Because the tongues of Garrison?And Phillips now are cold in death,?Think you their work can be undone??Or quenched the fires lit by their breath?
Think you that John Brown's spirit stops??That Lovejoy was but idly slain??Or do you think those precious drops?From Lincoln's heart were shed in vain?
That for which millions prayed and sighed,?That for which tens of thousands fought,?For which so many freely died,?God cannot let it come to naught.
TO AMERICA
How would you have us, as we are??Or sinking 'neath the load we bear??Our eyes fixed forward on a star??Or gazing empty at despair?
Rising or falling? Men or things??With dragging pace or footsteps fleet??Strong, willing sinews in your wings??Or tightening chains about your feet?
O BLACK AND UNKNOWN BARDS
O black and unknown bards of long ago,?How came your lips to touch the sacred fire??How, in your darkness, did you come to know?The power and beauty of the minstrel's lyre??Who first from midst his bonds lifted his eyes??Who first from out the still watch, lone and long,?Feeling the ancient faith of prophets rise?Within his dark-kept soul, burst into song?
Heart of what slave poured out such melody?As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains?His spirit must have nightly floated free,?Though still about his hands he felt his chains.?Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye?Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he?That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh,?"Nobody knows de trouble I see"?
What merely living clod, what captive thing,?Could up toward God through all its darkness grope,?And find within its deadened heart to sing?These songs of sorrow, love, and faith, and hope??How did it catch that subtle undertone,?That note in music heard not with the ears??How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown,?Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears.
Not that great German master in his dream?Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars?At the creation, ever heard a theme?Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars,?How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir?The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung?Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were?That helped make history when Time was young.
There is a wide, wide wonder in it all,?That from degraded rest and servile toil?The fiery spirit of the seer should call?These simple children of the sun and soil.?O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed,?You--you alone, of all the long, long line?Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed,?Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine.
You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings;?No chant of bloody war, no exulting pean?Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings?You touched in chord with music empyrean.?You sang far better than you knew; the songs?That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed?Still live,--but more than this to you belongs:?You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ.
O SOUTHLAND!
O Southland! O Southland!?Have you not heard the call,?The trumpet blown, the word made known?To the nations, one and all??The watchword, the hope-word,?Salvation's present plan??A gospel new, for all--for you:?Man shall be saved by man.
O Southland! O Southland!?Do you not hear to-day?The mighty beat of onward feet,?And know you not their way??'Tis forward, 'tis upward,?On to the fair white arch?Of Freedom's dome, and there is room?For each man who would march.
O Southland, fair Southland!?Then why do you still cling?To an idle age and a musty page,?To a dead and useless thing??'Tis springtime! 'Tis work-time!?The world is young again!?And God's above, and God is love,?And men are only men.
O Southland! my Southland!?O birthland! do not shirk?The toilsome task, nor respite ask,?But gird you for the work.?Remember, remember?That weakness stalks in pride;?That he is strong who helps along?The faint one at his side.
To HORACE BUMSTEAD
Have you been sore discouraged in the fight,?And even sometimes weighted by the thought?That those with whom and those for whom you fought?Lagged far behind, or dared but faintly smite??And that the opposing forces in their might?Of blind inertia rendered as for naught?All that throughout the long years had been wrought,?And powerless each blow for Truth and Right?
If so, take new and greater courage then,?And think no more withouten help you stand;?For sure as God on His eternal throne?Sits, mindful of the sinful deeds of men,?--The awful Sword of Justice in His hand,--
You shall not, no, you shall not, fight alone.
THE COLOR SERGEANT
(On an Incident at