Fifty years Other Poems | Page 3

blood.
And never yet has come the cry--
When that fair flag has been
assailed--
For men to do, for men to die,
That have we faltered or
have failed.
We've helped to bear it, rent and torn,
Through many a hot-breath'd
battle breeze;
Held in our hands, it has been borne
And planted far
across the seas.
And never yet--O haughty Land,
Let us, at least, for this be praised--

Has one black, treason-guided hand
Ever against that flag been
raised.
Then should we speak but servile words,
Or shall we hang our heads
in shame?
Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,
And fear our
heritage to claim?
No! stand erect and without fear,
And for our foes let this suffice--

We've 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