Fifty years Other Poems | Page 4

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 the Battle of San Juan Hill)
Under a burning tropic sun,
With comrades around him lying,
A
trooper of the sable Tenth
Lay wounded, bleeding, dying.
First in the charge up the fort-crowned hill,
His company's guidon
bearing,
He had rushed where the leaden hail fell fast,
Not death
nor danger fearing.
He fell in the front where the fight grew fierce,
Still faithful in life's
last labor;
Black though his skin, yet his heart as true
As the steel of
his blood-stained saber.
And while the battle around him rolled,
Like the roar of a sullen
breaker,
He closed his eyes on the bloody scene,
And presented
arms to his Maker.
There he lay, without honor or rank,
But, still, in a grim-like beauty;

Despised of men for his humble race,
Yet true, in death, to his
duty.
THE BLACK MAMMY
O whitened head entwined in turban gay,
O kind black face, O crude,
but tender hand,
O foster-mother in whose arms there lay
The race
whose sons are masters of the land!
It was thine arms that sheltered in
their fold,
It was thine eyes that followed through the length
Of
infant days these sons. In times of old
It was thy breast that nourished
them to strength.
So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed
The golden head, the face
and brow of snow;
So often has it 'gainst thy broad, dark breast


Lain, set off like a quickened cameo.
Thou simple soul, as cuddling
down that babe
With thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild,

Came ne'er the thought to thee, swift like a stab,
That it some day
might crush thine own black child?
FATHER, FATHER ABRAHAM
(On the Anniversary of Lincoln's Birth)
Father, Father Abraham,
To-day look on us from above;
On us, the
offspring of thy faith,
The children of thy Christ-like love.
For that which we have humbly wrought,
Give us to-day thy kindly
smile;
Wherein we've failed or fallen short,
Bear with us, Father,
yet awhile.
Father, Father Abraham,
To-day we lift our hearts to thee,
Filled
with the thought of what great price
Was paid, that we might
ransomed be.
To-day we consecrate ourselves
Anew in hand and heart and brain,

To send this judgment down the years:
The ransom was not paid in
vain.
BROTHERS
See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air
Of sullen stupor.
Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!

No light is there; none, save the glint that shines
In the now glaring,
and now shifting orbs
Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's
trap.
How came this beast in human shape and form?
Speak, man!--We
call you man because you wear
His shape--How are you thus? Are
you not from
That docile, child-like, tender-hearted race
Which we
have known three centuries? Not from
That more than faithful race

which through three wars
Fed our dear wives and nursed our helpless
babes
Without a single breach of trust? Speak out!
I am, and am not.
Then who, why are you?
I am a thing not new, I am as old
As human nature. I am that which
lurks,
Ready to spring whenever a bar is loosed;
The ancient trait
which fights incessantly
Against restraint, balks at the upward climb;

The weight forever seeking to obey
The law of downward
pull;--and I am more:
The bitter fruit am I of planted seed;
The
resultant, the inevitable end
Of evil forces and the powers of wrong.
Lessons in degradation, taught and learned,
The memories of cruel
sights and deeds,
The pent-up bitterness, the unspent hate
Filtered
through fifteen generations have
Sprung up and found in me sporadic
life.
In me the muttered curse of dying men,
On me the stain of
conquered women, and
Consuming me the fearful fires of lust,
Lit
long ago, by other hands than mine.
In me the down-crushed spirit,
the hurled-back prayers
Of wretches now long dead,--their dire
bequests.--
In me the echo of the stifled cry
Of children for their
bartered mothers' breasts.
I claim no race, no race claims me; I am
No more than human dregs;
degenerate;
The monstrous offspring of the monster, Sin;
I am--just
what I am.... The race that fed
Your wives and nursed your babes
would do the same
To-day, but I--
Enough, the brute must die!
Quick! Chain him to that oak! It will
resist
The fire much longer than this