They dragged you from homeland,
They chained you in coffles,
They huddled you spoon-fashion in filthy hatches,
They sold you to give a few gentlemen ease.

They broke you in like oxen,
They scourged you,
They branded you,
They made your women breeders,
They swelled your numbers with bastards. . . .
They taught you the religion they disgraced.

You sang:
            Keep a inchin’ along
            Lak a po’ inch worm. . . .

You sang:
            Bye and bye
            I’m gonna lay down dis heaby load. . . .

You sang.
            Walk togedder, chillen,
            Dontcha git weary. . . .
                The strong men keep a-comin’ on
                The strong men git stronger.

They point with pride to the roads you built for them,
They ride in comfort over the rails you laid for them.
They put hammers in your hands
And said—Drive so much before sundown.

You sang:
             Ain’t no hammah
             In dis lan’,
             Strikes lak mine, bebby,
             Strikes lak mine.

They cooped you in their kitchens,
They penned you in their factories,
They gave you the jobs that they were too good for,
They tried to guarantee happiness to themselves
By shunting dirt and misery to you.

You sang:
             Me an’ muh baby gonna shine, shine
             Me an’ muh baby gonna shine.
                     The strong men keep a-comin’ on
                     The strong men git stronger . . .

They bought off some of your leaders
You stumbled, as blind men will . . .
They coaxed you, unwontedly soft voiced . . .
You followed a way.
Then laughed as usual.
They heard the laugh and wondered;
Uncomfortable;
Unadmitting a deeper terror. . . .
                    The strong men keep a-comin’ on
                    Gittin’ stronger. . . .

What, from the slums
Where they have hemmed you,
What, from the tiny huts
They could not keep from you—
What reaches them
Making them ill at ease, fearful?
Today they shout prohibition at you
“Thou shalt not this”
“Thou shalt not that”
“Reserved for whites only”
You laugh.

One thing they cannot prohibit—
                     The strong men . . . coming on
                     The strong men gittin’ stronger.
                     Strong men . . .
                     Stronger . . .

^{Translated by Agnes Blake Poor}

^{Tirai-je enfans de la rive africaine.
    Qui cultivent pour nous la terre americaine?
Differents de couleur, ils ont les mêmes droits;
    Vous-mêmes contres vous les armez de vos lois.
      —Delille, Malheur et Pitie, Chant I.}

“And hast thou sped upon the ocean wind,
     Say, cruel pirate, hast thou come for this?
                  Not to leave one behind.
To rob my humble home of all its bliss?
     Come back and look into my cabin door
                  And find me there alone.
Their parting footsteps will return no more;
All of my own are gone, forever gone.
                  Husband and children taken
                  And only I forsaken!
O bear me after them, thou iron heart,
     And to toil with them, I will be thy slave!
                  Or if death be their part,
Cast us together in an unknown grave.
But why pray I to thee, by prayer unmoved?
     Thou hast no children, thou has never loved.

“Free waves their flag, the golden sun displaying
        Celestial globe on skies of heavenly blue!
                  The sportive breezes straying,
Waft on our sight the wonder strange and new;
        While the relentless crew
Dart like wild beasts on weaker creatures preying.
        Darken, thou sun, thy fiery light,
And die away in black eternal night.

“What see I here? his quiver and his bow
        Shattered and useless on the trampled sand?
. . . . . . . My hero! Well I know
        They were not torn from unresisting hand.
But these with magic art
                  Can grasp the lightning’s dart
And wake the thunder clap at their command.”

        Some poor relief to find,
So wailed in grief the mourner left behind.
        They heeded not her accents of despair;
A feeble outcast worth no robber’s care.
        And full in view, with every sail unfurled
The Eagle spread her pinions to the air,
        And soared away into the western world.

        Chained in the hold beneath,
        The captives gasped for breath,
And spent their strength in vainly wasted strife,
        A groaning heap of mingled death and life.
While from her hut under the mango shade,
        The childless mother and the widowed wife
Watched the tall poop on the horizon fade.

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark
White stars is no less lovely, being dark;
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

Fling out your banners, your honors be bringing,
Raise to the ether your paeans of praise.
Strike every chord and let music be ringing!
Celebrate freely this day of all days.

Few are the years since that notable blessing,
Raised you from slaves to the powers of men.
Each year has seen you my brothers progressing,
Never to sink to that level again.

Perched on your shoulders sits Liberty smiling,
Perched where the eyes of the nations can see.
Keep from her pinions all contact defiling;
Show by your deeds what you’re destined to be.

Press boldly forward nor waver, nor falter.
Blood has been freely poured out in your cause,
Lives sacrificed upon Liberty’s altar.
Press to the front, it were craven to pause.

Look to the heights that are worth your attaining
Keep your feet firm in the path to the goal.
Toward noble deeds every effort be straining.
Worthy ambition is food for the soul!

Up! Men and brothers, be noble, be earnest!
Ripe is the time and success is assured;
Know that your fate was the hardest and sternest
When through those lash-ringing days you endured.

Never again shall the manacles gall you
Never again shall the whip stroke defame!
Nobles and Freemen, your destinies call you
Onward to honor, to glory and fame.

From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince of
        Peace hovering over No Man’s Land.
Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was
        drowned by the happy shouting of the people.
From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant
        from the throats of white-robed angels:

   Blow your trumpets, little children!
   From the East and from the West,
   From the cities in the valley,
   From God’s dwelling on the mountain,
   Blow your blast that Peace might know
   She is Queen of God’s great army.
   With the crying blood of millions
   We have written deep her name
   In the Book of all the Ages;
   With the lilies in the valley,
   With the roses by the Mersey,
   With the golden flower of Jersey
   We have crowned her smooth young temples.
   Where her footsteps cease to falter
   Golden grain will greet the morning,
   Where her chariot descends
   Shall be broken down the altars
   Of the gods of dark disturbance.
   Nevermore shall men know suffering,
   Nevermore shall women wailing
   Shake to grief the God of Heaven.
   From the East and from the West,
   From the cities in the valley,
   From God’s dwelling on the mountain,
   Little children, blow your trumpets!

From Ethiopia, groaning ’neath her heavy burdens, I heard
        the music of the old slave songs.
I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly
        fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars.
I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the
        crimson in my veins leapt furiously.

  Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought
  In No Man’s Land that peace might come again!
  Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave
  Red blood to save the freedom of the world!
  We were not free, our tawny hands were tied;
  But Belgium’s plight and Serbia’s woes we shared
  Each rise of sun or setting of the moon.
  So when the bugle blast had called us forth
  We went not like the surly brute of yore
  But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world
  The freedom that we never knew nor shared.
  These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down
  As Samson in the temple of the gods;
  Unloosen them and let us breathe the air
  That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ.
  For we have been with thee in No Man’s Land,
  Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself;
  And now we ask of thee our liberty,
  Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.

I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man’s Land.

O, de birds ar’ sweetly singin’,
        ’Weh down Souf,
An’ de banjer is a-ringin’,
        ’Weh down Souf;
An’ my heart it is a-sighin’,
         Whil’ de moments am a-flyin’.
Fur my hom’ I am a-cryin’,
        ’Weh down Souf.

Dar de pickaninnies ’s playin’,
        ’Weh down Souf,
An’ fur dem I am a-prayin’,
        ’Weh down Souf;
An’ when I gits sum munny,
         Yo’ kin bet I’m goin’, my hunny,
Fur de lan’ dat am so sunny,
        ’Weh down Souf.

Whil’ de win’ up here’s a-blowin’,
        ’Weh down Souf
De corn is sweetly growin’,
        ’Weh down Souf.
Dey tells me here ub freedum,
But I ain’t a-gwine to heed um,
But I’se gwine fur to lebe um.
         Fur ’weh down Souf.

I bin up here a’-wuckin’,
      From ’weh down Souf,
An’ I ain’t a bin a-shurkin’—
      I’m frum ’weh down Souf;
But I’m gittin’ mighty werry,
An’ de days a-gittin’ drerry,
An’ I’m hongry, O, so berry,
      Fur my hom’ down Souf.

O, de moon dar shines de brighter,
       ’Weh down Souf,
An’ I know my heart is lighter,
       ’Weh down Souf;
An’ de berry thought brings pledjur,
I’ll be happy dar ’dout medjur,
Fur dar I hab my tredjur,
       ’Weh down Souf.

Dey was hard times jes fo’ Christmas round our neighborhood one year;
So we held a secret meetin’, whah de white folks couldn’t hear,
To ’scuss de situation, an’ to see what could be done
Towa’d a fust-class Christmas dinneh an’ a little Christmas fun.

Rufus Green, who called de meetin’, ris an’ said: “In dis here town,
An’ throughout de land, de white folks is a-tryin’ to keep us down.”
S’ ’e: “Dey bought us, sold us, beat us; now dey ’buse us ’ca’se we’s free;
But when dey tetch my stomach, dey’s done gone too fur foh me!

“Is I right?”   “You sho is, Rufus!” roared a dozen hungry throats.
“Ef you’d keep a mule a-wo’kin’, don’t you tamper wid his oats.
“Dat’s sense,” continued Rufus. “But dese white folks nowadays
Has done got so close and stingy you can’t live on what dey pays.
“Here ’tis Christmas-time, an’, folkses, I’s indignant ’nough to choke.
Whah’s our Christmas dinneh comin’ when we’s ’mos’ completely broke?
I can’t hahdly ’fo’d a toothpick an’ a glass o’ water. Mad?
Say, I’m desp’ret! Dey jes better treat me nice, dese white folks had!”

Well, dey ’bused de white folks scan’lous, till old Pappy Simmons ris,
Leanin’ on his cane to s’pote him, on account his rheumatis’,
An’ s’ ’e: “Chilun, whut’s dat wintry wind a-sighin’ th’ough de street
’Bout yo’ wasted summeh wages?   But, no matter, we mus’ eat.

“Now, I seed a beau’ful tuhkey on a certain gemmun’s fahm.
He’s a-growin’ fat an’ sassy, an’ a-struttin’ to a chahm.
Chickens, sheeps, hogs, sweet pertaters—all de craps is fine dis year;
All we needs is a committee foh to tote de goodies here.”

Well, we lit right in an’ voted dat it was a gran’ idee,
An’ de dinneh we had Christmas was worth trabblin’ miles to see;
An’ we eat a full an’ plenty, big an’ little, great an’ small,
Not beca’se we was dishonest, but indignant, sah. Dat’s all.

One does such work as one will not,
    And well each knows the right;
Though the white storm howls, or the sun is hot,
    The black must serve the white.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s softening flesh,
    While the black man’s muscles grow!
Well I know which grows the mightier,
    I know; full well I know.

The white man seeks the soft, fat place,
    And he moves and he works by rule.
Ingenious grows the humbler race
    In Oppression’s prodding school.
And it’s, oh, for a white man gone to seed,
    While the Negro struggles so!
And I know which race develops most,
    I know; yes, well I know.

The white man rides in a palace car,
    And the Negro rides “Jim Crow”
To damn the other with bolt and bar,
    One creepeth so low; so low!
And it’s, oh, for a master’s nose in the mire,
    While the humbled hearts o’erflow!
Well I know whose soul grows big at this,
    And whose grows small; I know!

The white man leases out his land,
    And the Negro tills the same.
One works; one loafs and takes command;
    But I know who wins the game!
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s shrinking soil.
    As the black’s rich acres grow!
Well I know how the signs point out at last,
    I know; ah, well I know!

The white man votes for his color’s sake.
    While the black, for his is barred;
(Though “ignorance” is the charge they make),
    But the black man studies hard.
And it’s, oh, for the white man’s sad neglect,
    For the power of his light let go!
So, I know which man must win at last,
    I know! Ah, Friend, I know!

Oh, de grubbin'-hoe's a-rustin' in de co'nah,
    An' de plow's a-tumblin' down in de fiel',
While de whippo'will's a-wailin' lak a mou'nah
    When his stubbo'n hea't is tryin' ha'd to yiel'.

In de furrers whah de co'n was allus wavin',
    Now de weeds is growin' green an' rank an' tall;
An' de swallers roun' de whole place is a-bravin'
    Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all.

An' de big house stan's all quiet lak an' solemn,
    Not a blessed soul in pa'lor, po'ch, er lawn;
Not a guest, ner not a ca'iage lef' to haul 'em,
    Fu' de ones dat tu'ned de latch-string out air gone.

An' de banjo's voice is silent in de qua'ters,
    D' ain't a hymn ner co'n-song ringin' in de air;
But de murmur of a branch's passin' waters
    Is de only soun' dat breks de stillness dere.

Whah's de da'kies, dem dat used to be a-dancin'
    Evry night befo' de ole cabin do'?
Whah's de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin'
    Er a-rollin' in de san' er on de flo'?

Whah's ole Uncle Mordecai an' Uncle Aaron?
    Whah's Aunt Doshy, Sam, an' Kit, an' all de res'?
Whah's ole Tom de da'ky fiddlah, how's he farin'?
    Whah's de gals dat used to sing an' dance de bes'?

Gone! not one o' dem is lef' to tell de story;
    Dey have lef de deah ole place to fall away.
Couldn't one o' dem dat seed it in its glory
    Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?

Dey have lef' de ole plantation to de swallers,
    But it hol's in me a lover till de las';
Fu' I fin' hyeah in de memory dat follers
    All dat loved me an' dat I loved in de pas'.

So I'll stay an' watch de deah ole place an' tend it
    Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
'Twell de othah Mastah thinks it's time to end it,
    An' calls me to my qua'ters in de sky.

If the muse were mine to tempt it
    And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
    I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
    Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
    Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them,
    And with many a flip and flout
Said "These battles are the white man's,
    And the whites will fight them out."
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
    In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
    Of the foes' advancing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation,
    And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
    No! the nation shouted, No!
So when War, in savage triumph,
    Spread abroad his funeral pall—
Then you called the colored soldiers,
    And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager
    For the life blood of the prey,
Spring they forth and bore them bravely
    In the thickest of the fray.
And where'er the fight was hottest,
    Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
    At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard
    To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
    None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
    To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
    Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy
    On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
    Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
    O'er the hot wrought spirits sway
Of the gallant colored soldiers
    Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
    And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
    Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
    In the depths of slavery's night,
Their muskets flashed the dawning,
    And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers.
    Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
    And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
    When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,—
    Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils,
    They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
    Has enriched the Southern soil.

They have slept and marched and suffered
    'Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
    And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record
    In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
    Every blot of Slavery's shame.
So all honor and all glory
    To those noble sons of Ham—
The gallant colored soldiers
    Who fought for Uncle Sam!

Oh when I think of my long-suffering race,

For weary centuries despised, oppressed,

Enslaved and lynched, denied a human place

In the great life line of the Christian West;

And in the Black Land disinherited,

Robbed in the ancient country of its birth,

My heart grows sick with hate, becomes as lead,

For this my race that has no home on earth.

Then from the dark depths of my soul I cry

To the avenging angel to consume

The white man's world of wonders utterly:

Let it be swallowed up in earth's vast womb,

Or upward roll as sacrificial smoke

To liberate my people from its yoke!

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories.
Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.
Summer nights on the front porch
Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom
And tells him stories.

Black slaves
Working in the hot sun,
And black slaves
Walking in the dewy night,
And black slaves
Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river
Mingle themselves softly
In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice,
Mingle themselves softly
In the dark shadows that cross and recross
Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening,
Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories.
He knows that Aunt Sue never got her stories
Out of any book at all,
But that they came
Right out of her own life.

The dark-faced child is quiet
Of a summer night
Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

I love you for your brownness,

And the rounded darkness of your breast,

I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice

And shadows where your wayward eyelids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens

Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk

And something of the shackled slave

Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate,

Keep all you have of queenliness,

Forgetting that you once were slave,

And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

I shall hate you

Like a dart of singing steel

Shot through still air

At even-tide,

Or solemnly

As pines are sober

When they stand etched

Against the sky.

Hating you shall be a game

Played with cool hands

And slim fingers.

Your heart will yearn

For the lonely splendor

Of the pine tree

While rekindled fires

In my eyes

Shall wound you like swift arrows.

Memory will lay its hands

Upon your breast

And you will understand

My hatred.

’Tis a time for much rejoicing;
      Let each heart be lured away;
Let each tongue, its thanks be voicing
      For Emancipation Day.
Day of victory, day of glory,
For thee, many a field was gory!

Many a time in days now ended,
      Hath our fathers’ courage failed,
Patiently their tears they blended;
      Ne’er they to their, Maker, railed,
Well we know their groans, He numbered,
When dominions fell, asundered.

As of old the Red Sea parted,
      And oppressed passed safely through,
Back from the North, the bold South, started,
      And a fissure wide she drew;
Drew a cleft of Liberty,
Through it, marched our people free.

And, in memory, ever grateful,
      Of the day they reached the shore,
Meet we now, with hearts e’er faithful,
      Joyous that the storm is o’er.
Storm of Torture! May grim Past,
Hurl thee down his torrents fast.

Bring your harpers, bring your sages,
      Bid each one the story tell;
Waft it on to future ages,
      Bid descendants learn it well.
Kept it bright in minds now tender,
Teach the young their thanks to render.

Come with hearts all firm united,
      In the union of a race;
With your loyalty well plighted,
      Look your brother in the face,
Stand by him, forsake him never,
God is with us now, forever.

Think you I am not fiend and savage too?

Think you I could not arm me with a gun

And shoot down ten of you for every one

Of my black brothers murdered, burnt by you?

Be not deceived, for every deed you do

I could match – out-match: am I not Africa's son,

Black of that black land where black deeds are done?

But the Almighty from the darkness drew

My soul and said: Even thou shalt be a light

Awhile to burn on the benighted earth,

Thy dusky face I set among the white

For thee to prove thyself of highest worth;

Before the world is swallowed up in night,

To show thy little lamp: go forth, go forth!

Wherefore this busy labor without rest?

Is it an idle dream to which we cling,

Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing

Unto the world their hope? “Build we our best.

By hand and thought,” they cry, “although unblessed.”

So the great engines throb, and anvils ring,

And so the thought is wedded to the thing;

But what shall be the end, and what the test?

Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see

Not many steps ahead, but this we know—

If all our toilsome building is in vain,

Availing not to set our manhood free,

If envious hate roots out the seed we sow,

The South will wear eternally a stain.

I did not think... I did not know... 
    What pale excuse is this I make
In answer to my brother’s woe, 
Age-long, for deep injustice sake!

Across his mute and patient soul, 
   While I have gone my heedless way,
The shadows of a fate might roll
   That deepened night and darkened day.

But I have read a burning page,
  That glowed with white and soul-wrung fire,
And now no more I may engage
    My conscience with a feeble hire. 

For all the wrong I did not heed, 
   Chance-born in happier paths to live,
I cry unto my brother’s need
  One word of love and shame... forgive!

Black brother, think you life so sweet

That you would live at any price?

Does mere existence balance with

The weight of your great sacrifice?

Or can it be you fear the grave

Enough to live and die a slave?

O Brother! be it better said,

When you are gone and tears are shed,

That your death was the stepping stone

Your children’s children cross’d upon.

Men have died that men might live:

Look every foeman in the eye!

If necessary, your life give

For something, ere in vain you die.

I wear an easy garment,

   O’er it no toiling slave

Wept tears of hopeless anguish,

   In his passage to the grave.

And from its ample folds

   Shall rise no cry to God,

Upon its warp and woof shall be 

   No stain of tears and blood.

Oh, lightly shall it press my form,

   Unladened with a sigh,

I shall not ‘mid its rustling hear,

   Some sad despairing cry.

This fabric is too light to bear

   The weight of bondsmen’s tears,

I shall not in its texture trace

   The agony of years.

Too light to bear a smother’d sigh,

   From some lorn woman’s heart,

Whose only wreath of household love

   Is rudely torn apart.

Then lightly shall it press my form,

   Unburden’d by a sigh;

And from its seams and folds shall rise,

   No voice to pierce the sky, 

And witness at the throne of God,

   In language deep and strong,

That I have nerv’d Oppression’s hand,

   For deeds of guilt and wrong. 

                     1.

We are marching, truly marching 

   Can’t you hear the sound of feet? 

We are fearing no impediment 

   We have never known defeat. 

                     2. 

Like Job of old we have had patience, 

  Like Joshua, dangerous roads we’ve trod 

Like Solomon we have built out temples. 

   Like Abraham we’ve had faith in God. 

                     3. 

Up the streets of wealth and commerce, 

   We are marching one by one

We are marching, making history, 

  For ourselves and those to come. 

                     4. 

We have planted schools and churches,

   We have answered duty’s call. 

We have marched from slavery’s cabin 

   To the legislative hall. 

                     5. 

Brethren can’t you catch the spirit? 

  You who are out just get in line

Because we are marching, yes we are marching 

   To the music of the time. 

                     6.

We are marching, steady marching 

   Bridging chasms, crossing streams 

Marching up the hill of progress 

  Realizing our fondest dreams. 

                       7. 

We are marching, truly marching 

   Can’t you hear the sound of feet? 

We are fearing no impediment

   We shall never know defeat. 

^{I can remember when I was a little, young girl, how my old mammy would sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I would say, ‘Mammy, what makes you groan so?’ And she would say, ‘I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and I don’t know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the stars!’
            —Sojourner Truth.}

I think I see her sitting bowed and black, 
  Stricken and seared with slavery’s mortal scars, 
Reft of her children, lonely, anguished, yet 
  Still looking at the stars.

Symbolic mother, we thy myriad sons, 
  Pounding our stubborn hearts on Freedom’s bars, 
Clutching our birthright, fight with faces set, 
  Still visioning the stars!

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. 

Pour O pour that parting soul in song,
O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,
Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,
And let the valley carry it along.
And let the valley carry it along.

O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,
Now just before an epoch's sun declines
Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,
Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.

In time, for though the sun is setting on
A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;
Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet
To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,
Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.

O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,
Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,
Passing before they stripped the old tree bare
One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes

An everlasting song, a singing tree,
Caroling softly souls of slavery,
What they were, and what they are to me,
Caroling softly souls of slavery.

Am I sadly cast aside,
On misfortune’s rugged tide?
Will the world my pains deride
               Forever?
			   
Must I dwell in Slavery’s night,
And all pleasure take its flight,
Far beyond my feeble sight,
               Forever?
			   
Worst of all, must hope grow dim,
And withhold her cheering beam?
Rather let me sleep and dream
               Forever!

Something still my heart surveys,
Groping through this dreary maze;
Is it Hope?—they burn and blaze
               Forever!
			   
Leave me not a wretch confined,
Altogether lame and blind—
Unto gross despair consigned,
               Forever!
			   
Heaven! in whom can I confide?
Canst thou not for all provide?
Condescend to be my guide
               Forever:
			   
And when this transient life shall end,
Oh, may some kind, eternal friend
Bid me from servitude ascend,
               Forever! 

Heard you that shriek? It rose
   So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden'd heart
   Was breaking in despair.
   
Saw you those hands so sadly clasped--
   The bowed and feeble head--
The shuddering of that fragile form--
   That look of grief and dread?
   
Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
   Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
   Were sweeping through the brain.

She is a mother pale with fear,
   Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
   His trembling form to hide.
   
He is not hers, although she bore
   For him a mother's pains; 
He is not hers, although her blood
   Is coursing through his veins!
   
He is not hers, for cruel hands
   May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
   That binds her breaking heart.
   
His love has been a joyous light
   That o'er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
   Amid life's desert wild.
   
His lightest word has been a tone
   Of music round her heart, 
Their lives a streamlet blent in one--
   Oh, Father! must they part?
   
They tear him from her circling arms,
   Her last and fond embrace.
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
   Gaze on his mournful face.
   
No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
   Disturb the listening air:
She is a mother, and her heart
   Is breaking in despair.

Make me a grave where’er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; 
Make it among earth’s humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother’s shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.

If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.

I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.