Fifty years & Other Poems. James Weldon Johnson

victory on field and flood—

      Remember, its first crimson stripe

      Was dyed by Attucks' willing 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