Fifty years & Other Poems. James Weldon Johnson

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 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