Читать книгу Fifty years & Other Poems - James Weldon Johnson, James Weldon Johnson - Страница 4

O brothers mine, to-day we stand

Where half a century sweeps our ken,

Since God, through Lincoln's ready hand,

Struck off our bonds and made us men.

Just fifty years—a winter's day—

As runs the history of a race;

Yet, as we look back o'er the way,

How distant seems our starting place!

Look farther back! Three centuries!

To where a naked, shivering score,

Snatched from their haunts across the seas,

Stood, wild-eyed, on Virginia's shore.

Far, far the way that we have trod,

From heathen kraals and jungle dens,

To freedmen, freemen, sons of God,

Americans and Citizens.

A part of His unknown design,

We've lived within a mighty age;

And we have helped to write a line

On history's most wondrous page.

A few black bondmen strewn along

The borders of our eastern coast,

Now grown a race, ten million strong,

An upward, onward marching host.

Then let us here erect a stone,

To mark the place, to mark the time;

A witness to God's mercies shown,

A pledge to hold this day sublime.

And let that stone an altar be,

Whereon thanksgivings we may lay,

Where we, in deep humility,

For faith and strength renewed may pray.

With open hearts ask from above

New zeal, new courage and new pow'rs,

That we may grow more worthy of

This country and this land of ours.

For never let the thought arise

That we are here on sufferance bare;

Outcasts, asylumed 'neath these skies,

And aliens without part or share.

This land is ours by right of birth,

This land is ours by right of toil;

We helped to turn its virgin earth,

Our sweat is in its fruitful soil.

Where once the tangled forest stood,—

Where flourished once rank weed and thorn,—

Behold the path-traced, peaceful wood,

The cotton white, the yellow corn.

To gain these fruits that have been earned,

To hold these fields that have been won,

Our arms have strained, our backs have burned,

Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.

That Banner which is now the type

Of 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.

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 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!

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 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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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 slender pine.

Now bring the fuel! Pile it 'round him! Wait!

Pile not so fast or high! or we shall lose

The agony and terror in his face.

And now the torch! Good fuel that! the flames

Already leap head-high. Ha! hear that shriek!

And there's another! wilder than the first.

Fetch water! Water! Pour a little on

The fire, lest it should burn too fast. Hold so!

Now let it slowly blaze again. See there!

He squirms! He groans! His eyes bulge wildly out,

Searching around in vain appeal for help!

Another shriek, the last! Watch how the flesh

Grows crisp and hangs till, turned to ash, it sifts

Down through the coils of chain that hold erect

The ghastly frame against the bark-scorched tree.

Stop! to each man no more than one man's share.

You take that bone, and you this tooth; the chain—

Let us divide its links; this skull, of course,

In fair division, to the leader comes.

And now his fiendish crime has been avenged;

Let us back to our wives and children.—Say,

What did he mean by those last muttered words,