The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 12

Trust not your prowess nor your strength, Your only safety lies in flight; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

The great white witch you have not seen?

Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, Like nursery children you have looked For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; But no, not so; the witch appears In all the glowing charms of youth.

Her lips are like carnations, red, Her face like new-born lilies, fair, Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, She moves with subtle grace and air, And all about her head there floats The golden glory of her hair.

But though she always thus appears In form of youth and mood of mirth, Unnumbered centuries are hers, The infant planets saw her birth; The child of throbbing Life is she, Twin sister to the greedy earth.

And back behind those smiling lips, And down within those laughing eyes, And underneath the soft caress Of hand and voice and purring sighs, The shadow of the panther lurks, The spirit of the vampire lies.

For I have seen the great white witch, And she has led me to her lair, And I have kissed her red, red lips And cruel face so white and fair; Around me she has twined her arms, And bound me with her yellow hair.

I felt those red lips burn and sear My body like a living coal; Obeyed the power of those eyes As the needle trembles to the pole; And did not care although I felt The strength go ebbing from my soul.

Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, And heard your laughter loud and gay, And in your voices she has caught The echo of a far-off day, When man was closer to the earth; And she has marked you for her prey.

She feels the old Antaean strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal pa.s.sions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, l.u.s.ty, fierce, Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!

The great white witch rides out to-night.

O, younger brothers mine, beware!

Look not upon her beauty bright; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

MOTHER NIGHT

Eternities before the first-born day, Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame, Calm Night, the everlasting and the same, A brooding mother over chaos lay.

And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay, Shall run their fiery courses and then claim The haven of the darkness whence they came; Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way.

So when my feeble sun of life burns out, And sounded is the hour for my long sleep, I shall, full weary of the feverish light, Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt, And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep Into the quiet bosom of the Night.

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 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 G.o.d's above, and G.o.d 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.

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 l.u.s.t, 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' b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

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, _"Brothers in spirit, brothers in deed are we"?_

FIFTY YEARS (1863-1913)

_On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Signing of the Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation._

O brothers mine, to-day we stand Where half a century sweeps our ken, Since G.o.d, 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!