31 Slavery and freedom poems

If Heaven has into being deigned to call Thy light, O Liberty! to shine on all; Bright intellectual Sun! why does thy ray To earth distribute only partial day? Since no resisting cause from spirit flows Thy universal presence to oppose; No obstacles by Nature’s hand impressed, Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest; Not swayed by matter is they course benign, Or more direct or more oblique to shine; Nor motion’s laws can speed thy active course; Nor strong repulsion’s powers obstruct thy force: Since there is no convexity in mind, Why are thy genial rays to parts confined? While the chill North with thy bright beam is blest, Why should fell darkness half the South invest? Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth, That thou should’st ne’er irradiate all the earth? While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light, Why lies sad Afric quenched in total night? Thee only, sober Goddess! I attest, In smiles chastised, and decent graces dressed; To thee alone, pure daughter of the skies, The hallowed incense of the Bard should rise: Not that mad Liberty, in whose wild praise Too oft he trims his prostituted bays; Not that unlicensed monster of the crowd, Whose roar terrific bursts in peals so loud, Deafening the ear of Peace; fierce Faction’s tool, Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule; Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason’s rein, No strength can govern, and no skill restrain; Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw To spurn at Order, and to outrage Law; To tread on grave Authority and Power, And shake the work of ages in an hour: Convulsed her voice, and pestilent her breath, She raves of mercy, while she deals out death: Each blast is fate; she darts from either hand Red conflagration o’er the astonished land; Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with noise, And, to reform a part, the whole destroys. Reviles oppression only to oppress, And, in the act of murder, breathes redress. Such have we seen on Freedom’s genuine coast, Bellowing for blessings which were never lost. ‘Tis past, and Reason rules the lucid hour, And beauteous Order reassumes his power: Lord of the bright ascendant may he reign, Till perfect Peace eternal sway maintain! O, plaintive Southerne! whose impassioned page Can melt the soul to grief, or rouse to rage; Now, when congenial themes engage the Muse, She burns to emulate thy generous views; Her failing efforts mock her fond desires, She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires. Strange power of song! the strain that warms the heart Seems the same inspiration to impart; Touched by the extrinsic energy alone, We think the flame which melts us is our own; Deceived, for genius we mistake delight, Charmed as we read, we fancy we can write. Though not to me, sweet Bard, thy powers belong, The cause I plead shall sanctify my song. The Muse awakes no artificial fire, For Truth rejects what Fancy would inspire: Here Art would weave her gayest flowers in vain, The bright invention Nature would disdain. For no fictitious ills these numbers flow, But living anguish, and substantial woe; No individual griefs my bosom melt, For millions feel what Oroonoko felt: Fired by no single wrongs, the countless host I mourn, by rapine dragg’d from Afric’s coast. Perish the illiberal thought which would debase The native genius of the sable race! Perish the proud philosophy, which sought To rob them of the powers of equal thought! What! does the immortal principle within Change with the casual colour of a skin? Does matter govern spirit? or is mind Degraded by the form to which it’s joined? No: they have heads to think, and hearts to feel, And souls to act, with firm, though erring zeal; For they have keen affections, soft desires, Love strong as death, and active patriot fires: All the rude energy, the fervid flame Of high-souled passion, and ingenuous shame: Strong, but luxuriant virtues, boldly shoot From the wild vigour of a savage root. Nor weak their sense of honour’s proud control, For pride is virtue in a Pagan soul; A sense of worth, a conscience of desert, A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart; That selfsame stuff which erst proud empires swayed, Of which the conquerors of the world were made. Capricious fate of men! that very pride In Afric scourged, in Rome was deified. No Muse, O Qua-shi! shall thy deeds relate, No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate! For thou wast born where never gentle Muse On Valour’s grave the flowers of Genius strews; And thou wast born where no recording page Plucks the fair deed from Time’s devouring rage. Had fortune placed you on some happier coast, Where polished Pagans souls heroic boast, To thee, who sought’st a voluntary grave, The uninjured honours of thy name to save, Whose generous arm thy barbarous Master spared, Altars had smoked, and temples had been reared. Whene’er to Afric’s shores I turn my eyes, Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise; I see, by more than Fancy’s mirror shown, The burning village, and the blazing town: See the dire victim torn from social life, See the sacred infant, hear the shrieking wife! She, wretch forlorn! is dragged by hostile hands, To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands: Transmitted miseries, and successive chains, The sole sad heritage her child obtains. E’en this last wretched boon their foes deny, To weep together, or together die. By felon hands, by one relentless stroke, See the fond links of Nature broke! The fibres twisting round a parent’s heart, Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part. Hold, murderers! hold! nor aggravate distress; Respect the passions you yourself possess: Ev’n you, of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand, Love your own offspring, love your native land; Ev’n you, with fond impatient feelings burn, Though free as air, though certain of return. Then, if to you, who voluntary roam, So dear the memory of your distant home, O think how absence the loved scene endears To him, whose food is groan, whose drink is tears; Think on the wretch whose aggravated pains To exile misery adds, to misery chains. If warm your heart, to British feelings true, As dear his land to him as yours to you; And Liberty, in you a hallowed flame, Burns, unextinguished, in his breast the same. Then leave him holy Freedom’s cheering smile, The heaven-taught fondness for the parent soil; Revere affections mingled with our frame, In every nature, every clime the same; In all, these feelings equal sway maintain; In all, the love of home and freedom reign: And Tempe’s vale, and parched Angola’s sand, One equal fondness of their sons command. The unconquered savage laughs at pain and toil, Basking in Freedom’s beams which gild his native soil. Does thirst of empire, does desire of fame, (For these are specious crimes) our rage inflame? No: sordid lust of gold their fate controls, The basest appetite of basest souls; Gold, better gained by what their ripening sky, Their fertile fields, their arts, and mines supply. What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression plead To smooth the crime and sanctify the deed? What strange offence, what aggravated sin? They stand convicted — of a darker skin! Barbarians, hold! the opprobrious commerce spare, Respect His sacred image which they bear. Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind, They claim the common privilege of kind ; Let Malice strip them of each other plea, They still are men, and men should still be free. Insulted Reason loathes the inverted trade — Loathes, as she views the human purchase made; The outraged Goddess, with abhorrent eyes, Sees Man the traffic, souls the merchandise! Man, whom fair Commerce taught with judging eye, And liberal hand, to barter or to buy, Indignant Nature blushes to behold, Degraded man himself, trucked, bartered, sold; Of every native privilege bereft, Yet cursed with every wounded feeling left. Hard lot! each brutal suffering to sustain, Yet keep the sense acute of human pain. Plead not, in reason’s palpable abuse, Their sense of feeling callous and obtuse, From heads to hearts lies Nature’s plain appeal, Though few can reason, all mankind can feel. Though wit may boast a livelier dread of shame, A loftier sense of wrong, refinement claim; Though polished manners may fresh wants invent, And nice distinctions nicer souls torment; Though these on finer spirits heavier fall, Yet natural evils are the same to all. Though wounds there are which reason’s force may heal, There needs no logic sure to make us feel. The nerve, howe’er untutored, can sustain A sharp, unutterable sense of pain; As exquisitely fashioned in a slave, As where unequal fate a sceptre gave. Sense is as keen where Gambia’s waters glide, As where proud Tiber rolls his classic tide. Though verse or rhetoric point the feeling line, They do not whet sensation, but define. Did ever wretch less feel the galling chain, When Zeno proved there was no ill in pain? In vain the sage to smooth its horror tries; Spartans and Helots see with different eyes; Their miseries philosophic quirks deride, Slaves groan in pangs disowned by Stoic pride. When the fierce Sun darts vertical his beams, And thirst and hunger mix their wild extremes; When the sharp iron wounds his inmost soul, And his strained eyes in burning anguish roll; Will the parched Negro own, ere he expire, No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire? For him, when agony his frame destroys, What hope of present fame or future joys? For that have heroes shortened Nature’s date; For this have martyrs gladly met their fate; But him, forlorn, no hero’s pride sustains, No martyr’s blissful visions soothe his pains; Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dust, For he has learned to dread the Christian’s trust; To him what mercy can that God display, Whose servants murder, and whose sons betray? Savage! thy venial error I deplore, They are not Christians who infest thy shore. O thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke The great deliver Death, at length, has broke! Released from misery, and escaped from care, Go, meet that mercy man denied thee here. In thy dark home, sure refuge of the oppressed, The wicked vex not, and the weary rest. And, if some notions, vague and undefined, Of future terrors have assailed thy mind; If such thy masters have presumed to teach, As terrors only they are prone to preach; (For should they paint eternal Mercy’s reign, Where were the oppressor’s rod, the captive’s chain?) If then, thy troubled soul has learned to dread The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread; On Him, who made thee what thou art, depend; He, who withholds the means, accepts the end. Thy mental night they Saviour will not blame, He died for those who never heard his name. Not thine the reckoning dire of Light abused, Knowledge disgraced, and Liberty misused; On thee no awful judge incensed shall sit For parts perverted, and dishonoured wit. Where ignorance will be found the surest plea, How many learned and wise shall envy thee ! And thou, White Savage! whether lust of gold, Or lust of conquest rule thee uncontrolled! Hero, or robber! — by whatever name Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame; Whether inferior mischief be thy boast, A tyrant trader rifling Congo’s coast: Or bolder carnage track thy crimson way, Kings dispossessed, and provinces thy prey; Whether thou pant to tame earth’s distant bound; All Cortez murdered, all Columbus found; O’er plundered realms to reign, detested Lord, Make millions wretched, and thyself abhorred: — Whether Cartouche in forests break the law, Or bolder Caesar keep the world in awe; In Reason’s eye, in Wisdom’s fair account, Your sum of glory boasts a like amount: The means may differ, but the end’s the same; Conquest is pillage with a nobler name. Who makes the sum of human blessings less, Or sinks the stock of general happiness, Though erring fame may grace, though false renown, His life may blazon or his memory crown, Yet the last audit shall reverse the cause, And God shall vindicate his broken laws. Had those adventurous spirits who explore Through ocean’s trackless wastes, the far-sought shore; Whether of wealth insatiate, or of power, Conquerors who waste, or ruffians who devour: Had these possessed, O Cook! thy gentle mind, Thy love of arts, thy love of human kind; Had these pursued thy mild and liberal plan, Discoverers had not been a curse to man. Then, blessed Philanthropy! thy social hands Had linked dissevered worlds in brothers’ bands; Careless, if colour, or if clime divide; Then, loved and loving, man had lived, and died. Then with pernicious skill we had not known To bring their vices back and leave our own. The purest wreaths which hang on glory’s shrine, For empires founded, peaceful Penn! are thine; No blood-stained laurels crowned thy virtuous toil, No slaughtered natives drenched thy fair-earned soil. Still thy meek spirit in thy flock survives, Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives; Thy followers only have effaced the shame Inscribed by slavery on the Christian name. Shall Britain, where the soul of Freedom reigns, Forge chains for others she herself disdains? Forbid it, Heaven! O let the nations know The liberty she tastes she will bestow; Not to herself the glorious gift confined, She spreads the blessing wide as human kind; And scorning narrow views of time and place, Bids all be free in earth’s extended space. What page of human annals can record A deed so bright as human rights restored? O may that god-like deed, that shining page, Redeem our fame, and consecrate our age! And let this glory mark our favoured shore, To curb false freedom and the true restore! And see, the cherub Mercy from above, Descending softly, quits the spheres of love! On Britain’s isle she sheds her heavenly dew, And breathes her spirit o’er the enlightened few; From soul to soul the spreading influence steals, Till every breast the soft contagion feels. She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore, With the best message angel ever bore; Hark! ’tis the note which spoke a Saviour’s birth, Glory to God on high, and peace on earth! She vindicates the Power in Heaven adored, She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the sword; She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands From bursting hearts unbinds the oppressor’s bands; Restores the lustre of the Christian name, And clears the foulest blot that dimmed its fame. As the mild Spirit hovers o’er the coast, A fresher hue the withered landscapes boast; Her healing smiles the ruined scenes repair, And blasted Nature wears a joyous air; While she proclaims through all their spicy groves, ‘Henceforth your fruits, your labours, and your loves, All that your Sire possessed, or you have sown, Sacred from plunder — all is now your own.’ And now, her high commission from above, Stamped with the holy characters of love, The meek-eyed spirit waving in her hand, Breathes manumission o’er the rescued land: She tears the banner stained with blood and tears, And, Liberty! thy shining standard rears! As the bright ensign’s glory she displays, See pale Oppression faints beneath the blaze! The giant dies! no more his frown appals, The chain, untouched, drops off, the fetter falls. Astonished echo tells the vocal shore, Oppression’s fallen, and slavery is no more! The dusky myriads crowd the sultry plain, And hail that mercy long invoked in vain. Victorious power! she bursts their two-fold bands, And Faith and Freedom spring from Britain’s hands. And Thou! great source of Nature and of Grace, Who of one blood didst form the human race, Look down in mercy in thy chosen time, With equal eye on Afric’s suffering clime: Disperse her shades of intellectual night, Repeat thy high behest — Let there be light! Bring each benighted soul, great God, to Thee, And with thy wide Salvation make them free!

loaded like spoons into the belly of Jesus where we lay for weeks for months in the sweat and stink of our own breathing Jesus why do you not protect us chained to the heart of the Angel where the prayers we never tell and hot and red as our bloody ankles Jesus Angel can these be men who vomit us out from ships called Jesus    Angel    Grace of God onto a heathen country Jesus Angel ever again can this tongue speak can these bones walk Grace Of God can this sin live

Remember The days of bondage— And remembering— Do not stand still. Go to the highest hill And look down upon the town Where you are yet a slave. Look down upon any town in Carolina Or any town in Maine, for that matter, Or Africa, your homeland— And you will see what I mean for you to see— The white hand: The thieving hand. The white face: The lying face. The white power: The unscrupulous power That makes of you The hungry wretched thing you are today.

RUN AWAY from this sub- scriber for the second time are TWO NEGROES, viz. SMART, an outlandish dark fellow with his country marks on his temples and bearing the remarkable brand of my name on his left breast, last seen wearing an old ragged negro cloth shirt and breeches made of fearnought; also DIDO, a likely young wench of a yellow cast, born in cherrytime in this parish, wearing a mixed coloured coat with a bundle of clothes, mostly blue, under her one good arm. Both speak tolerable plain English and may insist on being called Cuffee and Khasa respect- ively. Whoever shall deliver the said goods to the gaoler in Baton Rouge, or to the Sugar House in the parish, shall receive all reasonable charges plus a genteel reward besides what the law allows. In the mean time all persons are strictly forbid harbouring them, on pain of being prosecuted to the utmost rigour of the law. Ten guineas will be paid to anyone who can give intelligence of their being harboured, employed, or enter- tained by a white person upon his sentence; five on conviction of a black. All Masters of vessels are warned against carrying them out of state, as they may claim to be free. If any of the above Negroes return of their own accord, they may still be for- given by ELIZABETH YOUNG.

I. Runs falls rises stumbles on from darkness into darkness and the darkness thicketed with shapes of terror and the hunters pursuing and the hounds pursuing and the night cold and the night long and the river to cross and the jack-muh-lanterns beckoning beckoning and blackness ahead and when shall I reach that somewhere morning and keep on going and never turn back and keep on going Runagate Runagate Runagate Many thousands rise and go many thousands crossing over O mythic North O star-shaped yonder Bible city Some go weeping and some rejoicing some in coffins and some in carriages some in silks and some in shackles Rise and go or fare you well No more auction block for me no more driver’s lash for me If you see my Pompey, 30 yrs of age, new breeches, plain stockings, negro shoes; if you see my Anna, likely young mulatto branded E on the right cheek, R on the left, catch them if you can and notify subscriber. Catch them if you can, but it won’t be easy. They’ll dart underground when you try to catch them, plunge into quicksand, whirlpools, mazes, turn into scorpions when you try to catch them. And before I’ll be a slave I’ll be buried in my grave North star and bonanza gold I’m bound for the freedom, freedom-bound and oh Susyanna don’t you cry for me Runagate Runagate II. Rises from their anguish and their power, Harriet Tubman, woman of earth, whipscarred, a summoning, a shining Mean to be free And this was the way of it, brethren brethren, way we journeyed from Can’t to Can. Moon so bright and no place to hide, the cry up and the patterollers riding, hound dogs belling in bladed air. And fear starts a-murbling, Never make it, we’ll never make it.Hush that now, and she’s turned upon us, levelled pistol glinting in the moonlight: Dead folks can’t jaybird-talk, she says; you keep on going now or die, she says. Wanted     Harriet Tubman     alias The General alias Moses     Stealer of Slaves In league with Garrison     Alcott     Emerson Garrett     Douglas     Thoreau     John Brown Armed and known to be Dangerous Wanted     Reward     Dead or Alive Tell me, Ezekiel, oh tell me do you see mailed Jehovah coming to deliver me? Hoot-owl calling in the ghosted air, five times calling to the hants in the air. Shadow of a face in the scary leaves, shadow of a voice in the talking leaves: Come ride-a my train Oh that train, ghost-story train through swamp and savanna movering movering, over trestles of dew, through caves of the wish, Midnight Special on a sabre track movering movering, first stop Mercy and the last Hallelujah.

Posterity, this me is Now— Record this Now.Virginia, 1705 Not always settled. I am settled Over history’s yellow pages, blank Pages, must I write my old dark Thoughts: Does time mask or unmask Mind? This sweet almond now In my mouth as in their mouths Then, sweet in its rind, but silent I think: I am blood at oak, my hand A blood petal unfurled over oak, My desk, my wooded den, a pistil, A pen. Believe me: I speak honest And true. First. Economy ravishing and jealous In woods, the virgin woods. Sap is sweet so sap quarrels On the tongue. What is worth Worth? Sap sweet so sap ambers; In the virgin woods none can cut The profit from the tongue. Amber Gold so gold whispers at the edge Of each, our minds. The Natives Wear skins on skin; the women Bare their breasts and do not Blush. Was she a King’s daughter? She walked below the branches; The sun thin in silken lines The sated spiders left. Her brothers Showed us what seeds to sow. Glass beads contain light, a miracle To trade. Her skin a syrup Tone, the beads gold against her Wrist glowed. Midnight her crown Of hair plaited with one strand Of gold, thin as day’s edge when dusk Both dulls and hones that glow. “We’ll barter it.” Her brother feels Cheated when we offer a bolt Less of wool than he asks. Write it Down. Profit in black ink. They close Their eyes, quick as bark blinks Down dark on axe’s silver bite, When the deal is done. The ledger’s Honest, “I am a liar. Be aware.” Then. Pluck the withered gold at hand, The pumpkin leaves yellow, Sere and dust. Neglect the acre. Let the green aphids multiply And suck. We teethed our vision: A yellow sort of isinglass dust, Sunlit in silt, under the water Of our stream. The squash blossom Closed its eye; we squinted to see Beneath the stream. That summer We fed our hearts on dust. We grew Dust in gardens. We grew rich Until the gold sheen disclosed It was but gilded dust. We lived Some time on mussel, crab, berry, Those fruits of the wild earth. No one Spoke the word “starving.” We were Forced to be content with what fell Just in our mouths. Earlier Than First. Thought in the forest speaks A wooden chorus. My own voice Multiplied the almond by the pine. Roanoke,1588. Repaired the houses Now grown up with weeds. We make wooden houses. How quiet One voice, mumbling verses out The wilderness, by the fire In the corner. Bibles clothed in skin As the Natives come clothed.Exodus A comfort: to be chosen, safe, God spoke in smoke by day, in light By night. A manna faith—of manna. When Mr. White arrived, late August 1590,

I went to the city some days to learn my master's pleasure & laid fort at the farthest place where hedges are highest & terror of the obvious is a rosary of similitude Did you see some of the nudging? How did you feel about the nudging? Boats by water and wagons by land in active assistance in perpetuating fraudulent froth & hence with haste I've seen their mulchy tongues suck up every animate aim sweeping excess into piles the reserves and neocons administrators and representatives the preachers and deputies and yahoos and spodies In the evenings they come down from their operational sectors to kiss the children what terror is in them to keep the sugar boiling to restrain the wanderings as fragile and fictitious Did you see the tent on a stick? Did you see the architecture of gathering? I go to the city some days to gather what's left of scrubgrass There in the alley we converse Idris his love of fresh skim Ted his disdain for women their lack of banking Terrence and Will their concern for purity of pussy power precedes them sap-drenched & parceled across the land I go to the city some days I receive a letter Dear Comrades don't get it twisted never lick the hand that lashes you use beef when you run out of oakum

I would have freed thousands mo, If dey had known dey were slaves. Harriet herd on da wind you come back fo me didn’t think you come back fo me didn’t think you come back at all been so long my skin grew tired dis life too hard to know all alone caroline cover me jus fine she a quilt ginst the cold in ma blood she mend de torn spots in ma soul aint got no mind ta leev dis place go on moses   find yo promise lan mines is here beside dis fire wid folks we knows from when we’s born

My master/father sent me up from South Carolina to Boston as a nine-year-old. My mother's illiterate silence has been a death. I wonder if she still labors in his fields. His sister, dutiful but cold as snow, gave me a little room in her house, below the stairs with the Irish servants, who hated me for the fatal flaw in my genealogy. For the first time in my life I am at home in this bevy of scholars, my first family. Here, the wallpapers welcome me into every room, and the mirrors see me, not my pedigree. My sisters, Jerusha, Emilia, Elizabeth ... But Mama's unlettered silence is a death.

Like a fawn from the arrow, startled and wild, A woman swept by us, bearing a child; In her eye was the night of a settled despair, And her brow was o’ershaded with anguish and care. She was nearing the river—in reaching the brink, She heeded no danger, she paused not to think! For she is a mother—her child is a slave— And she’ll give him his freedom, or find him a grave! ’Twas a vision to haunt us, that innocent face— So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace; As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound, With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground! She was nerved by despair, and strengthen’d by woe, As she leap’d o’er the chasms that yawn’d from below; Death howl’d in the tempest, and rav’d in the blast, But she heard not the sound till the danger was past. Oh! how shall I speak of my proud country’s shame? Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name? How say that her banner in mockery waves— Her “star-spangled banner”—o’er millions of slaves? How say that the lawless may torture and chase A woman whose crime is the hue of her face? How the depths of forest may echo around With the shrieks of despair, and the bay of the hound? With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child, The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild; But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore, Where the friends of humanity open’d their door. So fragile and lovely, so fearfully pale, Like a lily that bends to the breath of the gale, Save the heave of her breast, and the sway of her hair, You’d have thought her a statue of fear and despair. In agony close to her bosom she press’d The life of her heart, the child of her breast:— Oh! love from its tenderness gathering might, Had strengthen’d her soul for the dangers of flight. But she’s free!—yes, free from the land where the slave From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave; Where bondage and torture, where scourges and chains Have plac’d on our banner indelible stains. The bloodhounds have miss’d the scent of her way; The hunter is rifled and foil’d of his prey; Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains, Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty’s plains. With the rapture of love and fullness of bliss, She plac’d on his brow a mother’s fond kiss:— Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave, For the child of her love is no longer a slave!