31 Slavery and freedom poems

Stripped to the waist, hard-muscled, downcast, under the guns of lounging guards, they are clearing a roadside across a palmetto landscape. I notice one blond boy swinging a pick, broad-shouldered.   His skin is smooth, bright, sweaty. His upright body ripples under the rigid fury of his face. His bulging eyes fixed on the ground can see mountains, the destiny of his imagination he can never get to, where he could rest, a lion in the wilderness of his flesh. I see the body with its own career of gestures— its bright roads, its dark roads apart, serene. . . Men must be carved, apparently, like slaughtered steers or pigs to find the marble of their bones innocent, innocent after all as the stones they break, or rain, or the guards in cages of their white voices. Trapped in one chained line, one terrifying combination of arrangements, driven to taste each other's flesh. . . The body sings alone among the earth's arrangements ignorant of crimes or dreams or the curious idea of justice.

When children play the livelong day, Like birds and butterflies; As free and gay, sport life away, And know not care nor sighs: Then earth and air seem fresh and fair, All peace below, above: Life’s flowers are there, and everywhere Is innocence and love. When children pray with fear all day, A blight must be at hand: Then joys decay, and birds of prey Are hovering o’er the land: When young hearts weep as they go to sleep, Then all the world seems sad: The flesh must creep, and woes are deep When children are not glad.

’Twas when the Proclamation came,— Far in the sixties back,— He left his lord, and changed his name To “Mister Bartow Black.” He learned to think himself a man, And privileged, you know, To adopt a new and different plan,— To lay aside the hoe. He took the lead in politics, And handled all the “notes,”— For he was up to all the tricks That gather in the votes; For when the war came to a close And negroes “took a stand,” Young Bartow with the current rose, The foremost in command. His voice upon the “stump” was heard; He “Yankeedom” did prate; The “carpet-bagger” he revered; The Southerner did hate. He now was greater than the lord Who used to call him slave, For he was on the “County Board,” With every right to rave. But this amazing run of luck Was far too good to stand; And soon the chivalrous “Ku-Klux” Rose in the Southern land. Then Bartow got a little note,— ’Twas very queerly signed,— It simply told him not to vote, Or be to death resigned. Young Bartow thought this little game Was very fine and nice To bring his courage rare to shame And knowledge of justice. “What right have they to think I fear?” He to himself did say. “Dare they presume that I do care How loudly they do bray? “This is my home, and here I die, Contending for my right! Then let them come! My colors fly! I’m ready now to fight! “Let those who think that Bartow Black,— An office-holder, too!— Will to the cowards show his back, Their vain presumption rue!” Bartow pursued his office game, And made the money, too, But home at nights he wisely came And played the husband true. When they had got their subject tame, And well-matured their plan, They at the hour of midnight came, And armed was every man! They numbered fifty Southern sons, And masked was every face; And Winfield rifles were their guns,— You could that plainly trace. One Southern brave did have a key, An entrance quick to make; They entered all; but meek, you see, Their victim not to wake! They reached his room! He was in bed,— His wife was by his side! They struck a match above his head,— His eyes he opened wide! Poor Bartow could not reach his gun, Though quick his arm did stretch, For twenty bullets through him spun, That stiffly laid the wretch. And then they rolled his carcass o’er, And filled both sides with lead; And then they turned it on the floor, And shot away his head! Ere Black his bloody end did meet His wife had swooned away; The Southern braves did now retreat,— There was no need to stay!

Take sackcloth of the darkest dye, And shroud the pulpits round! Servants of Him that cannot lie, Sit mourning on the ground. Let holy horror blanch each cheek, Pale every brow with fears; And rocks and stones, if ye could speak, Ye well might melt to tears! Let sorrow breathe in every tone, In every strain ye raise; Insult not God’s majestic throne With th’ mockery of praise. A “reverend” man, whose light should be The guide of age and youth, Brings to the shrine of Slavery The sacrifice of truth! For the direst wrong by man imposed, Since Sodom’s fearful cry, The word of life has been unclos’d, To give your God the lie. Oh! When ye pray for heathen lands, And plead for their dark shores, Remember Slavery’s cruel hands Make heathens at your doors!

I Africans in the hold fold themselves to make room for hope. In the afternoon’s ferocity, tar, grouting the planks like the glue of family, melts to the run of a child’s licorice stick. Wet decks crack, testing the wood’s mettle. Distilled from evaporating brine, salt dusts the floor, tickling with the measure into time and the thirst trapped below. II The captain’s new cargo of Igbos disturbs him. They stand, computing the swim back to land. Haitians still say:Igbo pend’c or’ a ya! But we do not hang ourselves in cowardice. III Sold six times on the journey to the coast, once for a gun, then cloth, then iron manilas, her pride was masticated like husks of chewing sticks, spat from morning-rank mouths. Breaking loose, edge of handcuffs held high like the blade of a vengeful axe, she runs across the salt scratch of deck, pain deeper than the blue inside a flame. IV The sound, like the break of bone could have been the Captain’s skull or the musket shot dropping her over the side, her chains wrapped around his neck in dance.

The sea here used to look As if many convicts had built it, Standing deep in their ankle chains, Ankle-deep in the water, to smite The land and break it down to salt. I was in this bog as a child When they were all working all day To drive the pilings down. I thought I saw the still sun Strike the side of a hammer in flight And from it a sea bird be born To take off over the marshes. As the gray climbs the side of my head And cuts my brain off from the world, I walk and wish mainly for birds, For the one bird no one has looked for To spring again from a flash Of metal, perhaps from the scratched Wedding band on my ring finger. Recalling the chains of their feet, I stand and look out over grasses At the bridge they built, long abandoned, Breaking down into water at last, And long, like them, for freedom Or death, or to believe again That they worked on the ocean to give it The unchanging, hopeless look Out of which all miracles leap.

Adapted to the case of Mr. S., Fugitive from Tennessee. I’m on my way to Canada, That cold and dreary land; The dire effects of slavery, I can no longer stand. My soul is vexed within me so, To think that I’m a slave; I’ve now resolved to strike the blow For freedom or the grave. O righteous Father, Wilt thou not pity me? And aid me on to Canada, Where colored men are free. I heard Victoria plainly say, If we would all forsake Our native land of slavery, And come across the Lake. That she was standing on the shore, With arms extended wide, To give us all a peaceful home, Beyond the rolling tide. Farewell, old master! That’s enough for me— I’m going straight to Canada, Where colored men are free. I heard the old-soul driver say, As he was passing by, That darkey’s bound to run away, I see it in his eye. My heart responded to the charge, And thought it was no crime; And something seemed my mind to urge, That now’s the very time. O! old driver, Don’t you cry for me, I’m going up to Canada, Where colored men are free. Grieve not, my wife—grieve not for me, O! do not break my heart, For nought but cruel slavery Would cause me to depart. If I should stay to quell your grief, Your grief I would augment; For no one knows the day that we Asunder might be rent. O! Susannah, Don’t you cry for me— I’m going up to Canada, Where colored men are free. I heard old master pray last night— I heard him pray for me; That God would come, and in his might From Satan set me free; So I from Satan would escape, And flee the wrath to come— If there’s a fiend in human shape, Old master must be one. O! old master, While you pray for me, I’m doing all I can to reach The land of Liberty. Ohio’s not the place for me; For I was much surprised, So many of her sons to see In garments of disguise. Her name has gone out through the world, Free Labor, Soil, and Men; But slaves had better far be hurled Into the Lion’s Den. Farewell, Ohio! I am not safe in thee; I’ll travel on to Canada, Where colored men are free. I’ve now embarked for yonder shore, Where man’s a man by law, The vessel soon will bear me o’er, To shake the Lion’s paw. I no more dread the Auctioneer, Nor fear the master’s frowns, I no more tremble when I hear The beying negro-hounds. O! old Master, Don’t think hard of me— I’m just in sight of Canada, Where colored men are free. I’ve landed safe upon the shore, Both soul and body free; My blood and brain, and tears no more Will drench old Tennesse. But I behold the scalding tear, Now stealing from my eye, To think my wife—my only dear, A slave must live and die. O, Susannah! Don’t grieve after me— For ever at a throne of grace, I will remember thee.

Then fled, O brethren, the wicked juba and wandered wandered far from curfew joys in the Dismal’s night. Fool of St. Elmo’s fire In scary night I wandered, praying, Lord God my harshener, speak to me now or let me die; speak, Lord, to this mourner. And came at length to livid trees where Ibo warriors hung shadowless, turning in wind that moaned like Africa, Their belltongue bodies dead, their eyes alive with the anger deep in my own heart. Is this the sign, the sign forepromised me? The spirits vanished. Afraid and lonely I wandered on in blackness. Speak to me now or let me die. Die, whispered the blackness. And wild things gasped and scuffled in the night; seething shapes of evil frolicked upon the air. I reeled with fear, I prayed. Sudden brightness clove the preying darkness, brightness that was itself a golden darkness, brightness so bright that it was darkness. And there were angels, their faces hidden from me, angels at war with one another, angels in dazzling combat. And oh the splendor, The fearful splendor of that warring. Hide me, I cried to rock and bramble. Hide me, the rock, the bramble cried. . . . How tell you of that holy battle? The shock of wing on wing and sword on sword was the tumult of a taken city burning. I cannot say how long they strove, For the wheel in a turning wheel which is time in eternity had ceased its whirling, and owl and moccasin, panther and nameless beast And I were held like creatures fixed in flaming, in fiery amber. But I saw I saw oh many of those mighty beings waver, Waver and fall, go streaking down into swamp water, and the water hissed and steamed and bubbled and locked shuddering shuddering over The fallen and soon was motionless. Then that massive light began a-folding slowly in upon itself, and I Beheld the conqueror faces and, lo, they were like mine, I saw they were like mine and in joy and terror wept, praising praising Jehovah. Oh praised my honer, harshener till a sleep came over me, a sleep heavy as death. And when I awoke at last free And purified, I rose and prayed and returned after a time to the blazing fields, to the humbleness. And bided my time.

I O come you pious youth! adore The wisdom of thy God, In bringing thee from distant shore, To learn His holy word. Eccles. xii. II Though mightst been left behind Amidst a dark abode; God’s tender mercy still combined, Thou hast the holy word. Psal. cxxv. 2, 3. III Fair wisdom’s ways are paths of peace, And they that walk therein, Shall reap the joys that never cease, And Christ shall be their king. Psal. i. 1, 2; Prov. iii. 7. IV God’s tender mercy brought thee here; Tossed o’er the raging main; In Christian faith thou hast a share, Worth all the gold of Spain. Psal. ciii. 1, 3, 4. V While thousands tossed by the sea, And others settled down, God’s tender mercy set thee free, From dangers that come down. Death. VI That thou a pattern still might be, To youth of Boston town, The blessed Jesus set thee free, From every sinful wound. 2 Cor. v. 10. VII The blessed Jesus, who came down, Unveiled his sacred face, To cleanse the soul of every wound, And give repenting grace. Rom. v. 21. VIII That we poor sinners may obtain, The pardon of our sin; Dear blessed Jesus now constrain, And bring us flocking in. Psal. xxxiv. 6, 7, 8. IX Come you, Phillis, now aspire, And seek the living God, So step by step thous mayst go higher, Till perfect in the word. Matth. vii. 7, 8. X While thousands moved to distant shore, And others left behind, The blessed Jesus still adore, Implant this in thy mind. Psal. lxxxix. 1. XI Thous hast left the heathen shore; Through mercy of the Lord, Among the heathen live no more, Come magnify thy God. Psal. xxxiv. 1, 2, 3. XII I pray the living God may be, The shepherd of thy soul; His tender mercies still are free, His mysteries to unfold. Psal. lxxx. 1, 2, 3. XIII Thou, Phillis, when thou hunger hast, Or pantest for thy God; Jesus Christ is thy relief, Thou hast the holy word. Psal. xiii. 1, 2, 3. XIV The bounteous mercies of the Lord, Are hid beyond the sky, And holy souls that love His word, Shall taste them when they die. Psal. xvi. 10, 11. XV These bounteous mercies are from God, The merits of His son; The humble soul that loves His word, He chooses for His own. Psal. xxxiv. 15. XVI Come, dear Phillis, be advised, To drink Samaria’s flood; There nothing that shall suffice But Christ’s redeeming blood. John iv. 13, 14. XVII While thousands muse with earthly toys; And range about the street, Dear Phillis, seek for heaven’s joys, Where we do hope to meet. Matth. vi. 33. XVIII When God shall send his summons down, And number saints together, Blest angels chant, (triumphant sound), Come live with me forever. Psal. cxvi. 15. XIX The humble soul shall fly to God, And leave the things of time, Start forth as ’twere at the first word, To taste things more divine. Matth. v. 3, 8. XX Behold! the soul shall waft away, Whene’er we come to die, And leave its cottage made of clay, In twinkling of an eye. Cor. xv. 51, 52, 53. XXI Now glory be to the Most High, United praises given, By all on earth, incessantly, And all the host of heav’n. Psal. cl. 6.

I O come you pious youth! adore The wisdom of thy God, In bringing thee from distant shore, To learn His holy word. Eccles. xii. II Thou mightst been left behind Amidst a dark abode; God’s tender mercy still combin’d, Thou hast the holy word. Psal. cxxxv, 2, 3. III Fair wisdom’s ways are paths of peace, And they that walk therein, Shall reap the joys that never cease, And Christ shall be their king. Psal. i, 1,2; Prov. iii, 7. IV God’s tender mercy brought thee here; Tost o’er the raging main; In Christian faith thou hast a share, Worth all the gold of Spain. Psal. cii, 1, 3, 4. V