Fifty Years, & Other Poems — Background and Themes

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.

(_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.

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.

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!

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

The hand of Fate cannot be stayed, The course of Fate cannot be steered, By all the gods that man has made, Nor all the devils he has feared, Not by the prayers that might be prayed In all the temples he has reared.

See! In your very midst there dwell Ten thousand thousand blacks, a wedge Forged in the furnaces of hell, And sharpened to a cruel edge By wrong and by injustice fell, And driven by hatred as a sledge.

A wedge so slender at the start-- Just twenty slaves in shackles bound-- And yet, which split the land apart With shrieks of war and battle sound, Which pierced the nation's very heart, And still lies cankering in the wound.

Not all the glory of your pride, Preserved in story and in song, Can from the judging future hide, Through all the coming ages long, That though you bravely fought and died, You fought and died for what was wrong.

'Tis fixed--for them that violate The eternal laws, naught shall avail Till they their error expiate; Nor shall their unborn children fail To pay the full required weight Into God's great, unerring scale.

Think not repentance can redeem, That sin his wages can withdraw; No, think as well to change the scheme Of worlds that move in reverent awe; Forgiveness is an idle dream, God is not love, no, God is law.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night, 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 snaggled 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 Antæan strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal passions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, lusty, 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.

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.

Mother, shed no mournful tears, But gird me on my sword; And give no utterance to thy fears, But bless me with thy word.

The lines are drawn! The fight is on! A cause is to be won! Mother, look not so white and wan; Give Godspeed to thy son.

Now let thine eyes my way pursue Where'er my footsteps fare; And when they lead beyond thy view, Send after me a prayer.

But pray not to defend from harm, Nor danger to dispel; Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm I fight the battle well.

Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep My heart and purpose strong, My sword unsullied and ready to leap Unsheathed against the wrong.

THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE

The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes. And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part. And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

(_From the Spanish of Plácido_)

Enough of love! Let break its every hold! Ended my youthful folly! for I know That, like the dazzling, glister-shedding snow, Celia, thou art beautiful, but cold. I do not find in thee that warmth which glows, Which, all these dreary days, my heart has sought, That warmth without which love is lifeless, naught More than a painted fruit, a waxen rose.

Such love as thine, scarce can it bear love's name, Deaf to the pleading notes of his sweet lyre, A frank, impulsive heart I wish to claim, A heart that blindly follows its desire. I wish to embrace a woman full of flame, I want to kiss a woman made of fire.

Twenty years go by on noiseless feet, He returns, and once again they meet, She exclaims, "Good heavens! and is that he?" He mutters, "My God! and that is she!"

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND

Three students once tarried over the Rhine, And into Frau Wirthin's turned to dine.

"Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine? And where is that pretty daughter of thine?"

"My beer and wine is fresh and clear. My daughter lies on her funeral bier."

They softly tipped into the room; She lay there in the silent gloom.

The first the white cloth gently raised, And tearfully upon her gazed.

"If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!"

The second covered her face again, And turned away with grief and pain.

"Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier! And I have loved thee so many a year."

The third drew back again the veil, And kissed the lips so cold and pale.

"I've loved thee always, I love thee to-day, And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!"

I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine What I beheld; nor by what laws of art He had created life and love and heart On canvas, from mere color, curve and line. Silent I stood and made no move or sign; Not with the crowd, but reverently apart; Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start, But mutely gazed upon that face divine.

And over me the sense of beauty fell, As music over a raptured listener to The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn; Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell, There falls the aureate glory filtered through The windows in some old cathedral dim.

I HEAR THE STARS STILL SINGING

I hear the stars still singing To the beautiful, silent night, As they speed with noiseless winging Their ever westward flight. I hear the waves still falling On the stretch of lonely shore, But the sound of a sweet voice calling I shall hear, alas! no more.

Girl of fifteen, I see you each morning from my window As you pass on your way to school. I do more than see, I watch you. I furtively draw the curtain aside. And my heart leaps through my eyes And follows you down the street; Leaving me behind, half-hid And wholly ashamed.

What holds me back, Half-hid behind the curtains and wholly ashamed, But my forty years beyond your fifteen?

Girl of fifteen, as you pass There passes, too, a lightning flash of time In which you lift those forty summers off my head, And take those forty winters out of my heart.

For fifty years, Cruel, insatiable Old World, You have punched me over the heart Till you made me cough blood. The few paltry things I gathered You snatched out of my hands. You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips. You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul.

You look at me now and think, "He is still strong, There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there. At the end of that time he will be old and broken, Not able to strike back, But cringing and crying for leave To live a little longer."

Those twenty, pitiful, extra years Would please you more than the fifty past, Would they not, Old World? Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes, And snatch them away as I laugh in your face, Ha! Ha! Bang--!

DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA

_Sunrise in the Tropics_

Sol, Sol, mighty lord of the tropic zone, Here I wait with the trembling stars To see thee once more take thy throne.

There the patient palm tree watching Waits to say, "Good morn" to thee, And a throb of expectation Pulses through the earth and me.

Now, o'er nature falls a hush, Look! the East is all a-blush; And a growing crimson crest Dims the late stars in the west; Now, a flood of golden light Sweeps across the silver night, Swift the pale moon fades away Before the light-girt King of Day, See! the miracle is done! Once more behold! The Sun!

This is the land of the dark-eyed _gente_, Of the _dolce far niente_, Where we dream away Both the night and day, At night-time in sleep our dreams we invoke, Our dreams come by day through the redolent smoke, As it lazily curls, And slowly unfurls From our lips, And the tips Of our fragrant _cigarillos_. For life in the tropics is only a joke, So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke, Smoke--smoke--smoke.

Tropical constitutions Call for occasional revolutions; But after that's through, Why there's nothing to do But smoke--smoke;

For life in the tropics is only a joke, So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke, Smoke--smoke--smoke.

Of tropic sensations, the worst Is, _sin duda_, the tropical thirst.

When it starts in your throat and constantly grows, Till you feel that it reaches down to your toes, When your mouth tastes like fur And your tongue turns to dust, There's but one thing to do, And do it you must, Drink _teestay_.

_Teestay_, a drink with a history, A delicious, delectable mystery, "_Cinco centavos el vaso, señor_," If you take one, you will surely want more.

_Teestay, teestay_, The national drink on a feast day; How it coolingly tickles, As downward it trickles, _Teestay, teestay_.

And you wish, as you take it down at a quaff, That your neck was constructed à la giraffe. _Teestay, teestay_.