Fifty Years
by James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938) |
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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.
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 we have 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 dazed;
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. |
By James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938)
Listed September 25, 2012
Note: On the Fiftieth Anniversary of the
Signing of the Emancipation
Proclamation. |
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