Fifty years Other Poems | Page 2

present the most of the poems written by men who were not wholly white are indistinguishable from the poems written by men who were wholly white. Whatever their merits might be, these verses cast little or no light upon the deeper racial sentiments of the people to whom the poets themselves belonged. But in the lyrics to be grouped in the second of these classes there was a racial quality. This contained the dialect verses in which there was an avowed purpose of recapturing the color, the flavor, the movement of life in "the quarters," in the cotton field and in the canebrake. Even in this effort, white authors had led the way; Irvin Russell and Joel Chandler Harris had made the path straight for Paul Laurence Dunbar, with his lilting lyrics, often infused with the pathos of a down-trodden folk.
In the following pages Mr. James Weldon Johnson conforms to both of these traditions. He gathers together a group of lyrics, delicate in workmanship, fragrant with sentiment, and phrased in pure and unexceptionable English. Then he has another group of dialect verses, racy of the soil, pungent in flavor, swinging in rhythm and adroit in rhyme. But where he shows himself a pioneer is the half-dozen larger and bolder poems, of a loftier strain, in which he has been nobly successful in expressing the higher aspirations of his own people. It is in uttering this cry for recognition, for sympathy, for?understanding, and above all, for justice, that Mr. Johnson is most original and most powerful. In the superb and soaring stanzas of "Fifty Years" (published exactly half-a-century after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation) he has given us one of the noblest commemorative poems yet written by any American,--a poem sonorous in its diction, vigorous in its workmanship, elevated in its imagination and sincere in its emotion. In it speaks the voice of his race; and the race is fortunate in its spokesman. In it a fine theme has been finely treated. In it we are made to see something of the soul of the people who are our fellow citizens now and forever,--even if we do not always so regard them. In it we are glad to acclaim a poem which any living poet might be proud to call his own.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
_Columbia University?in the City of New York._
FIFTY YEARS & OTHER POEMS
FIFTY YEARS
1863-1913
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.
Far, far the way that we have trod,?From heathen kraals and jungle dens,?To freedmen, freemen, sons of God,?Americans and Citizens.
A part of His unknown design,?We've lived within a mighty age;?And we have helped to write a line?On history's most wondrous page.
A few black bondmen strewn along?The borders of our eastern coast,?Now grown a race, ten million strong,?An upward, onward marching host.
Then let us here erect a stone,?To mark the place, to mark the time;?A witness to God's mercies shown,?A pledge to hold this day sublime.
And let that stone an altar be,?Whereon thanksgivings we may lay,?Where we, in deep humility,?For faith and strength renewed may pray.
With open hearts ask from above?New zeal, new courage and new pow'rs,?That we may grow more worthy of?This country and this land of ours.
For never let the thought arise?That we are here on sufferance bare;?Outcasts, asylumed 'neath these skies,?And aliens without part or share.
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 have we 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