COMBING THE PUBLIC DOMAIN   :   POETRY

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
Three poems

From Fifty Years and Other Poems
(The Cornhill Company, 1917)

The Awakening

I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely way,
Close by a path none ever chose,
And there I lingered day by day.
Beneath the sunshine and the show'r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by hour,
And storing it within my heart,
         Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and grew.

I dreamed that you were a bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened song.
You brushed my petals with a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of my heart;
         And then I knew
That I had waited there for you.

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.

Fifty Years

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 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 daezd;
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.

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON (1871-1938) was a US writer, politician, civil rights activist, songwriter and diplomat who served as US Consul in Venezuela and Nicaragua between 1906 and 1913.