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.
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.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Peschiera
What voice did on my spirit fall,
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost?
‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,
Than never to have fought at all.’
The tricolor, a trampled rag
Lies, dirt and dust; the lines I track
By sentry boxes yellow-black,
Lead up to no Italian flag.
I see the Croat soldier stand
Upon the grass of your redoubts;
The eagle with his black wings flouts
The breath and beauty of your land.
Yet not in vain, although in vain,
O’ men of Brescia, on the day
Of loss past hope, I heard you say
Your welcome to the noble pain.
You say, ‘Since so it is, good bye
Sweet life, high hope; but whatsoe’er
May be, or must, no tongue shall dare
To tell, “The Lombard feared to die!”’
You said (there shall be answer fit),
‘And if our children must obey,
They must; but thinking on this day
’Twill less debase them to submit.’
You said (Oh not in vain you said),
‘Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may;
The hours ebb fast of this one day
When blood may yet be nobly shed.’
Ah! not for idle hatred, not
For honour, fame, nor self-applause,
But for the glory of the cause,
You did, what will not be forgot.
And though the stranger stand, ’tis true,
By force and fortune’s right he stands;
By fortune, which is in God’s hands,
And strength, which yet shall spring in you.
This voice did on my spirit fall,
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,
‘’Tis better to have fought and lost,
Than never to have fought at all.’
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Malayan Race
past a centuries live, thousands and millions of
different races, from the mountainous ranges to the
splendid nature landscape that curtain the virgin forest
as the wild animals of the jungle lives with high sea, facing
the magnificent horizon of majestic beauty of creation, comes
the birth of the continent of Asia, the endless treasure of man's
dream of living in the most luxury paradise of blessing and a land
with full of earthly blessing
Pacific blue ocean washes its marvelous wave to the
wandering seashore of promises amongst Conqueror and
Conquistadores of the west, the alluring beauty envy the hungry
visionaries of interest, offering the night of thieves, the treasure
that can't be taken, where bloods bath the crystal water of the bladed
swords, guns and canon from the window of the smelled balls of canon
of boats and garrison, portly to defend the angry and thirsty barbarian of
unwanted visitor and demonic race of the past
millions come stand the waving hands of fear, foot
with different shield to defend the mighty power with
no fear, the hope to survive, forwarding only the strength
of the heart, where the soul lies the sting of death, never been
conquer and surrender the hour of believing that not the mighty
force of the east, can't stop the sunset to hold the glamour of the heart
to live, beyond the blood of any fear amongst nation of warrior of fighters
to hold until death comes in the most waited
feature lives every spirit of men from the mountainous
hills and river, down to the great sea pads of the high sea,
unified to stand and defend the given land; a gift beyond gift
of live of creation, as every memories lingers in each hearts the
Malayan races have witness and conquer every trial of souls in
our continent
live and stand with us, the heart is full and the brave
spirit lives in our dominion, the Malayan rise comes to
existence for peace, and unity amongst neighboring nation, but
fight to the end with a victor of blood lives in every sword that stands
harmony the Malayan race salute, the forever of our
heart and the blood of our freedom....... never been defeated
but a conqueror of every fight in every land.....long live the Malayan
race
' this poem is dedicated to the Malay Race '
poem by Antonio Liao
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Then and Now
"Build me a nation," said the Lord.
The distant nations heard the word,
Build me a nation true and strong,
Bar out the old world's hate and wrong;
For men had traced with blood and tears
The trail of weary wasting years,
And torn and bleeding martyrs trod
Through fire and torture up to God.
While in the hollow of his hand
God hid the secret of our land,
Men warred against their fiercest foes,
And kingdoms fell and empires rose,
Till, weary of the old world strife,
Men sought for broader, freer life,
And plunged into the ocean's foam
To find another, better home.
And, like a vision fair and bright
The new world broke upon their sight.
Men grasped the prize, grew proud and strong,
And cursed the land with crime and wrong.
The Indian stood despoiled of lands,
The Negro bound with servile bands,
Oppressed through weary years of toil,
His blood and tears bedewed the soil.
Then God arose in dreadful wrath,
And judgment streamed around his path;
His hand the captive's fetters broke,
His lightnings shattered every yoke.
As Israel through the Red sea trod,
Led by the mighty hand of God,
They passed to freedom through a flood,
Whose every wave and surge was blood.
And slavery, with its crime and shame,
Went down in wrath and blood and flame
The land was billowed-o'er with graves
Where men had lived and died as slaves.
Four and thirty years -- what change since
then!
Beings once chattles now are men;
Over the gloom of slavery's night,
Has flashed the dawn of freedom's light.
To-day no mother with anguish wild
Kneels and implores that her darling child
Shall not be torn from her bleeding heart,
With its quivering tendrils rent apart.
The father may soothe his child to sleep,
And watch his slumbers calm and deep.
No tyrant's tread will disturb his rest
Where freedom dwells as a welcome guest.
His walls may be bare of pictured grace,
His fireside the lowliest place;
But the wife and children sheltered there
Are his to defend and guard with care.
Where haughty tyrants once bore rule
Are ballot-box and public school.
The old slave-pen of former days
Gives place to fanes of prayer and praise.
To-night we would bring our meed of praise
To noble friends of darker days;
The men and women crowned with light,
The true and tried in our gloomy night.
To Lundy, whose heart was early stirred
To speak for freedom an earnest word;
To Garrison, valiant, true and strong,
Whose face was as flint against our wrong.
And Phillips, the peerless, grand and brave,
A tower of strength to the outcast slave.
Earth has no marble too pure and white
To enrol his name in golden light.
Our Douglass, too, with his massive brain,
Who plead our cause with his broken chain,
And helped to hurl from his bloody seat
The curse that writhed and died at his feet.
And Governor Andrew, who, looking back,
Saw none he despised, though poor and black;
And Harriet Beecher, whose glowing pen
Corroded the chains of fettered men.
To-night with greenest laurels we'll crown
North Elba's grave where sleeps John Brown,
Who made the gallows an altar high,
And showed how a brave old man could die.
And Lincoln, our martyred President,
Who returned to his God with chains he had rent.*
And Sumner, amid death's icy chill,
Leaving to Hoar his Civil Rights Bill.
And let us remember old underground,
With all her passengers northward bound,
The train that ran till it ceased to pay,
With all her dividends given away.
Nor let it be said that we have forgot
The women who stood with Lucretia Mott;
Nor her who to the world was known
By the simple name of Lucy stone.
A tribute unto a host of others
Who knew that men though black were brothers,
Who battled against our nation's sin,
Whose graves are thick whose ranks are thin.
Oh, people chastened in the fire,
To nobler, grander things aspire;
In the new era of your life,
Bring love for hate, and peace for strife;
Upon your hearts this vow record
That ye will build unto the Lord
A nobler future, true and grand,
To strengthen, crown and bless the land.
A higher freedom ye may gain
Than that which comes from a riven chain;
Freedom your native land to bless
With peace, and love and righteousness,
As dreams that are past, a tale all told,
Are the days when men were bought and sold;
Now God be praised from sea to sea,
Our flag floats o'er a country free.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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The Year of the Rose
From the depths of the green garden-closes
Where the summer in darkness dozes
Till autumn pluck from his hand
An hour-glass that holds not a sand;
From the maze that a flower-belt encloses
To the stones and sea-grass on the strand
How red was the reign of the roses
Over the rose-crowned land!
The year of the rose is brief;
From the first blade blown to the sheaf,
From the thin green leaf to the gold,
It has time to be sweet and grow old,
To triumph and leave not a leaf
For witness in winter's sight
How lovers once in the light
Would mix their breath with its breath,
And its spirit was quenched not of night,
As love is subdued not of death.
In the red-rose land not a mile
Of the meadows from stile to stile,
Of the valleys from stream to stream,
But the air was a long sweet dream
And the earth was a sweet wide smile
Red-mouthed of a goddess, returned
From the sea which had borne her and burned,
That with one swift smile of her mouth
Looked full on the north as it yearned,
And the north was more than the south.
For the north, when winter was long,
In his heart had made him a song,
And clothed it with wings of desire,
And shod it with shoon as of fire,
To carry the tale of his wrong
To the south-west wind by the sea,
That none might bear it but he
To the ear of the goddess unknown
Who waits till her time shall be
To take the world for a throne.
In the earth beneath, and above
In the heaven where her name is love,
She warms with light from her eyes
The seasons of life as they rise,
And her eyes are as eyes of a dove,
But the wings that lift her and bear
As an eagle's, and all her hair
As fire by the wind's breath curled,
And her passage is song through the air,
And her presence is spring through the world.
So turned she northward and came,
And the white-thorn land was aflame
With the fires that were shed from her feet,
That the north, by her love made sweet,
Should be called by a rose-red name;
And a murmur was heard as of doves,
And a music beginning of loves
In the light that the roses made,
Such light as the music loves,
The music of man with maid.
But the days drop one upon one,
And a chill soft wind is begun
In the heart of the rose-red maze
That weeps for the roseleaf days
And the reign of the rose undone
That ruled so long in the light,
And by spirit, and not by sight,
Through the darkness thrilled with its breath,
Still ruled in the viewless night,
As love might rule over death.
The time of lovers is brief;
From the fair first joy to the grief
That tells when love is grown old,
From the warm wild kiss to the cold,
From the red to the white-rose leaf,
They have but a season to seem
As rose-leaves lost on a stream
That part not and pass not apart
As a spirit from dream to dream,
As a sorrow from heart to heart.
From the bloom and the gloom that encloses
The death-bed of Love where he dozes
Till a relic be left not of sand
To the hour-glass that breaks in his hand;
From the change in the grey garden-closes
To the last stray grass of the strand,
A rain and ruin of roses
Over the red-rose land.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Banner Of Men Who Were Free
Flag of the great republic, banner of men who were free!
Carried aloft for freedom in many a bloody gorge;
Torn by the shot of tyrants in battle by land and sea,
The rallying hope of our fathers by Valley Forge.
But what is it but a rag, save it emblem the higher law?
Striped with the red of blood, flecked with the stars of war.
The ensign of might alone, to be held by the people in awe,
And cursed by savage chieftans in lands afar.
Little we owe to the England of this her lesser day,
But much to the field of Naseby, the spirit of Runnymede;
The bold adventurous Angles, who never shrank from the fray
When Liberty cried aloud in her hour of need.
Aloft on the dome of truth, in the city of brotherly love,
A sign to the world of hate, of Christ enthroned in the state,
Symbol of peace, like the olive leaf and the messenger dove,
Flew the flag of our fathers--the sign of a just debate!
But they dare to raise its standard on a field where the battle smoke,
Is rent with the groans of the slain, like the fallen of Lexington;
Where the eagles have traveled afar from the vultures of war which croak
O'er the bodies of those who died for the prize that it should have won?
Flag of a noble race, no longer our flag in truth,
Borne by a hostile hand in a cause of shame,
Give us the banner that flapped in the eyes of the nation's youth
And sent a thrill through the world of its faultless flame!
Yet, if its soul shall perish, take it for what it was --
For the shroud of those who worship the dead ideal;
Dead to lie with the dead beneath the recurrent grass,
No longer to grieve for the lost and no more to feel.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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By God's Good Grace
Wraithlike shadows encased my thoughts
Darkness consumed my soul, in Death's net I was caught.
Running without hope
Coarse hairs round wrists and ankles, tight as rope.
Traversing the open sands
My feet grew weary, tied down by a demons' hands.
Fighting for every breath
I let ghosts creep down inside my chest.
Icy fingers of fear drew the warmth
From my very skin, surrounding me in a swarm.
Hated words from my youth come back
Taking lessons from Houdini has not helped me see the path.
So, I turn, and turn and turn
Wishing for something other than my soul to burn.
Finding no way out I turn to faith
Failed again there is no escape.
Until a hand pulls me from the pit
Only there is no body, no mouth with some ready quip.
Only that hand and a voice as whispered from around
Only a hand you need, you have strength to stand your ground.
And then I understood why I had to fight so hard
I am meant for something grander, said his sweet ballad.
Even if only to touch one life, one time
I'll give Him one last stand, slowly I rise from knees to feet and smile.
Joy Vanderhelm March 2006
poem by Joy Vanderhelm
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Midnight
1.
The night is clear and still. The moon rides high.
The green leaves whisper where the soft winds blow.
Above, the stars shine in a sapphire sky —
The city sleeps below.
2.
Sleeps? Nay. The million- fibred heart is wrung
With wild desire and ceaseless pain and fear.
Could its dumb anguish find a fitting tongue,
The very dead would hear.
3.
Under these quiet roofs, this silvery haze,
How many a captive spirit wakes and weeps!
How many a sorrow, hid from human gaze,
Each shadowy dwelling keeps!
4.
The struggling men, the lonely maids unwed,
The desolate mothers and the martyred wives,
The starving little ones that cry for bread,
Still live their suffering lives.
5.
Though moon shines fair and winds are breathing low —
Though the great dream-like city lies in light —
The smoke of all that seething human woe
Darkens my mind to- night.
6.
Brothers, for whom the world can find no place —
Brothers and sisters, born to want and wrong —
Born weak and maimed, to run a hopeless race
Against the hale and strong —
7.
How can I rest while they are racked with pain?
While they toil on with toil that cannot cease?
While hungry children wail for bread in vain,
How can I sleep in peace?
8.
Ah, hapless fate! To hope, to fail, to spend,
From chilling dawn till midnight shadows fall;
Perchance to gain no haven at the end —
No new world — after all!
9.
When poor, brief hopes and joys have passed away —
When the long toil is done and pain is past —
To reach the limit of life's little day,
And find naught else, at last
10.
When strength is spent, when soul and spirit sink —
With helpless hands outstretched and nerveless brain —
To stand alone upon that dreadful brink
And cry for light in vain!
11.
Poor mortal wanderers in immortal realms,
For whom no staff avails, no beacons shine!
My kindred soul their burden overwhelms —
My brothers' woes are mine.
12.
For me the night has come — the day is done —
A wall of darkness hides both sea and shore;
My little lamps have failed me, one by one —
I grope and crawl no more.
13.
Where am I? — oh, where am I? I can feel —
To feel my pain — but neither hear nor see;
My heart is faint, my brain begins to reel —
O God, speak Thou to me!
14.
Help me! Or, in Thy pity, take me hence
While feeling heart and thinking brain are whole —
Or give me any rag of carnal sense
To wrap my naked soul.
15.
Some common cloak of vulgar hopes and fears,
Some earth- spun veil, that shall be warm and stout
To keep this infinite Silence from mine ears —
To shut this Darkness out!
16.
The mocking moon shines on. The flowers are sweet.
The night is still. The winds are breathing balm.
The silver city clustered at my feet
Seems bathed in light and calm.
17.
But I? — I choke in this grief- laden air.
I turn and weep — I close my window now.
One voice breaks forth from my profound despair —
Beloved, where art thou?
18.
She sleeps. She stirs. She hears the lightest fall
Of my hushed footsteps on her chamber floor.
Her spirit answers to my spirit's call,
And I take heart once more.
19.
She draws me down upon that faithful breast;
I clasp her close — those sweetest lips I kiss —
And soul and body, in her arms at rest,
Swim in deep seas of bliss.
20.
She makes me strong with stronger Fate to cope —
Fresh fire to mine her beating pulses give.
O my true mate, in thee alone I hope!
In thee alone I live!
21.
O love, till blood is cold and brain is dust,
I can fight on — if thou wilt fight with me —
If I can shelter in thy truth and trust,
And bear life's woes with thee!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Song Of The Pacifist
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Land Of The Dawning
Darkrose her shore in seas of amethyst
By tropic breezes kissed,
A summer land in watery wastes forlorn,
Her ranges floating in the snow-white mist
And gold of early morn.
The tides of Empire ebbed and flowed afar;
The thrones of nations in the dust were hurled,
Silent she slept beneath the morning star,
A virgin world.
Love, Birth, and Death, the stress of Age and Race,
Changed not her maiden face—
Unstocked her pastures and untilled her soil—
She who for labour builds a throne apace
Saw not her people toil;
Down the low valleys, up the stormy steeps,
Careless they roamed at will: the land was free
From desert stark to where the mangrove sleeps
Upon the sea.
There dropped no anchor at her river bars
Beneath the quiet stars;
No wandering sail her silent waters swept;
By waste and scrub, o’er plain and rocky scars
No alien footstep crept;
In feathery billows of her grassy seas
Some lonely mountain stretched its capes of blue;
Only the heavens above her and the breeze
Her secrets knew.
Where the wild grass grew rank on slopes forlorn
Rise fields of yellow corn,
And purple lucerne-bloom makes sweet the air;
The sullen mountain, lost in mists of morn,
Its golden heart lays bare.
Spoils of her pastures crowd full many a mart;
Her glittering treasure calls to many a land;
She has no secrets for the daring heart
And strong brown hand.
The smoke and thunder of her cities rise
To the same careless skies;
Her arteries thread the same wide sunlit leas,
Her fleets stretch forth their wings of enterprise
O’er the same summer seas.
She to the Nations cries: “No Past, no Fame,
No Memories quicken round my flag unfurled;
The mightier, therefore, shall I carve my name
Upon the World.”
poem by George Essex Evans
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Loyalty to the Flag
In the love of home and country and the flag of Uncle Sam,
Can the loyalty be doubted of a dusky son of Ham?
Wheresoever duty calls him, as a freedman or a slave,
The response is ever hearty when 'Old Glory' he would save.
'Twas the war of Revolution, when a Negro's blood was first,
To be shed for independence, when a yoke the land had cursed;
Crispus Attucks died in Boston, on State street he paid the debt,
Liberty his blood has planted and the tree is growing yet.
Ask the spirit of Pitcairn how he came to meet his death?
Where and who it was that brought him down to breathe the dying breath?
'Twas the Negro Salem's bullet at the charge of Bunker's Hill,
Bringing to the whites their freedom but to Negroes naught but ill.
In the battle of New Orleans, eighteen fourteen was the year,
When the Negro fought with valor till the victory was clear;
Jackson paid this glowing tribute—may the spirit never lag—
'None more strong and none more useful, none more loyal to the flag.'
O, how brave the Negro soldiers when the Civil war was fought!
Shall they fight such noble battles in the nation's cause for naught?
Hark! the battle cry of Charleston! at Fort Wagner is the place!
At Port Hudson and Fort Pillow how the rebel guns they face!
Fifty-fourth of Massachusetts—may such regiments be praised—
By its valor at Fort Wagner, North and South became amazed!
Hall began as color-bearer but was killed on duty grand,
To the spot went William Carney and the colors took in hand.
Wounded many times was Carney, shot in head, in arm and thigh,
On one knee he fell and crawling kept the colors flying high,
Blood upon the banner streaming while his words the action crowned;
'Boys I've kept aloft 'Old Glory' and it never touched the ground!'
Colonel Stafford was disabled, Dwight his men to battle led,
With great feeling at New Orleans, Stafford to the sergeant said,
'Guard, protect defend these colors,' 'Yes,' he answered, 'though I die
I will bring them back in honor or to God report the why.'
All the world has heard the story of the Cuban war with Spain,
Ah! the sound of Negro valor falls upon the ear again,
At Elkaney and San Juan how they helped to win the day,
Near the town of Santiago, held the enemy at bay!
Side by side with other soldiers being in complexion white,
Negroes died to take San Juan in the thickest of the fight,
Thus they gained the worthy plaudit from the loyal, brave and true;
'Negroes on the field of battle, dignify the nation's blue.'
Shall the prejudice existing in the country now, increase,
While the Negro's patriotism merits rest at home and peace?
Nay, the hydra-headed monster in the end will surely die,
We expect the right to triumph over evil by and by.
poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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The Guardian Angels
A Ballad
Father John in the green lane went
And he drew his robe full tight,
'I would,' quoth he, 'I were home again
For there's evil in the night.
'I would,' quoth he, 'the gold I bear
Were safe with the poor and old,
For strange the fear that follows me
That my eyes cannot behold.'
He looked him left and there he saw
A white rose climb and cling,
He looked him right and in the brake
A wild bird shook his wing.
He looked him back and far there stood
The old church tall and dim,
Yet on the lonely path there came
A terror strange to him.
Without the shadow of the trees
That bent above his way,
Where lost the moon her silver light,
He stood at last at bay.
And on his gown, from his pale brow
Fell great tears of his fright;
His shaking hands held close the gold
Wrapped in its cloth so white.
He knelt him down upon his knee
And prayed the Lord to hear,
'Christ, loosen Thou these laggard feet
That hold me slow in fear.
'Oh, strengthen Thou this childish heart
That trembles all afraid,
In pity for the calling sick
Who die without my aid.
'And let me bring all safely through
The shadows of the night,
The gold I bear for old and poor,
Still Thou this strange affright.'
And as he prayed from off his heart
Fear's clutching fingers fell,
A holy joy grew in his heart
He knew that all was well.
He turned him left and stayed to take
A white rose from her tree,
He turned him right and lilted low
A wild bird melody.
He looked him back and smiling saw
The tall church guarding him,
And then all fearless laughing sped
Through shadows strange and dim.
When but a year had passed away
There came before his gate,
A dying man who 'Succour,' cried
'Before it be too late.'
'Oh, shrive me, Father, ere I die,'
The moaning stranger said;
He took him to his own hearth side
And laid him on his bed.
'Oh, Father! Father! hear me now
And let me rest in peace.'
'Now speak, my son, and tell your sin
To give your soul release.'
'It was one night a year ago—
Sweet Mary, ease my pain—
I followed far your toiling feet
Within a lonely lane.
'The red gold for the old and poor
You had beneath your gown,
I hid within a darksome place
Where I could strike you down.'
Now Father John he smiled and leant
In pity by the bed,
'I did disarm you by my prayer,
I thank the Lord,' he said.
'I went in fear upon my path
I knew some danger lay,
And lone I knelt upon the road
A little while to pray.'
The dying man he raised his head
And laughed both long and loud,
'Oh, ne'er a prayer would hold my hand
Or keep you from your shroud.
'But by you went two mighty men
To guard you either side,
Else had my dagger reached your heart
And surely you had died.'
Then Father John upon his knees
Bent low his holy head,
'God's angels walked beside me there
Lest you my blood should shed
My guardian angels walked by me,
I thank Thee, Lord,' he said.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Battle-Field
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! I never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave--
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now
Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot.
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Rantoul
One day, along the electric wire
His manly word for Freedom sped;
We came next morn: that tongue of fire
Said only, 'He who spake is dead!'
Dead! while his voice was living yet,
In echoes round the pillared dome!
Dead! while his blotted page lay wet
With themes of state and loves of home!
Dead! in that crowning grace of time,
That triumph of life's zenith hour!
Dead! while we watched his manhood's prime
Break from the slow bud into flower!
Dead! he so great, and strong, and wise,
While the mean thousands yet drew breath;
How deepened, through that dread surprise,
The mystery and the awe of death!
From the high place whereon our votes
Had borne him, clear, calm, earnest, fell
His first words, like the prelude notes
Of some great anthem yet to swell.
We seemed to see our flag unfurled,
Our champion waiting in his place
For the last battle of the world,
The Armageddon of the race.
Through him we hoped to speak the word
Which wins the freedom of a land;
And lift, for human right, the sword
Which dropped from Hampden's dying hand.
For he had sat at Sidney's feet,
And walked with Pym and Vane apart;
And, through the centuries, felt the beat
Of Freedom's march in Cromwell's heart.
He knew the paths the worthies held,
Where England's best and wisest trod;
And, lingering, drank the springs that welled
Beneath the touch of Milton's rod.
No wild enthusiast of the right,
Self-poised and clear, he showed alway
The coolness of his northern night,
The ripe repose of autumn's day.
His steps were slow, yet forward still
He pressed where others paused or failed;
The calm star clomb with constant will,
The restless meteor flashed and paled.
Skilled in its subtlest wile, he knew
And owned the higher ends of Law;
Still rose majestic on his view
The awful Shape the schoolman saw.
Her home the heart of God; her voice
The choral harmonies whereby
The stars, through all their spheres, rejoice,
The rhythmic rule of earth and sky.
We saw his great powers misapplied
To poor ambitions; yet, through all,
We saw him take the weaker side,
And right the wronged, and free the thrall.
Now, looking o'er the frozen North,
For one like him in word and act,
To call her old, free spirit forth,
And give her faith the life of fact,--
To break her party bonds of shame,
And labor with the zeal of him
To make the Democratic name
Of Liberty the synonyme,--
We sweep the land from hill to strand,
We seek the strong, the wise, the brave,
And, sad of heart, return to stand
In silence by a new-made grave!
There, where his breezy hills of home
Look out upon his sail-white seas,
The sounds of winds and waters come,
And shape themselves to words like these.
'Why, murmuring, mourn that he, whose power
Was lent to Party over-long,
Heard the still whisper at the hour
He set his foot on Party wrong?
'The human life that closed so well
No lapse of folly now can stain
The lips whence Freedom's protest fell
No meaner thought can now profane.
'Mightier than living voice his grave
That lofty protest utters o'er;
Through roaring wind and smiting wave
It speaks his hate of wrong once more.
'Men of the North! your weak regret
Is wasted here; arise and pay
To freedom and to him your debt,
By following where he led the way!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Banner Of The Covenanters
I.
HERE, where the rain-drops may not fall, the sunshine doth not play,
Where the unfelt and distant breeze in whispers dies away;
Here, where the stranger paces slow along the silent halls,
Why mutely art thou hanging thus against the massive walls?
Thou, that hast seen blood shed for thee--that midst the battle-tide
Hast faintly lit the soldier's eye with triumph ere he died;
Bright banner, which hath witness'd oft the struggles of the free,
Emblem of proud and holy hope, is this a place for thee?
II.
Wake! wave aloft, thou Banner! let every snowy fold
Float on our wild, unconquer'd hills, as in the days of old:
Hang out, and give again to Death a glory and a charm,
Where Heaven's pure dew may freshen thee, and Heaven's pure sunshine warm.
Wake, wave aloft!
I hear the silk low rustling on the breeze,
Which whistles through the lofty fir, and bends the birchen trees;
I hear the tread of warriors arm'd to conquer or to die;
Their bed or bier the heathery hill, their canopy the sky.
III.
What, what is life or death to them? they only feel and know
Freedom is to be struggled for, with an unworthy foe--
Their homes--their hearths--the all for which their fathers, too, have fought,
And liberty to breathe the prayers their cradled lips were taught.
On, on they rush--like mounitain streams resistlessly they sweep--
On! those who live are heroes now--and martyrs those who sleep!
While still the snow-white Banner waves above the field of strife,
With a proud triumph, as it were a thing of soul and life.
IV.
They stand--they bleed--they fall! they make one brief and breathless pause,
And gaze with fading eyes upon the standard of their cause;--
Again they brave the strife of death, again each weary limb
Faintly obeys the warrior soul, tho' earth's best hopes grow dim;--
The mountain-rills are red with blood, the pure and quiet sky
Rings with the shouts of those who win, the groans of those who die;
Taken--re-taken--raised again, but soil'd with clay and gore,
Heavily, on the wild free breeze, that Banner floats once more.
V.
I hear the wail of women now: the dreadful day is done:
God's creatures wait to strive and slay until to-morrow's sun:
I hear the heavy breathing of the weary ones who sleep,
The death-sob and the dying word, 'the voice of them that weep;'
The half-choked grief of those who, while they stifle back their breath,
Scarce know if what they watch be hush'd in slumber or in death;
While mournfully, as if it knew and felt for their despair,
The moon-lit Banner flaps and falls upon the midnight air.
VI.
Morning! the glad and glorious light! the waking of God's earth,
Which rouses men to stan with gore the soil that gave them birth.
In the still sunshine sleeps the hill, the stream, the distant town;
In the still sunshine--clogg'd and stiff--the battle-flag hangs down.
Peace is in Heaven, and Heaven's good gifts, but war is amongst men--
Red blood is pouring on the hill, wild shouts are in the glen;
'T is past--they sink, they bleed, they fly--that faint, enfeebled host,
Right is not might--the Banner-flag, the victory, are lost!
VII.
Heaven's dew hath drunk the crimson drops which on the heather lay,
The rills that were so red with gore, go sparkling on their way;
The limbs that fought, the hearts that swell'd, are crumbled into dust,
The souls which strove are gone to meet the spirits of the just;
But that frail silken flag, for which, and under which, they fought,
(And which e'en now retains its power upon the soul of thought,)
Survives--a tatter'd, senseless thing--to meet the curious eye,
And wake a momentary dream of hopes and days gone by.
VIII.
A momentary dream! oh! not for one poor transient hour,
Not for a brief and hurried day that flag exerts its power;
Full flashing on our dormant souls the firm conviction comes,
That what our fathers did for theirs, we could for our homes.
We, too, could brave the giant arm that seeks to chain each word,
And rule what form of prayer alone shall by our God be heard:
We, too, in triumph or defeat, could drain our heart's best veins,
While the good old cause of Liberty for Church and State remains!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Adonis
The gods did love Adonis, and for this
He died, ere time had furrowed his young cheek.
For Aphrodité slew him with a kiss.
He sighed one sigh, as though he fain would speak
The name he loved, but that his breath grown weak
Died on his lips. So died the summer breeze;
And all the wood was hushed a minute's space,
Where I stood listening underneath the trees,
Until a wood--chat from her secret place
Chirped in an undertone, ``He is not dead,
Not dead, for lo! the bloom upon his face
Is ruddy as the newly--blossomed rose
Which even yet is woven round his head.
But sleep, more sweet than waking dream, doth close
The laughter of his eyes. He is not dead.''
Alone in that fair wood the livelong day
And through the silent night I watched him near.
But in the morning he was fled away,
When broke the dawn upon me cold and clear.
I looked within the thicket where he lay;
And lo! the sod, which he had pressed in death,
Was white with blossoms, scattered from the may,
Which made the thick air sweet with their sweet breath.
But he was gone; and I went o'er the heath,
Clutching, like one distraught, the dim air grey
With dawning,--for a voice encompassed me,
Crying, ``Fair boy, thy youth was but a span,
Yet did it circle in eternity.
Thy epic was accomplishèd. A man
Fills but the measure of his destiny,
And thine was all complete. Ere age began
To mar the royal palace of thy youth
With upper storeys of less perfect plan,
Death, kindly Death, filled with immortal ruth,
Took back the trowel from the builder's hand,
And wrote his `fecit' on thy work of truth.''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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On the March
So the time seems come at last,
And the drums go rolling past,
And above them in the sunlight Labour's banners float and flow;
They are marching with the sun,
But I look in vain for one
Of the men who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
They were men who did the work
Out at Blackall, Hay, and Bourke –
They were men who fought the battle that the world shall never know;
And they vanished one by one
When their bitter task was done –
Men who worked and wrote for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
Some are scattered, some are dead,
By the shanty and the shed,
In the lignum and the mulga, by the river running low;
And I often wish in vain
I could call them back again –
Mates of mine who fought for freedom more than fifteen years ago.
From the country of their birth
Some have sailed and proved their worth;
Some have died on distant deserts, some have perished in the snow.
Some are gloomy, bitter men,
And I meet them now and then –
Men who'd give their lives for Labour more than fifteen years ago.
Oh, the drums come back to me,
And they beat for victory,
But my heart is scarcely quickened, and I never feel the glow;
For I've learnt the world since then,
And the hopelessness of men,
And the fire it burnt too fiercely more than fifteen years ago.
Lucky you who still are young,
When the rebel war-hymn's sung,
And the sons of slaves are marching with their faces all aglow,
When the revolution comes
And the blood is on the drums –
Oh! I wish the storm had found me more than fifteen years ago!
Bear the olden banner still!
Let the nations fight who will!
'Tis the flag of generations – the flag that all the peoples know;
And they'll bear it, brave and red,
Over ancient rebel dead,
In the future to the finish as a thousand years ago!
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Mutiny of the Chains
PENAL COLONY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA, 1857
THE sun rose o'er dark Fremantle,
And the Sentry stood on the wall;
Above him, with white lines swinging,
The flag-staff, bare and tall:
The flag at its foot—the Mutiny Flag—
Was always fast to the line,—
For its sanguine field was a cry of fear,
And the Colony counted an hour a year
In the need of the blood-red sign.
The staff and the line, with its ruddy flash,
lake a threat or an evil-bode,
Were a monstrous whip with a crimson lash,
Fit sign for the penal code.
The Sentry leant on his rifle, and stood
By the mast, with a deep-drawn breath;
A stern-browed man, but there heaved a sigh
For the sight that greeted his downward eye
In the prison-square beneath.
In yellow garb, in soldier lines,
One hundred men in chains;
While the watchful warders, sword in hand,
With eyes suspicious keenly scanned
The links of the living lanes.
There, wary eyes met stony eyes,
And stony face met stone.
There was never a gleam of trust or truce;
In the covert thought of an iron loose,
Grim warder and ward were one.
Why was it so, that there they stood,—
Stern driver and branded slave?
Why rusted the gyve in the bondman's blood,
No hope for him but the grave?
Out of thousands there why was it so
That one hundred hearts must feel
The bitterest pang of the penal woe,
And the grind of a nation's heel?
Why, but for choice—the bondman's choice?
They balanced the gains and pains;.
They took their chance of the chains.
There spake in their hearts a hidden voice
Of the blinding joy of a freeman's burst
Through the great dim woods. Then the toil accurst;
The scorching days and the nights in tears
The riveted rings for years and years;
They weighed them all—they looked before
At the one and other, and spoke them o'er,
And they saw what the heart of man must see,
That the uttermost blessing is Liberty!
Ah, pity them, God! they must always choose,
For the life to gain and the death to lose.
They dream of the woods and the mountain spring,
And they grasp the flower, to clutch the sting.
Even so: they are better than those who bend
Like beasts to the lash, and go on to the end
As a beast will go, with to-day for a life,
And to-morrow a blank. Offer peace and strife
To a man enslaved—let him vote for ease
And coward labor, and be content;
Or let him go out in the front, as these,
With their eyes on the doom and the danger, went.
And take your choice—the man who remains
A self-willed serf, or the one who stains
His sudden hand with a drive for light
Through a bristling rank and a gloomy night.
This man for me—for his heart he'll share
With a friend: with a foe, he'll fight him fair.
And such as he are in every rank
Of the column that moves with a dismal clank
And a dead-march step toward the rock-bound place
Where the chain-gangs toil—o'er the beetling face
Of the cliff that roots in the Swan's deep tide:
Steep walls of granite on either side,
At the precipice' foot the river wide;
Behind them in ranks the warders fall;
And above them, the Sentry paces the wall.
Year in, year out, has the Sentry stood
On the wall at the foot of the mast.
He has turned from the toilers to watch the flood
Like, his own slow life go past.
He has noted the Chains grow fat and lean;
He has sighed for their empty spaces,
And thought of the cells where their end had been,
Where they lay with their poor dead faces,
With never a kiss, or prayer, or knell—
They were better at rest in the river;
He thinks of the shadow that o'er them fell
From the mast with its whip-like quiver;
He has seen it tipped with its crimson lash
When the mutiny-flood had risen
And swept like a sea with an awful swash
Through the squares and the vaulted prison.
His thoughts are afar with the woeful day,
With the ranged dead men and the dying,
And slowly he treads till they pass away—
Then a pause, and a start, and a scuffling sound,
And a glance beneath, at a battle-ground,
Where the lines are drawn, and the Chains are found
Their armed guards defying!
A hush of death—and the Sentry stands
By the mast, with the halyards tight in his hands,
And the Mutiny Flag is flying!
Woe to the weak, to the mutineers!
The bolt of their death is driven;
A mercy waits on all other tears,
But the Chains are never forgiven.
Woe to the rebels!—their hands are bare,
Their manacled bodies helpless there;
Their faces lit with a strange wild light,
As if they had fought and had won the fight!
No cry is uttered—upraised no hand;
All stilled to a muscle's quiver;
One line on the brink of the cliff they stand,
Their shadows flung down on the river.
The quarry wall is on either side,
The blood-red flag high o'er them;
But the lurid light in their eyes defied
The gathering guards before them.
No parley is held when the Chains revolt:
Grimly silent they stand secure
On the outward lip of the embrasure;
Waiting fierce-eyed for the fatal bolt.
A voice from the guard, in a monotone;
A voice that was cold and hard as stone: —
'Make ready! Fire!'
O Christ, the cry
From the manacled men! not fear to die,
Or whine for mercy; rebelled they stood,
Well knowing the price of revolt was blood;
Well knowing—but each one knew that he
Would sell his blood for his liberty!
Unwarned by a word, uncalled, unshriven,
They dare by a look—and the doom is given.
They raise their brows in the wild revolt,
And God's wrath flames in the fierce death-bolt;
God's wrath?—nay, man's; God never smote
A rebel dead whose swelling throat
Was full with protest. Hear, then smite;
God's justice weighs not shrieks the right.
'Make ready! Fire!'
Again outburst
The horror and shame for the deed accurst!
O, cry of the weak, as the hot blood calls
From the burning wound, and the stricken falls
With his face in the dust; and the strong one stands,
With scornful lips and ensanguined hands;
O, blood of the weak, unbought, unpriced,
Thy smoke is a piteous prayer to Christ!
They stand on the brink of the cliff—they bend
To the dead in their chains; then rise, and send
To the murdering muzzles defiant eyes.
'Make ready! Fire!'
The smoke-clouds rise:
They are still on the face of the cliff—they bend
Once more to the dead—they whisper a word
To the hearts in the dust—then, undeterred,
They raise their, faces, so grimly set,
Till the eyes of slayer and doomed have met.
O merciful God, let thy pity rain
Ere the hideous lightning leaps again!
They have sinned—they have erred—let the living stand
They have dared and rued—let thy loving hand
Be laid on those brows that bravely face
The death that shall wash them of all disgrace!
Be swift with pity—O, late, too late!
The tubes are leveled—the marksmen wait
For the word of doom—the spring is pressed
By the nervous finger—the sight is straight—
'Make ready!'—
Why falters the dread command?
Why stare as affrighted the armed band?
Why lower the rifles from shoulder to hip.
Why dies the word on the leader's lip,
While the voice that was hard grows husky deep
And the face is a-tremble as if to weep?
The Chains on the brink of the cliff are lined;
The living are bowed o'er the dead—they rise
And they face the rifles with burning eyes;
Then they bend again, and with one set mind
They raise the dead and the wounded raise
In their loving arms with words of praise
And tender grief for the torturing wounds.
One backward step with a burdened tread—
They bear toward the-precipice wounded and dead—
Then they turned on the cliff to front the guard
With faces like men that have died in fight;
Their brows were raised as if proud reward
Were theirs, and their eyes had a victor's light.
They spoke not a word, but stood sublime
In their somber strength, and the watchers saw
That they smiled as they looked, and their words were heard
As they spoke to the dying a loving word.
They were Men at last—they knew naught of crime;
They were masters and makers of life and law.
They turned from the guard that quailed and shrank
From the gleaming eyes of the burdened rank;
They turned on the cliff, and a sob was heard
As they looked far down on the darkened river;
They raised their eyes to the sky—they grasped
The dead to their breasts, while the wounded clasped
The necks of the brothers who bore their weight—
Then they sprang from the cliff, as a horse will spring
For his life from a precipice—sprang to death
In silence and sternness—one deep breath,
As they plunged, of liberty, thrilled their souls,
And then—the Chains were at rest forever!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Three Kings
WHEN the star in the East was lit to shine
The three kings journeyed to Palestine;
They came from the uttermost parts of earth
With long trains laden with gifts of worth.
The first king rode on a camel's back,
He came from the land where the kings are black,
Bringing treasures desired of kings,
Rubies and ivory and precious things.
An elephant carried the second king,
He came from the land of the sun-rising,
And gems and gold and spices he bare
With broidered raiment for kings to wear.
The third king came without steed or train
From the misty land where the white kings reign.
He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand,
For he came on foot from a far-off land.
Now when they had travelled a-many days
Through tangled forests and desert ways,
By angry seas and by paths thorn-set
On Christmas Vigil the three kings met.
And over their meeting a shrouded sky
Made dark the star they had travelled by.
Then the first king spake and he frowned and said:
'By some ill spell have our feet been led,
'Now I see in the darkness the fools we are
To follow the light of a lying star.
'Let us fool no more, but like kings and men
Each get him home to his land again!'
Then the second king with the weary face,
Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place,
Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said,
'It was but a dream and the dream is sped.
'We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair,
But it sets in the night of the old despair.
'Yet night is faithful though stars betray,
It will lead to our kingdoms far away.'
Then spake the king who had fared alone
From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne:
'O brothers, brothers, so very far
Ye have followed the light of the radiant star,
'And because for a while ye see it not
Shall its faithful shining be all forgot?
'On the spirit's pathway the light still lies
Though the star be hid from our longing eyes.
'To-morrow our star will be bright once more
The little pin-hole in heaven's floor--
'The Angels pricked it to let it bring
Our feet to the throne of the new-born King!'
And the first king heard and the second heard
And their hearts grew humble before the third.
And they laid them down beside bale and beast
and their sleeping eyes saw light in the East.
For the Angels fanned them with starry wings
And the waft of visions of unseen things.
And the next gold day waned trembling and white
And the star was born of the waxing night.
And the three kings came where the Great King lay,
A little baby among the hay,
The ox and the ass were standing near
And Mary Mother beside her Dear.
Then low in the litter the kings bowed down,
They gave Him gold for a kingly crown,
And frankincense for a great God's breath
and Myrrh to sweeten the day of death.
The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled
And she took from the manger her little child.
On the dark king's head she laid His hand
And anger died at that dear command.
She laid His hand on the gold king's head
And despair itself was comforted.
But when the pale king knelt in the stall
She heard on the straw his tears down fall.
And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet
And laid on his bosom her baby sweet.
And the king in the holy stable-place
Felt the little lips through the tears on his face.
* * * * * * *
Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king
Who reigns in my breast to my undoing,
And lay thy hands on the king who lays
The spell of sadness on all my days,
And give the white king my soul, Thy soul,
Of these other kings the high control.
That soul and spirit and sense may meet
In adoration before Thy feet!
Now Glory to God the Father Most High,
And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by.
And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born
And laid in the manger on Christmas morn!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Black Man
First man to die
For the flag we now hold high (crispus attucks)
Was a black man
The ground were we stand
With the flag held in our hand
Was first the redmans
Guide of a ship
On the first columbus trip (pedro alonzo nino)
Was a brown man
The railroads for trains
Came on tracking that was laid
By the yellow man
We pledge allegiance
All our lives
To the magic colors
Red, blue and white
But we all must be given
The liberty that we defend
For with justice not for all men
History will repeat again
Its time we learned
This world was made for all men
Heart surgery
Was first done successfully
By a black man (dr daniel hale williams)
Friendly man who died
But helped the pilgrims to survive (squanto)
Was a redman
Farm workers rights
Were lifted to new heights (caesar chavez)
By a brown man
Incandescent light
Was invented to give sight (thomas edison)
By the white man
We pledge allegiance
All our lives
To the magic colors
Red, blue and white
But we all must be given
The liberty that we defend
For with justice not for all men
History will repeat again
Its time we learned
This world was made for all men
Here me out...
Now I know the birthday of a nation
Is a time when a country celebrates
But as your hand touches your heart
Remember we all played a part in america
To help that banner wave
First clock to be made
In america was created
By a black man (benjamin banneker)
Scout who used no chart
Helped lead lewis and clark
Was a redman (sacagawea)
Use of martial arts
In our country got its start
By a yellow man
And the leader with a pen
Signed his name to free all men
Was a white man (abraham lincoln)
We pledge allegiance
All our lives
To the magic colors
Red, blue and white
But we all must be given
The liberty that we defend
For with justice not for all men
History will repeat again
Its time we learned
This world was made for all men
This world was made for all men
This world was made for all men
This world was made for all men
God saved his world for all men
All people
All babies
All children
All colors
All races
This worlds for you
And me
This world
My world
Your world
Everybodys world
This world
Their world
Our world
This world was made for all men
Here me out...
Who was the first man to set foot on the north pole?
Mattew henson - a black man
Who was the first american to show the pilgrims at plymouth the secrets
Of survival in the new world?
Squanto - a redman
Who was the soldier of company g who won high honors for his courage
And heroism in world war 1?
Sing lee - ayellow man
Who was the leader of united farm workers and helped farm workers
Maintain dignity and respect?
Caesar chavez - a brown man
Who was the founder of blood plasma and the director of the red cross
Blood bank?
Dr. charles drew - a black man
Who was the first american heroine who aided the lewis and clark
Expedition?
Sacajewa - a red woman
Who was the famous educator and semanticist who made outstanding
Contributions to education in america?
Hayakawa - a yellow man
Who invented the worlds first stop light and the gas mask?
- a black man
Who was the american surgeon who was one of the founders of
Neurosurgery?
Harvey william cushing - a white man
Who was the man who helped design the nations capitol, made the first
Clock to give time in america and wrote the first almanac?
Benjamin banneker - a black man
Who was the legendary hero who helped establish the league of iroquois?
Hiawatha - a redman
Who was the leader of the first microbiotic center in america?
- a yellow man
Who was the founder of the city of chicago in 1772?
Jean baptiste - a black man
Who was one of the organizers of the american indian movement?
Denis banks - a redman
Who was the jewish financier who raised founds to sponsor cristopher
Columbus voyage to america?
Lewis d. santangol - a white man
Who was the woman who led countless slaves to freedom on the
Underground rairoad?
Harriel tubman - a black woman
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Be Amused
You ask me to be gay and glad
While lurid clouds of danger loom,
And vain and bad and gambling mad,
Australia races to her doom.
You bid me sing the light and fair,
The dance, the glance on pleasure's wings –
While you have wives who will not bear,
And beer to drown the fear of things.
A war with reason you would wage
To be amused for your short span,
Until your children's heritage
Is claimed for China by Japan.
The football match, the cricket score,
The "scraps", the tote, the mad'ning Cup –
You drunken fools that evermore
"To-morrow morning" sober up!
I see again with haggard eyes,
The thirsty land, the wasted flood;
Unpeopled plains beyond the skies,
And precious streams that run to mud;
The ruined health, the wasted wealth,
In our mad cities by the seas,
The black race suicide by stealth,
The starved and murdered industries!
You bid me make a farce of day,
And make a mockery of death;
While not five thousand miles away
The yellow millions pant for breath!
But heed me now, nor ask me this –
Lest you too late should wake to find
That hopeless patriotism is
The strongest passion in mankind!
You'd think the seer sees, perhaps,
While staring on from days like these,
Politeness in the conquering Japs,
Or mercy in the banned Chinese!
I mind the days when parents stood,
And spake no word, while children ran
From Christian lanes and deemed it good
To stone a helpless Chinaman.
I see the stricken city fall,
The fathers murdered at their doors,
The sack, the massacre of all
Save healthy slaves and paramours –
The wounded hero at the stake,
The pure girl to the leper's kiss –
God, give us faith, for Christ's own sake
To kill our womankind ere this.
I see the Bushman from Out Back,
From mountain range and rolling downs,
And carts race on each rough bush track
With food and rifles from the towns;
I see my Bushmen fight and die
Amongst the torn blood-spattered trees,
And hear all night the wounded cry
For men! More men and batteries!
I see the brown and yellow rule
The southern lands and southern waves,
White children in the heathen school,
And black and white together slaves;
I see the colour-line so drawn
(I see it plain and speak I must),
That our brown masters of the dawn
Might, aye, have fair girls for their lusts!
With land and life and race at stake –
No matter which race wronged, or how –
Let all and one Australia make
A superhuman effort now.
Clear out the blasting parasites,
The paid-for-one-thing manifold,
And curb the goggled "social-lights"
That "scorch" to nowhere with our gold.
Store guns and ammunition first,
Build forts and warlike factories,
Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst,
Give over time to industries.
The outpost of the white man's race,
Where next his flag shall be unfurled,
Make clean the place! Make strong the place!
Call white men in from all the world!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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