T. Thomas Fortune [The Outlook]; Chicago Defender, April 9, 1921
What is the Black Man's Burden, "Ye hypocrites and vile," "Ye whited sepulchers," From th' Amazon to the Nile? What is the Black Man's Burden, Ye Gentile parasites, Who crush and rob your brother Of his manhood and his rights?
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No author; Cleveland Gazette, May 12, 1906
In the state of old Missouri,
With their breath of whiskey strong;
Did they lynch three innocent Negroes
Who were guilty of no wrong.
Miss V. C. Thomas; Poems for Your Scrap Book, Chicago Defender, May 9, 1921
Twelve million strong we stand in grim array,
Twelve million strong denied the light of day;
Twelve million hearts in Thee, God, do they trust,
Twelve million dry: Has Thou forsaken us?
Like herded beasts they brought us to these shores,
Like beasts were we disposed of to our foes,
Like beasts they scourged our bodies to the dust,
O God, hast Thou, hast Thou forsaken us?
We’ve plowed these fields and made these forests clear,
We’ve drained these swamps and made waste places bear,
Our fate through all these years has seemed unjust,
With tears, we ask, hast Thou forsaken us?
In battle, too, we’ve labored side by side;
When needed, for this country we have died,
For America alone, and not for lust,
We’ve fought; and now, proud land, has thou forsaken us?
We’ve given of our best to this fair land:
In men, in blood, in labor of the hand.
Our bank accounts, though scant and very few,
Yet even in this have we forsaken you?
Must we forever be denied man’s right,
Because our skins, by nature, are not light?
If color for true manhood is the test,
Why were we called to battle with the rest?
We do not ask removal from our sphere,
Our race, our kin are to our hearts most dear;
Within this land, together and as friend,
We only seek the chance, the rights of men.
We long no more to hear the din of mobs:
We long no more to hear the victim’s sobs;
When justice, love, our laws begin to sway,
Then for us will have dawned that brighter day.
In right triumphant, we would not lose faith.
We would believe in all our Savior saith,
Yet through these years of pain and hate unjust,
Twelve million cry, hast Thou forsaken us?
Edna Perry Booth, Brooklyn, N.Y.; California Eagle, August 18, 1917
I wonder if Abe Lincoln can look down from where he is
And see the things that happen in this land that once was his?
I wonder if his heart aches; if the tears bedim his eyes;
If Heaven is not quite perfect for him beyond the skies?
He must recall the message he gave us, long ago,
When he said, “God made men equal,” then helped to prove them so.
But are they equal? Are they free? And what is freedom, pray,
When some men’s souls are scarce their own in this fair land today?
So I wonder if Abe Lincoln wouldn’t like to just step down
To earth and count as nothing the loss of golden crown,
Just to show an erring people what he meant when once he said,
“Equality for each one,” be he black or white or red.
Yes, his heart must ache, and grieving must fill his soul to see
How they’ve abused his message since the days of ’63.
But patience, men–truth, crushed to earth, will surely rise again,
And never anything worth while was won, except through pain.
There’s Someone who is watching; there’s Someone taking toll;
And every unjust deed will reap, some day, a white man’s soul.
Abe Lincoln will yet see his words respected and fulfilled–
Will find the cruel slander against the dark race stilled.
Then, perhaps, we’ll boast a country that is brave and truly fee,
That upholds its own dear honor and its vaunted liberty;
Then our E Pluribus Unum will be more than empty phrase,
And our treatment of the dark race won’t besmirch the flag we raise.
[This poem appears in three categories: “God and Christ,” “Hope and the Future,” and “Injustices”
A. A. Lott; Richmond Planet, August 26, 1899
Alexandria, Va.–On the recent lynching in this city, Aug. 8th.
________________________
What means this howling, hideous shout, "Take him out! Take him out!" What can be all this noise about, "Take him out! Take him out!" The midnight shriek reaches the sky, All over town both far and nigh, The sound shocks every passer-by, "Take him out! Take him out!"
Nahum Daniel Brascher; Philadelphia Tribune, September 8, 1924
I am the symbol of Sun-Kissed America.
The blood of royalty runs through my veins.
From Africa’s soil; beyond the deep, blue sea,
Years long gone by,
Came they who gave to me beauty of Color.
Princes came out of Egypt; and from
The coast of Gold, though chained and scourged,
And made to toil by day and night,
Without reward, or hope.
But faith they kept, and love within their soul.
These gifts straight from God,
No man could steal,
Or cause to cringe beneath the lash.
Hope saw a star, the North,
Faith led the way;
Love unlocked the doors, and broke the chains.
The clash of steel, the lives of men
With countless names; blood of my
Blood, bone of my bone; in all the
Wars on this fair soil,
Helped to pay the price to make me free,
To see the Sun to know the God
To serve the cause and love
My fellowman.
That which was bought, at such a price,
In such a way, in blood and time.
Down all the streams of Time,
I hold most deal[?];
I will not [?] the trust,
Nor mar the honor of the sacred dead
I am the living symbol of Sun-Kissed America.
I will not cringe, nor bite the dust of fear,
I have a goodly heritage.
I will be a man–I AM AN AMERICAN.
Buford F. Gordon; ?? Century Magazine, May 1918
O time, where does thy River Justice Rise!
Is Righteousness a meandering desert stream
That rejuvenates within the verdant lands
But loses itself within the scorching sands?
And must we perish ere that it shall rise?
O Fount, where is thy ceaseless stream to-day?
Ida German Carter; Baltimore Afro-American Ledger, August 9, 1902
O God we ask of Thee,
Give us full liberty,
O hear our plea!
Lead this our race aright,
Through the dark shades of night,
Into the perfect light,
Ordained by Thee.
O, country, 'tis of thee,
Land of the Lynching Bee,
Of thee I sing.
How long will this base wrong
Pollute thy freedom's song?
Perpetrated by a throng
Of heartless fiends.
Leila Amos Pendleton; Crisis, 1916
Hang there, O my murdered brothers, sons of Ethiopia, our common Mother! Hang there, with faces upturned, mutely calling down vengeance from the Most High God!
