The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume II Part 25

XVII.

For hark! I will tell you low, low, I am black, you see,-- And the babe who lay on my bosom so, Was far too white, too white for me; As white as the ladies who scorned to pray Beside me at church but yesterday, Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.

XVIII.

My own, own child! I could not bear To look in his face, it was so white; I covered him up with a kerchief there, I covered his face in close and tight: And he moaned and struggled, as well might be, For the white child wanted his liberty-- Ha, ha! he wanted the master-right.

XIX.

He moaned and beat with his head and feet, His little feet that never grew; He struck them out, as it was meet, Against my heart to break it through: I might have sung and made him mild, But I dared not sing to the white-faced child The only song I knew.

XX.

I pulled the kerchief very close: He could not see the sun, I swear, More, then, alive, than now he does From between the roots of the mango ... where?

I know where. Close! A child and mother Do wrong to look at one another When one is black and one is fair.

XXI.

Why, in that single glance I had Of my child's face, ... I tell you all, I saw a look that made me mad!

The _master's_ look, that used to fall On my soul like his lash ... or worse!

And so, to save it from my curse, I twisted it round in my shawl.

XXII.

And he moaned and trembled from foot to head, He s.h.i.+vered from head to foot; Till after a time, he lay instead Too suddenly still and mute.

I felt, beside, a stiffening cold: I dared to lift up just a fold, As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit.

XXIII.

But _my_ fruit ... ha, ha!--there, had been (I laugh to think on 't at this hour!) Your fine white angels (who have seen Nearest the secret of G.o.d's power) And plucked my fruit to make them wine, And sucked the soul of that child of mine As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.

XXIV.

Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white!

They freed the white child's spirit so.

I said not a word, but day and night I carried the body to and fro, And it lay on my heart like a stone, as chill.

--The sun may s.h.i.+ne out as much as he will: I am cold, though it happened a month ago.

XXV.

From the white man's house, and the black man's hut, I carried the little body on; The forest's arms did round us shut, And silence through the trees did run: They asked no question as I went, They stood too high for astonishment, They could see G.o.d sit on his throne.

XXVI.

My little body, kerchiefed fast, I bore it on through the forest, on; And when I felt it was tired at last, I scooped a hole beneath the moon: Through the forest-tops the angels far, With a white sharp finger from every star, Did point and mock at what was done.

XXVII.

Yet when it was all done aught,-- Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, strewed,-- All, changed to black earth,--nothing white,-- A dark child in the dark!--ensued Some comfort, and my heart grew young; I sate down smiling there and sung The song I learnt in my maidenhood.

XXVIII.

And thus we two were reconciled, The white child and black mother, thus; For as I sang it soft and wild, The same song, more melodious, Rose from the grave whereon I sate It was the dead child singing that, To join the souls of both of us.

XXIX.

I look on the sea and the sky.

Where the pilgrims' s.h.i.+ps first anch.o.r.ed lay The free sun rideth gloriously, But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away Through the earliest streaks of the morn: My face is black, but it glares with a scorn Which they dare not meet by day.

x.x.x.

Ha!--in their stead, their hunter sons!

Ha, ha! they are on me--they hunt in a ring!

Keep off! I brave you all at once, I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!

You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think: Did you ever stand still in your triumph, and shrink From the stroke of her wounded wing?

x.x.xI.

(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--) I wish you who stand there five abreast.

Each, for his own wife's joy and gift, A little corpse as safely at rest As mine in the mangoes! Yes, but _she_ May keep live babies on her knee, And sing the song she likes the best.

x.x.xII.

I am not mad: I am black.

I see you staring in my face-- I know you staring, shrinking back, Ye are born of the Was.h.i.+ngton-race, And this land is the free America, And this mark on my wrist--(I prove what I say) Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.

x.x.xIII.

You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!

I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun; I only cursed them all around As softly as I might have done My very own child: from these sands Up to the mountains, lift your hands, O slaves, and end what I begun!

x.x.xIV.

Whips, curses; these must answer those!

For in this UNION you have set Two kinds of men in adverse rows, Each loathing each; and all forget The seven wounds in Christ's body fair, While HE sees gaping everywhere Our countless wounds that pay no debt.

x.x.xV.

Our wounds are different. Your white men Are, after all, not G.o.ds indeed, Nor able to make Christs again Do good with bleeding. _We_ who bleed (Stand off!) we help not in our loss!

_We_ are too heavy for our cross, And fall and crush you and your seed.

x.x.xVI.

I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky.

The clouds are breaking on my brain I am floated along, as if I should die Of liberty's exquisite pain.

In the name of the white child waiting for me In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree, White men, I leave you all curse-free In my broken heart's disdain!