Howard At Atlanta

Right in the track where Sherman     Ploughed his red furrow,     Out of the narrow cabin,     Up from the cellar's burrow,     Gathered the little black people,     With freedom newly dowered,     Where, beside their Northern teacher,     Stood the soldier, Howard.     He listened and heard the children     Of the poor and long-enslavd     Reading the words of Jesus,     Singing the songs of David.     Behold! the dumb lips speaking,     The blind eyes seeing!     Bones of the Prophet's vision     Warmed into being!     Transformed he saw them passing     Their new life's portal!     Almost it seemed the mortal     Put on the immortal.     No more with the beasts of burden,     No more with stone and clod,     But crowned with glory and honor     In the image of God!     There was the human chattel     Its manhood taking;     There, in each dark, brown statue,     A soul was waking!     The man of many battles,     With tears his eyelids pressing,     Stretched over those dusky foreheads     His one-armed blessing.     And he said: "Who hears can never     Fear for or doubt you;     What shall I tell the children     Up North about you?"     Then ran round a whisper, a murmur,     Some answer devising;     And a little boy stood up: "General,     Tell'em we're rising!"     O black boy of Atlanta!     But half was spoken:     The slave's chain and the master's     Alike are broken.     The one curse of the races     Held both in tether:     They are rising, all are rising,     The black and white together!     O brave men and fair women!     Ill comes of hate and scorning:     Shall the dark faces only     Be turned to morning?     Make Time your sole avenger,     All-healing, all-redressing;     Meet Fate half-way, and make it     A joy and blessing