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“The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point” (1846; 1848, 1850) Elizabeth Barrett Browning I. I stand on the mark beside the shore Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee, Where exile turned to ancestor, And God was thanked for liberty. I have run through the night, my skin is as dark, I bend my knee down on this mark... I look on the sky and the sea. II. O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you! I see you come out proud and slow From the land of the spirits pale as dew... And round me and round me ye go! O pilgrims, I have gasped and run All night long from the whips of one Who in your names works sin and woe. III. And thus I thought that I would come And kneel here where I knelt before, And feel your souls around me hum In undertone to the ocean's roar; And lift my black face, my black hand, Here, in your names, to curse this land Ye blessed in freedom's evermore. IV. I am black, I am black; And yet God made me, they say. But if He did so, smiling back He must have cast His work away Under the feet of His white creatures, With a look of scorn,--that the dusky features Might be trodden again to clay. V. And yet He has made dark things To be glad and merry as light. There's a little dark bird sits and sings; There's a dark stream ripples out of sight; And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass, And the sweetest stars are made to pass O'er the face of the darkest night.
VI.
But we who are dark, we are dark! Ah, God, we have no stars! About our souls in care and cark Our blackness shuts like prison bars: The poor souls crouch so far behind, That never a comfort can they find By reaching through the prison-bars. VII. Indeed, we live beneath the sky,... That great smooth Hand of God, stretched out On all His children fatherly, To bless them from the fear and doubt, Which would be, if, from this low place, All opened straight up to His face Into the grand eternity. VIII. And still God's sunshine and His frost, They make us hot, they make us cold, As if we were not black and lost: And the beasts and birds, in wood and fold, Do fear and take us for very men! Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of the glen Look into my eyes and be bold? IX. I am black, I am black!-- But, once, I laughed in girlish glee; For one of my colour stood in the track Where the drivers drove, and looked at me-- And tender and full was the look he gave: Could a slave look so at another slave?-- I look at the sky and the sea. X. And from that hour our spirits grew As free as if unsold, unbought: Oh, strong enough, since we were two To conquer the world, we thought! The drivers drove us day by day; We did not mind, we went one way, And no better a liberty sought.
XVI.
I am black, I am black!-- I wore a child upon my breast An amulet that hung too slack, And, in my unrest, could not rest: Thus we went moaning, child and mother, One to another, one to another, Until all ended for the best: XVII. For hark! I will tell you low... Iow... 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 his 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 shivered 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 God'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, for 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 shine 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 God sit on His throne.
XXXI.
(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--) I wish you, who stand there five a-breast, Each, for his own wife's joy and gift, A little corpse as safely at rest As mine in the mangos!--Yes, but she May keep live babies on her knee, And sing the song she liketh best. XXXll. 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 Washington-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. XXXIII. 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! XXXIV. 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. XXXV. Our wounds are different. Your white men Are, after all, not gods 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.
XXXVI.
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!
