The Sorrow Songs

They that walked in darkness sang songs in the olden days—Sorrow Songs—for they were weary at heart. And so before each thought that I have written in this book I have set a phrase, a haunting echo of these weird old songs in which the soul of the black slave spoke to men. Ever since I was a child these songs have stirred me strangely. They came out of the South unknown to me, one by one, and yet at once I knew them as of me and of mine. Then in after years when I came to Nashville I saw the great temple builded of these songs towering over the pale city. To me Jubilee Hall seemed ever made of the songs themselves, and its bricks were red with the blood and dust of toil. Out of them rose for me morning, noon, and night, bursts of wonderful melody, full of the voices of my brothers and sisters, full of the voices of the past.

Long ago, those who walked in darkness sang Sorrow Songs because their hearts were weary. And so, before each thought I have written in this book, I have placed a phrase from these songs. Each phrase is a haunting echo of those strange old songs, through which the souls of enslaved Black people spoke to others. Ever since childhood, these songs have stirred me in strange ways. The songs came to me from the South, one by one, unfamiliar to me. Yet I knew at once that they belonged to me and my people. Years later, when I came to Nashville, I saw the great temple built from these songs towering over the pale city. To me, Jubilee Hall always seemed made of the songs themselves. Its bricks were red with the blood and dust of hard work. From those bricks, morning, noon, and night, I heard bursts of wonderful melody. The melodies were full of my brothers’ and sisters’ voices, full of the voices of the past.

Little of beauty has America given the world save the rude grandeur God himself stamped on her bosom; the human spirit in this new world has expressed itself in vigor and ingenuity rather than in beauty. And so by fateful chance the Negro folk-song—the rhythmic cry of the slave—stands to-day not simply as the sole American music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the seas. It has been neglected, it has been, and is, half despised, and above all it has been persistently mistaken and misunderstood; but notwithstanding, it still remains as the singular spiritual heritage of the nation and the greatest gift of the Negro people.

America has given the world little beauty beyond the rugged grandeur God himself gave the land. The human spirit in this new world has expressed itself through energy and ingenuity rather than beauty. And so, by a fateful chance, the Negro folk song, the rhythmic cry of the slave, stands alone today. It is not simply the only American music, but the most beautiful expression of human experience born on this side of the seas. These songs have been neglected. They have been, and still are, treated with some contempt. Above all, they have been persistently misinterpreted and misunderstood. But despite all this, they remain the nation’s unique spiritual heritage and the greatest gift of the Negro people.

Away back in the thirties the melody of these slave songs stirred the nation, but the songs were soon half forgotten. Some, like “Near the lake where drooped the willow,” passed into current airs and their source was forgotten; others were caricatured on the “minstrel” stage and their memory died away. Then in war-time came the singular Port Royal experiment after the capture of Hilton Head, and perhaps for the first time the North met the Southern slave face to face and heart to heart with no third witness. The Sea Islands of the Carolinas, where they met, were filled with a black folk of primitive type, touched and moulded less by the world about them than any others outside the Black Belt. Their appearance was uncouth, their language funny, but their hearts were human and their singing stirred men with a mighty power. Thomas Wentworth Higginson hastened to tell of these songs, and Miss McKim and others urged upon the world their rare beauty. But the world listened only half credulously until the Fisk Jubilee Singers sang the slave songs so deeply into the world’s heart that it can never wholly forget them again.

Back in the 1830s, the melodies of these slave songs stirred the nation, but the songs were soon half forgotten. Some, like “Near the lake where drooped the willow,” became popular tunes, and their origins were forgotten. Others were mocked on the “minstrel” stage, and their memory faded away. Then, during the war, came the unusual Port Royal experiment after the capture of Hilton Head. Perhaps for the first time, Northerners met Southern slaves face to face and heart to heart, with no third witness. They met on the Sea Islands of the Carolinas. These islands were filled with Black people who lived in a traditional, isolated way. The surrounding world had influenced and shaped them less than any other Black people outside the Black Belt. Their appearance was rough, and their language sounded strange. But their hearts were human, and their singing moved people powerfully. Thomas Wentworth Higginson hurried to tell others about these songs. Miss McKim and others urged the world to recognize their rare beauty. But the world remained half doubtful until the Fisk Jubilee Singers sang the slave songs deep into the world’s heart. Now the world can never wholly forget them again.

There was once a blacksmith’s son born at Cadiz, New York, who in the changes of time taught school in Ohio and helped defend Cincinnati from Kirby Smith. Then he fought at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg and finally served in the Freedmen’s Bureau at Nashville. Here he formed a Sunday-school class of black children in 1866, and sang with them and taught them to sing. And then they taught him to sing, and when once the glory of the Jubilee songs passed into the soul of George L. White, he knew his life-work was to let those Negroes sing to the world as they had sung to him. So in 1871 the pilgrimage of the Fisk Jubilee Singers began. North to Cincinnati they rode,—four half-clothed black boys and five girl-women,—led by a man with a cause and a purpose. They stopped at Wilberforce, the oldest of Negro schools, where a black bishop blessed them. Then they went, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels, and cheerfully sneered at, ever northward; and ever the magic of their song kept thrilling hearts, until a burst of applause in the Congregational Council at Oberlin revealed them to the world. They came to New York and Henry Ward Beecher dared to welcome them, even though the metropolitan dailies sneered at his “Nigger Minstrels.” So their songs conquered till they sang across the land and across the sea, before Queen and Kaiser, in Scotland and Ireland, Holland and Switzerland. Seven years they sang, and brought back a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to found Fisk University.

A blacksmith’s son was born in Cadiz, New York. In time, he taught school in Ohio and helped defend Cincinnati against Kirby Smith. Then he fought at Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, and finally served in the Freedmen’s Bureau at Nashville. There, in 1866, he formed a Sunday school class for black children. He sang with the children and taught them to sing. And then the children taught him to sing. Once the glory of the Jubilee songs entered George L. White’s soul, he knew his life’s work. He would let those black singers sing to the world as they had sung to him. So in 1871, the pilgrimage of the Fisk Jubilee Singers began. They traveled north to Cincinnati, four barely clothed black boys and five young women. A man with a cause and a purpose led them. They stopped at Wilberforce, the oldest black school, where a black bishop blessed them. Then they continued north, fighting cold and starvation, shut out of hotels and mocked with cheerful contempt. All along, the magic of their songs kept thrilling hearts. Finally, a burst of applause at the Congregational Council at Oberlin brought them to the world’s attention. They came to New York, and Henry Ward Beecher dared to welcome them. He did so even though the city’s daily newspapers sneered at his “Nigger Minstrels.” So their songs triumphed, and they sang across the country and across the sea. They sang before Queen and Kaiser, in Scotland and Ireland, Holland and Switzerland. For seven years they sang, bringing back a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to found Fisk University.

Since their day they have been imitated—sometimes well, by the singers of Hampton and Atlanta, sometimes ill, by straggling quartettes. Caricature has sought again to spoil the quaint beauty of the music, and has filled the air with many debased melodies which vulgar ears scarce know from the real. But the true Negro folk-song still lives in the hearts of those who have heard them truly sung and in the hearts of the Negro people.

Since their time, others have imitated them, sometimes well, as the singers of Hampton and Atlanta have done. Sometimes scattered quartets have imitated them badly. Caricature has again tried to spoil the music’s distinctive beauty. It has filled the air with degraded melodies that listeners with crude tastes can hardly distinguish from the real songs. But true Negro folk songs still live in the hearts of those who have heard them sung as they should be. They also live in the hearts of the Negro people.

What are these songs, and what do they mean? I know little of music and can say nothing in technical phrase, but I know something of men, and knowing them, I know that these songs are the articulate message of the slave to the world. They tell us in these eager days that life was joyous to the black slave, careless and happy. I can easily believe this of some, of many. But not all the past South, though it rose from the dead, can gainsay the heart-touching witness of these songs. They are the music of an unhappy people, of the children of disappointment; they tell of death and suffering and unvoiced longing toward a truer world, of misty wanderings and hidden ways.

What are these songs, and what do they mean? I know little about music and cannot describe it in technical terms. But I know something about people, and that knowledge tells me these songs are the slave’s clear message to the world. In these eager times, people tell us that life for the black slave was joyful, carefree, and happy. I can easily believe that was true for some, for many. But even if the entire old South rose from the dead, it could not deny these songs’ deeply moving testimony. These are the songs of an unhappy people, of the children of disappointment. They tell of death and suffering and unspoken longing for a truer world, of wandering through mist and hidden paths.

The songs are indeed the siftings of centuries; the music is far more ancient than the words, and in it we can trace here and there signs of development. My grandfather’s grandmother was seized by an evil Dutch trader two centuries ago; and coming to the valleys of the Hudson and Housatonic, black, little, and lithe, she shivered and shrank in the harsh north winds, looked longingly at the hills, and often crooned a heathen melody to the child between her knees, thus:

These songs are indeed what centuries have left behind. The music is far older than the words, and here and there we can trace signs of its development. An evil Dutch trader seized my grandfather’s grandmother two centuries ago. She came to the valleys of the Hudson and Housatonic, black, small, and slender. She shivered and drew back from the harsh north winds and looked longingly at the hills. She often softly sang a heathen melody to the child between her knees, like this:

The child sang it to his children and they to their children’s children, and so two hundred years it has travelled down to us and we sing it to our children, knowing as little as our fathers what its words may mean, but knowing well the meaning of its music.

The child sang it to his children, and they sang it to their children’s children. So the song has come down to us over two hundred years, and we sing it to our children. We know as little as our ancestors did about what its words may mean. But we know well the meaning of its music.

This was primitive African music; it may be seen in larger form in the strange chant which heralds “The Coming of John”:

This was early African music. It can be heard in a fuller form in the strange chant that introduces “The Coming of John”:

—the voice of exile.

The voice of exile.

Ten master songs, more or less, one may pluck from the forest of melody-songs of undoubted Negro origin and wide popular currency, and songs peculiarly characteristic of the slave. One of these I have just mentioned. Another whose strains begin this book is “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.” When, struck with a sudden poverty, the United States refused to fulfill its promises of land to the freedmen, a brigadier-general went down to the Sea Islands to carry the news. An old woman on the outskirts of the throng began singing this song; all the mass joined with her, swaying. And the soldier wept.

From this forest of melodies, one may pick about ten great songs of unmistakably Black origin and widespread popularity. These songs are especially characteristic of enslaved people. I have just mentioned one. Another, whose melody opens this book, is “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.” When the United States, suddenly too poor, refused to keep its promises of land to the freedmen, a brigadier-general brought the news. He went down to the Sea Islands to deliver it. An old woman at the edge of the crowd began singing this song. Everyone in the crowd joined her, swaying. And the soldier wept.

The third song is the cradle-song of death which all men know,—“Swing low, sweet chariot,”—whose bars begin the life story of “Alexander Crummell.” Then there is the song of many waters, “Roll, Jordan, roll,” a mighty chorus with minor cadences. There were many songs of the fugitive like that which opens “The Wings of Atalanta,” and the more familiar “Been a-listening.” The seventh is the song of the End and the Beginning—“My Lord, what a mourning! when the stars begin to fall”; a strain of this is placed before “The Dawn of Freedom.” The song of groping—“My way’s cloudy”—begins “The Meaning of Progress”; the ninth is the song of this chapter—“Wrestlin’ Jacob, the day is a-breaking,”—a paean of hopeful strife. The last master song is the song of songs—“Steal away,”—sprung from “The Faith of the Fathers.”

The third song is the lullaby of death that all people know, “Swing low, sweet chariot.” Its opening bars begin the life story of “Alexander Crummell.” Then comes the song of many waters, “Roll, Jordan, roll,” a mighty chorus with phrases in a minor key. There were many songs of fugitives, like the one that opens “The Wings of Atalanta” and the more familiar “Been a-listening.” The seventh is the song of the End and the Beginning: “My Lord, what a mourning! when the stars begin to fall”. A passage from this song appears before “The Dawn of Freedom.” The song of feeling one’s way, “My way’s cloudy,” begins “The Meaning of Progress.” The ninth is the song of this chapter, “Wrestlin’ Jacob, the day is a-breaking,” a hymn celebrating hopeful struggle. The last great song is the song of songs, “Steal away,” born of “The Faith of the Fathers.”

There are many others of the Negro folk-songs as striking and characteristic as these, as, for instance, the three strains in the third, eighth, and ninth chapters; and others I am sure could easily make a selection on more scientific principles. There are, too, songs that seem to be a step removed from the more primitive types: there is the maze-like medley, “Bright sparkles,” one phrase of which heads “The Black Belt”; the Easter carol, “Dust, dust and ashes”; the dirge, “My mother’s took her flight and gone home”; and that burst of melody hovering over “The Passing of the First-Born”—“I hope my mother will be there in that beautiful world on high.”

Many other Black folk songs are just as striking and distinctive as these. Examples include the three melodies in the third, eighth, and ninth chapters. I am sure others could easily make a selection based on more scientific principles. Some songs also seem a step removed from the more primitive forms. These include the intricate medley, “Bright sparkles,” a phrase from which opens “The Black Belt.” There is also the Easter carol, “Dust, dust and ashes,” and the funeral song, “My mother’s took her flight and gone home.” And there is the burst of melody hovering over “The Passing of the First-Born”: “I hope my mother will be there in that beautiful world on high.”

These represent a third step in the development of the slave song, of which “You may bury me in the East” is the first, and songs like “March on” (chapter six) and “Steal away” are the second. The first is African music, the second Afro-American, while the third is a blending of Negro music with the music heard in the foster land. The result is still distinctively Negro and the method of blending original, but the elements are both Negro and Caucasian. One might go further and find a fourth step in this development, where the songs of white America have been distinctively influenced by the slave songs or have incorporated whole phrases of Negro melody, as “Swanee River” and “Old Black Joe.” Side by side, too, with the growth has gone the debasements and imitations—the Negro “minstrel” songs, many of the “gospel” hymns, and some of the contemporary “coon” songs,—a mass of music in which the novice may easily lose himself and never find the real Negro melodies.

These represent a third stage in the development of slave songs. “You may bury me in the East” represents the first stage. Songs like “March on” (chapter six) and “Steal away” represent the second. The first is African music, and the second is African American music. The third blends Black music with music heard in the adopted homeland. The result is still distinctly Black, and the way the music is blended is original. But the elements are both Black and white. One might go further and identify a fourth stage in this development. In this stage, slave songs have distinctly influenced the songs of white America. Or those songs have incorporated entire phrases of Black melody, as in “Swanee River” and “Old Black Joe.” Alongside this growth have come degraded versions and imitations: Black “minstrel” songs, many “gospel” hymns, and some contemporary “coon” songs. In this mass of music, a beginner may easily get lost and never find the genuine Black melodies.

In these songs, I have said, the slave spoke to the world. Such a message is naturally veiled and half articulate. Words and music have lost each other and new and cant phrases of a dimly understood theology have displaced the older sentiment. Once in a while we catch a strange word of an unknown tongue, as the “Mighty Myo,” which figures as a river of death; more often slight words or mere doggerel are joined to music of singular sweetness. Purely secular songs are few in number, partly because many of them were turned into hymns by a change of words, partly because the frolics were seldom heard by the stranger, and the music less often caught. Of nearly all the songs, however, the music is distinctly sorrowful. The ten master songs I have mentioned tell in word and music of trouble and exile, of strife and hiding; they grope toward some unseen power and sigh for rest in the End.

As I have said, in these songs enslaved people spoke to the world. Such a message is naturally veiled and only partly expressed. Words and music have become separated. New phrases and religious clichés, drawn from a theology only dimly understood, have replaced the older feeling. Now and then we catch a strange word from an unknown language, like “Mighty Myo,” a river of death. More often, simple words or crude verses accompany music of remarkable sweetness. There are few purely secular songs, partly because many became hymns when their words were changed. Another reason is that outsiders seldom heard the songs sung for fun, and even less often recorded their music. Yet the music of nearly all the songs is distinctly sorrowful. The ten great songs I have mentioned tell, through words and music, of trouble and exile, conflict and hiding. These songs reach uncertainly toward some unseen power and sigh for rest at the End.

The words that are left to us are not without interest, and, cleared of evident dross, they conceal much of real poetry and meaning beneath conventional theology and unmeaning rhapsody. Like all primitive folk, the slave stood near to Nature’s heart. Life was a “rough and rolling sea” like the brown Atlantic of the Sea Islands; the “Wilderness” was the home of God, and the “lonesome valley” led to the way of life. “Winter’ll soon be over,” was the picture of life and death to a tropical imagination. The sudden wild thunderstorms of the South awed and impressed the Negroes,—at times the rumbling seemed to them “mournful,” at times imperious:

The words left to us have some interest. Once obvious flaws are removed, much real poetry and meaning lie beneath conventional theology and empty outpourings of emotion. Like all peoples considered primitive, enslaved people lived close to Nature’s heart. Life was a “rough and rolling sea” like the brown Atlantic of the Sea Islands. The “Wilderness” was God’s home, and the “lonesome valley” led to the path of life. “Winter’ll soon be over,” expressed life and death to an imagination shaped by the tropics. The South’s sudden, wild thunderstorms filled Black people with awe and left a deep impression. Sometimes the rumbling sounded “mournful” to them, and sometimes commanding:

The monotonous toil and exposure is painted in many words. One sees the ploughmen in the hot, moist furrow, singing:

The repetitive labor and exposure to the elements are described at length. We see the plowmen in the hot, damp furrows, singing:

The bowed and bent old man cries, with thrice-repeated wail:

The stooped old man cries out, repeating his wail three times:

and he rebukes the devil of doubt who can whisper:

and he scolds the devil of doubt who can whisper:

Yet the soul-hunger is there, the restlessness of the savage, the wail of the wanderer, and the plaint is put in one little phrase:

Yet the soul's hunger remains, the restlessness of the savage, the wail of the wanderer. And this lament is expressed in one short phrase:

Over the inner thoughts of the slaves and their relations one with another the shadow of fear ever hung, so that we get but glimpses here and there, and also with them, eloquent omissions and silences. Mother and child are sung, but seldom father; fugitive and weary wanderer call for pity and affection, but there is little of wooing and wedding; the rocks and the mountains are well known, but home is unknown. Strange blending of love and helplessness sings through the refrain:

Fear always cast a shadow over enslaved people’s inner thoughts and their relationships with one another. So we catch only glimpses, alongside omissions and silences that speak volumes. The songs tell of mother and child, but seldom of the father. The fugitive and the weary wanderer call for pity and affection, but there is little about courtship and marriage. The rocks and mountains are well known, but home is unknown. A strange blend of love and helplessness sings through the refrain:

Elsewhere comes the cry of the “motherless” and the “Farewell, farewell, my only child.”

Elsewhere, we hear the cry of the “motherless” and “Farewell, farewell, my only child.”

Love-songs are scarce and fall into two categories—the frivolous and light, and the sad. Of deep successful love there is ominous silence, and in one of the oldest of these songs there is a depth of history and meaning:

Love songs are rare and fall into two groups: the light and frivolous, and the sad. There is an ominous silence about deep, successful love. And one of the oldest of these songs holds a wealth of history and meaning:

A black woman said of the song, “It can’t be sung without a full heart and a troubled sperrit.” The same voice sings here that sings in the German folk-song:

A black woman said of the song, “It can’t be sung without a full heart and a troubled spirit.” The same voice sings in this song and in the German folk song:

Of death the Negro showed little fear, but talked of it familiarly and even fondly as simply a crossing of the waters, perhaps—who knows?—back to his ancient forests again. Later days transfigured his fatalism, and amid the dust and dirt the toiler sang:

Black people showed little fear of death, but spoke of death in familiar and even affectionate terms. Death was simply a crossing of the waters, perhaps back to their ancient forests again. Who knows? Later years transformed their acceptance of fate, and amid the dust and dirt, the laborer sang:

The things evidently borrowed from the surrounding world undergo characteristic change when they enter the mouth of the slave. Especially is this true of Bible phrases. “Weep, O captive daughter of Zion,” is quaintly turned into “Zion, weep-a-low,” and the wheels of Ezekiel are turned every way in the mystic dreaming of the slave, till he says:

Things clearly borrowed from the surrounding world change in distinctive ways when spoken by the slave. This is especially true of Bible phrases. “Weep, O captive daughter of Zion,” becomes the quaint phrase “Zion, weep-a-low,” in the slave’s speech. And Ezekiel’s wheels turn in every direction in the slave’s mystical dreams, until he says:

As in olden time, the words of these hymns were improvised by some leading minstrel of the religious band. The circumstances of the gathering, however, the rhythm of the songs, and the limitations of allowable thought, confined the poetry for the most part to single or double lines, and they seldom were expanded to quatrains or longer tales, although there are some few examples of sustained efforts, chiefly paraphrases of the Bible. Three short series of verses have always attracted me,—the one that heads this chapter, of one line of which Thomas Wentworth Higginson has fittingly said, “Never, it seems to me, since man first lived and suffered was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively.” The second and third are descriptions of the Last Judgment,—the one a late improvisation, with some traces of outside influence:

As in earlier times, a leading singer in the religious group improvised the words of these hymns. But the circumstances of the gathering, the songs’ rhythms, and the limits on acceptable thought restricted the poetry. Most verses were only one or two lines. They rarely grew into four-line stanzas or longer stories, although a few longer works exist, mostly paraphrases of the Bible. Three short sets of verses have always drawn me. The first appears at the beginning of this chapter. Thomas Wentworth Higginson aptly said of one line, “Never, it seems to me, since man first lived and suffered was his infinite longing for peace uttered more plaintively.” The second and third describe the Last Judgment. One is a recent improvisation, with some traces of outside influence:

And the other earlier and homelier picture from the low coast lands:

And the other, earlier, more familiar picture from the low coastal lands:

Through all the sorrow of the Sorrow Songs there breathes a hope—a faith in the ultimate justice of things. The minor cadences of despair change often to triumph and calm confidence. Sometimes it is faith in life, sometimes a faith in death, sometimes assurance of boundless justice in some fair world beyond. But whichever it is, the meaning is always clear: that sometime, somewhere, men will judge men by their souls and not by their skins. Is such a hope justified? Do the Sorrow Songs sing true?

Through all the sorrow of the Sorrow Songs, hope breathes: faith that justice will prevail in the end. The sad notes of despair often turn to triumph and calm confidence. Sometimes the hope is faith in life, sometimes faith in death. Sometimes it is certainty of boundless justice in some beautiful world beyond. But whatever form the hope takes, its meaning is always clear. Sometime, somewhere, people will judge others by their souls and not by their skin. Is such a hope justified? Do the Sorrow Songs sing the truth?

The silently growing assumption of this age is that the probation of races is past, and that the backward races of to-day are of proven inefficiency and not worth the saving. Such an assumption is the arrogance of peoples irreverent toward Time and ignorant of the deeds of men. A thousand years ago such an assumption, easily possible, would have made it difficult for the Teuton to prove his right to life. Two thousand years ago such dogmatism, readily welcome, would have scouted the idea of blond races ever leading civilization. So wofully unorganized is sociological knowledge that the meaning of progress, the meaning of “swift” and “slow” in human doing, and the limits of human perfectability, are veiled, unanswered sphinxes on the shores of science. Why should Æschylus have sung two thousand years before Shakespeare was born? Why has civilization flourished in Europe, and flickered, flamed, and died in Africa? So long as the world stands meekly dumb before such questions, shall this nation proclaim its ignorance and unhallowed prejudices by denying freedom of opportunity to those who brought the Sorrow Songs to the Seats of the Mighty?

An assumption is quietly growing in this age: the time for races to prove themselves has passed. The races now considered backward have supposedly proved themselves incapable and are not worth saving. Such an assumption shows the arrogance of peoples who disrespect Time and know little of human achievements. A thousand years ago, people could easily have made the same assumption. Such an assumption would have made it difficult for the Teuton to prove his right to live. Two thousand years ago, people would readily have welcomed such rigid thinking. They would have dismissed the idea that blond races could ever lead civilization. Our knowledge of society is so poorly organized that fundamental questions remain mysterious sphinxes on the shores of science. What does progress mean? What do “swift” and “slow” mean in human achievement? What are the limits of human improvement? Why should Æschylus have written poetry two thousand years before Shakespeare was born? Why has civilization flourished in Europe, yet flickered, flamed, and died in Africa? As long as the world remains meekly silent before such questions, should this nation proclaim its ignorance and unholy prejudices? Should it do so by denying freedom of opportunity to those who brought the Sorrow Songs to the Seats of the Mighty?

Your country? How came it yours? Before the Pilgrims landed we were here. Here we have brought our three gifts and mingled them with yours: a gift of story and song—soft, stirring melody in an ill-harmonized and unmelodious land; the gift of sweat and brawn to beat back the wilderness, conquer the soil, and lay the foundations of this vast economic empire two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done it; the third, a gift of the Spirit. Around us the history of the land has centred for thrice a hundred years; out of the nation’s heart we have called all that was best to throttle and subdue all that was worst; fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice, have billowed over this people, and they have found peace only in the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. Actively we have woven ourselves with the very warp and woof of this nation,—we fought their battles, shared their sorrow, mingled our blood with theirs, and generation after generation have pleaded with a headstrong, careless people to despise not Justice, Mercy, and Truth, lest the nation be smitten with a curse. Our song, our toil, our cheer, and warning have been given to this nation in blood-brotherhood. Are not these gifts worth the giving? Is not this work and striving? Would America have been America without her Negro people?

Your country? How did it become yours? We were here before the Pilgrims landed. Here we have brought our three gifts and blended them with yours. First, the gift of story and song: gentle, stirring melodies in a land lacking harmony and music. Second, the gift of sweat and muscle to push back the wilderness, tame the soil, and build this vast economic empire. We laid its foundations two hundred years earlier than your weak hands could have done. Third, a gift of the Spirit. For three hundred years, this land’s history has centered on us. We have called forth all that was best in the nation’s heart to crush and overcome all that was worst. Fire and blood, prayer and sacrifice have swept over this people. They have found peace only at the altars of the God of Right. Nor has our gift of the Spirit been merely passive. We have actively woven ourselves into the very fabric of this nation. We fought their battles, shared their sorrow, and mingled our blood with theirs. Generation after generation, we have pleaded with a stubborn, careless people not to despise Justice, Mercy, and Truth. We have pleaded so that the nation would not be struck by a curse. Our song, our labor, our encouragement, and our warnings have been given to this nation as brothers bound by blood. Are these gifts not worth giving? Is this not work and struggle? Would America have been America without its Black people?

Even so is the hope that sang in the songs of my fathers well sung. If somewhere in this whirl and chaos of things there dwells Eternal Good, pitiful yet masterful, then anon in His good time America shall rend the Veil and the prisoned shall go free. Free, free as the sunshine trickling down the morning into these high windows of mine, free as yonder fresh young voices welling up to me from the caverns of brick and mortar below—swelling with song, instinct with life, tremulous treble and darkening bass. My children, my little children, are singing to the sunshine, and thus they sing:

Even so, the hope sung in my fathers’ songs is well worth singing. If Eternal Good lives somewhere in this swirling chaos, compassionate yet powerful, then America will tear apart the Veil. In his own good time, those imprisoned will go free. Free, free as the sunshine streaming through my high windows this morning. Free as those fresh young voices rising to me from the caverns of brick and mortar below. The voices swell with song, full of life, with trembling high notes and deepening bass. My children, my little children, are singing to the sunshine, and here is their song:

And the traveller girds himself, and sets his face toward the Morning, and goes his way.

And the traveler prepares himself, turns toward the Morning, and continues on his way.