As if the tidal wave of human good
Had thrown o’er me the mantle of control;
As if the beauty of true motherhood
Had gained the premise of my common soul.
The poet’s heart is yet within your breast,
The captain’s sword unconsciously you wield;
You know the sculptor’s masterpiece the best,
Thro’ you the master painter is revealed.
In you there dwells the Race’s latent power—
The power to make, the power to break apart;
The power to lift, the power again to lower
That burnished shield that guards the Race’s heart
And am I speaking as in hapless rhymes
Of things at least that may not come to pass?
Or is it not the spirit of the times
All things that savour power to amass?
Canst thou not see within thine own pure soul
That which thy Race and all the world awaits,
The master-leader who will reach the goal
And hew with sword of flame the city gates?
O Negro mother, from the dust arise,
Take up your task with grace and fortitude,
Knowing the goal is not the azure skies,
But here, and now, for thine own Race’s good.
Create anew the captains of the past;
Build in your soul the Ethiopian power,
That when the mighty quest is gained at last,
O Negro mother, fame shall be your dower.
