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 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. 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' ships first anchored 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. XXX. 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? XXXI. (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. XXXII. 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.