The Book of American Negro Poetry/The New Day
THE NEW DAY
From a vision red with war I awoke and saw the Prince of Peace hovering over No Man's Land. Loud the whistles blew and the thunder of cannon was drowned by the happy shouting of the people. From the Sinai that faces Armageddon I heard this chant from the throats of white-robed angels:
Blow your trumpets, little children! From the East and from the West, From the cities in the valley, From God's dwelling on the mountain, Blow your blast that Peace might know She is Queen of God's great army. With the crying blood of millions We have written deep her name In the Book of all the Ages; With the lilies in the valley, With the roses by the Mersey, With the golden flower of Jersey We have crowned her smooth young temples. Where her footsteps cease to falter Golden grain will greet the morning, Where her chariot descends Shall be broken down the altars Of the gods of dark disturbance. Nevermore shall men know suffering, Nevermore shall women wailing Shake to grief the God of Heaven. From the East and from the West, From the cities in the valley, From God's dwelling on the mountain, Little children, blow your trumpets!
From Ethiopia, groaning 'neath her heavy burdens, I heard the music of the old slave songs. I heard the wail of warriors, dusk brown, who grimly fought the fight of others in the trenches of Mars. I heard the plea of blood-stained men of dusk and the crimson in my veins leapt furiously.
Forget not, O my brothers, how we fought In No Man's Land that peace might come again! Forget not, O my brothers, how we gave Red blood to save the freedom of the world! We were not free, our tawny hands were tied; But Belgium's plight and Serbia's woes we shared Each rise of sun or setting of the moon. So when the bugle blast had called us forth We went not like the surly brute of yore But, as the Spartan, proud to give the world The freedom that we never knew nor shared. These chains, O brothers mine, have weighed us down As Samson in the temple of the gods; Unloosen them and let us breathe the air That makes the goldenrod the flower of Christ. For we have been with thee in No Man's Land, Through lake of fire and down to Hell itself; And now we ask of thee our liberty, Our freedom in the land of Stars and Stripes.
I am glad that the Prince of Peace is hovering over No Man's Land.