Page:The book of American negro poetry.djvu/142

90 To gain these fruits that have been earned,
 * To hold these fields that have been won,

Our arms have strained, our backs have burned,
 * Bent bare beneath a ruthless sun.

That Banner which is now the type
 * Of victory on field and flood—

Remember, its first crimson stripe
 * Was dyed by Attucks' willing blood.

And never yet has come the cry—
 * When that fair flag has been assailed—

For men to do, for men to die,
 * That we have faltered or have failed.

We've helped to bear it, rent and torn,
 * Through many a hot-breath'd battle breeze

Held in our hands, it has been borne
 * And planted far across the seas.

And never yet,—O haughty Land,
 * Let us, at least, for this be praised—

Has one black, treason-guided hand
 * Ever against that flag been raised.

Then should we speak but servile words,
 * Or shall we hang our heads in shame?

Stand back of new-come foreign hordes,
 * And fear our heritage to claim?

No! stand erect and without fear,
 * And for our foes let this suffice—

We've bought a rightful sonship here,
 * And we have more than paid the price.