Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest
As mine in the mangles!—Yea, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she liketh 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.
You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!
I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun.
I only cursed them all around,
As softly as I might have done
My very own child!—From these sands
Up to the mountains, lift your hands,
O slaves, and end what I begun!
XXXIV.
Whips, curses; these must answer those!
For in this Union, you have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,
Each loathing each: and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair;
While He sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.
