University of Virginia Library

But during this mighty struggle with Ajax and his foes,
He and one man fighting for life had drifted from the shore.
And Ajax fought a brave man's fight against a watery grave,
Exhausted down he seized some planks adrift upon the waves.
He stepped upon his rescu'd ship with clothes all dripping wet,
And blood from every garment fell, his eyes the white man's met.
Death had pressed him closely and precious was each second—
Two hands from out the water reached, his eyes toward Ajax beckoned.
There was the bloodless pallor of a wretched drowning man
With mouth all gaping, eyes bloodshot and hair on end did stand.
The struggling white man exhausted from trying to kill Ajax
Was fighting with water, now his strength was all relaxed.
He cried “I perish my dear sir, give me a helping hand.”
And Ajax's heart was melted down he drew him to a stand.
And Ajax said, “You've treated me as though I were a pup,
I give you good for evil—I in God's name bring you up.”
And Ajax heard his mother shriek—afar upon the shore,
And tears gushed down his bleeding cheeks, “my God can it be so?”
The planks were drifting further and further down the river,
And Ajax turned to his shipmate and these words did deliver:
“The shrieking voice you hear comes from my mother's bleeding heart—
It is a shrill and helpless voice, it makes my senses start.
My mother murdered, butchered and my aged father slain,
Their infant child is murdered to, ought I silent remain?
Can it be true that I have saved your wretched, wicked life,
While others of your gang have killed my father and his wife?
You heathen of the white-skin'd tribe, you sit down there and wonder
I've robb'd grim death by saving you, your watery grave I've plundered.
I've prayed to God for vengeance through all these dreary years
I've gathered patience from my friends relating all their fears.
My assailants have been many and my defenders few,
But now we stand as man to man, sir, should I murder you?
Grim death keeps secrets better than the mass of living men,
The river waves will gladly take you to the fishy den.
Then I could dive down in the waves and be, myself, at rest.
And your dear lynchers seeking me would vainly beat their breast,
And though they are good hunters of the blood of Negro's vein,
There they would follow—long and far to ne'er find my domain.
Consider, as I do, sir, what the river's waves would be
In contrast of the life, my peer, which now I give to thee.
And I am now adrift, afloat in the marts of the world,
And if the lynchers can catch me my soul to wind'll be hurled.
If all the demons of your race could gather 'round us now,
Sir, all my pleading would not keep cold death from my hot brow.
But man was made for life's battle, and sometimes life is fate,
To every man that breathes a breath death cometh soon or late.
And how could you die better, sir, than by a hand like mine,
For all my race's punishment by all your race's crimes?
And could I die a nobler death than facing fearful odds
For vengeance of my father and my mother 'neath the sod;
And for those tender mothers with their babies at their breast
Whose husbands died the death of dogs at your race's behest?
O! no, my mother's noble form lies not beneath the sod,
Its now a prey for buzzards' feast, you wicked wretch! My God!
I have been at your mercy, sir, you tried to take my life.
I have no hope of your favor, for you I have no rife.
I could kill you and cast your form beneath the rolling waves
But I am human, so are you, I'm not to kill but save.”
The white man set there calm as death he utter'd not a word,
It seemed his frame was void of breath his soul was all bestirred.
He never gave an earnest look he did not even wink,
And Ajax said, “These circumstances do make my conscience think.
O white man! have you any heart and did you ever sigh,
And did your senses ever start to see a Negro die?
Consider now the torture and the cruelty on my race,
Look at my mother's cruel death, her infant child effac'd.
Come go with me to Texas and see those red hot irons—
That burn'd the eyes and mouths of men and made them roar like lions.
And how the lynch'd men bellow'd like a cow in deep distress,
And how the lynchers laugh'd and took it in with minds at rest.
Oh! how the men did struggle to loose the lynchers' chain.
Oh! how they howl'd like mad men, their efforts were in vain.
The guards had gone upstairs to rest, women and children came
To view the scene with idle jest, and they were not ashamed.
The angels 'round the throne of God had turn'd their backs to earth,
With hearts melted away in tears at sight of Texas mirth.
This land of brutal cowards still lack the moral backbone,
The moral courage, moral strength to drive a villian home.—
To even lift a finger or to raise a warning cry,
They stand in silent pleasure and gaze on the Negro die.
And in the shadow of the church human beings are burned,
From Sunday-schools the children rush this wickedness to learn.
They gather 'round to take a smell of burning human flesh,
They cheer the scene and make the spot a place of sacred mesh.
For him to plead, when all the hearts his keenest prayer could probe,—
Are but a breath of ether in the space around the globe.
It's no more than a ripple to the roaring waterfall,
It's a snow-flake in the valley to the cloud that covers all.
There's no protest, there's no rebuke, there's not a single cry—
Fished from the pools of blood and wrong to touch the nation's eye.
The world now sits in judgement and could the nations plead
This land would be a criminal of the vilest kind of deeds.
Could Ida Wells have raised a force to follow her crusade
This dreadful crime, long ere this time in darkness would be laid.
If Frances Willard and her host would help to raise the cry,
Intemperate lynchings ghastly ghost would fade away and die.
For when a woman makes a vow that she will do a thing
She's sure to win, or else she'll make opponents conscience ring.
Few men of crime can stand to break a woman's heart, perchance,
Some nations chang'd their ship of state upon a woman's glance.
Fair Helen seal'd the fate of Troy and queens of ancient times
Have led brave hearts in cause of truth and made the wrong decline.
Some noble, stalwart woman have in every time and place,
Wielded her influence, good or bad, upon the human race.
If all the noble women who have a Christian heart,
While sitting by the fireside would take an active part,
And have a gen'ral family talk about the ship of state,
And speak of what the states should do to have a union great—
And speak of how almighty God was looking from the sky—
Down on the doings of each one. He heard the lynch'd man's sigh,
More husbands and more sons will go away from sacred homes—
With purer thoughts and higher aims and of a Christian tone—
'Till ships of church and ships of state will all be fill'd with men
With Christian hearts, with humane minds, with works oppos'd to sin.
Then there'd be more McKinley hearts as governors of states,
To see that men obeyed the laws which they themselves would make
Then ev'ry gov'nor would be fit to make a president
The white house then would ever have a man with good intent.
Then lynching crimes would melt away as ice in summer's heat,
Then we could praise this ship of state, this union strong and great.
For many years my race has been a universal target,
They never try to find the part that's crimson, bright and scarlet,
In all of the affairs of life enormous fads have spent
All of their forces upon him to bring our discontent.
All those unhappy phrases they should try to set aright,
Are dwelt upon with mighty force to make as dark as night,
A just investigation, to show the brighter side,
Is never made by those who strive forever to deride.
The Negro's moral standard, sir, has never been as low
As those destructive lyncher's hearts who never try to know
Whether it was a crime or not they're simply satisfied
To pass their own meek judgment, they crave the Negro's hide.
There's no class in America whose moral pathway's fill'd
With thorns as is the Negro's and he must tread at will.
American Christianity's not recognized by Him
Who came to earth to die for man and give him Christian trim.
Her body's broken by disease her conscience seared with crimes.
A mind and soul of cruelty to cap the heathen climes.
And in the light of all these things it is a poor spirit
To point with Christian horror but ne'er try to prohibit.
Ah! what a reckless nation, what an undisciplin'd child
Noble, but sometimes tricky, doing somethings that are wild.