The Little Black Boy
My mother bore me in the
southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the
English child
But I am black, as if bereav’d of light
My mother taught me
underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the
heat of the day,
She took me on her lap and
kissed me,
And pointing to the east, began to say:
‘Look on the rising sun:
there God does live,
‘And gives his light, and
gives his heat away;
‘And flowers and trees and
beasts and men receive
‘Comfort in morning, joy in
the noonday.
‘And we are put on earth a
little space,
‘That we may learn to bear
the beams of love;
‘And these black bodies and
this sunburnt face
‘Is but a cloud, and like a
shady grove.
‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear,
‘The cloud will vanish; we
shall hear his voice,
‘Saying: ‘‘Come out from the
grove my love and care
‘’’And round my golden tent
like lambs rejoice’’.’
This did my mother say, and
kissed me’
And thus I say to little
English boy:
When I from black and he from
white cloud free,
And round the tent of God
like lambs we joy,
I’ll shade him from the heat,
till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our father’s knew:
And then I’ll stand and
stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will
then love me.