The Great Strike- by Albery Allson Whitman. Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”.
He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
The Great Strike by Albery Allson Whitman
This great commotion throughout all the land,
That chills the circling life of enterprise,
While lawlessness stalks forth with torch in hand?The hands of Industry have to the head
(Aweary grown of swinging to and fro)
Without discretion’s sober forethought said:
Is raised against the heel of Capital,
I want it crushed ‘neath Law’s majestic tread,
And yet would heed poor honest labor’s call.The cold long Winter fast is coming on,
His near approach makes sad the leafless year,
And deep snows soon the naked fields upon,
And pile our spacious barns from eaves to floor,
Then vagrant want in lanes and open field,
Can gather scanty sustenance no more.The howling winds will drive before them then,
This drifting dust of Fortune’s feet in clouds;
And hither thither into ditch and den
Mis’ry and crime will rush in babbling crowds.
But while the desp’rate curse, while lewdness cries,
And shiftlessness ought justly to go bare,
Forget it not, full many a Lazarus lies
Before thy gate and needs a crumb of care.
While Wealth across his lordly arm will cast
The warmth of scores of God Almighty’s poor,
Still houseless want must shiver in the blast,
And childhood’s feet go bare from door to door.
While pride upon her easy finger wears
The bread of thousands in a brilliant stone,
The eyes of Wretchedness must stream with tears,
And groaning labor be content to groan.
Let heaven’s light upon our nature shine,
Till ev’ry opaque spot with glory beams,
And want no longer at our feet can pine,
But happiness will flow in living streams.
