viernes, 18 de abril de 2014

GEORGE MOSES HORTON [11.552]



GEORGE MOSES HORTON

George Moses Horton (1797-1884) fue un afroamericano poeta y el primer poeta afroamericano que publicó en el sur de Estados Unidos. Su libro fue publicado en 1828 cuando aún era esclavo. Seguía siendo un esclavo hasta que se emancipó a finales de la Guerra Civil.

Horton nació en la esclavitud en la plantación de William Horton en el condado de Northampton, Carolina del Norte. Cuando era aún un niño muy pequeño, él y varios miembros de la familia se trasladaron a una granja de tabaco en la zona rural del Condado de Chatham, a causa de que su dueño se mudó. 

Aprender poesía y fragmentos de literatura de forma clandestina le ocurrió cuando era adolescente. 
En 1829, sus poemas fueron publicados en una colección titulada La esperanza de la libertad. El libro fue financiado por el periodista político-liberal, José Gales, y sus poemas fueron a menudo contra la esclavitud. Para 1832, había aprendido a escribir, con la ayuda de la esposa de un profesor.

En 1845, lanzó otro libro de poesía, Las obras poéticas de George M. Horton, The Bard, a la que se antepone la vida del autor. El apodo de "Colored Bard of North-Carolina", fue acuñado por su nuevo editor.

Horton se ganó la admiración de Carolina del Norte y del gobernador John Owen, periodistas influyentes Horace Greeley y William Lloyd Garrison, junto con numerosos abolicionistas del norte.


La firma de George Moisés Horton
La firma de George Moisés Horton





Esclavo en Carolina del Norte por 66 años, Horton publicó 150 poemas en tres volúmenes a partir de 1829 a 1865. Sus temas incluyen la esclavitud, el amor, la religión, la naturaleza, el arte de la poesía y la Guerra Civil. 

                                                 Placa dedicada a G. M. Horton



AFECTO TEMPRANO.
EARLY AFFECTION.

Te amé desde el primer amanecer,
la primera vez que vi la belleza de tu rayo,
y, hasta que el crepúsculo de la vida se encienda,
y la flor de la belleza se desvanezca;
y cuando todas las cosas vayan bien contigo,
con sonrisas y lágrimas me recuerdes.
Yo te amaré, cuando tu mañana este en tu pasado,
y la galantería zalamera terminé,
cuando la juventud se pierda en la explosión de los años,
y la belleza no pueda escalar más,
y cuando terminé el viaje de la vida contigo,
Ah, entonces mirar hacia atrás y pensar en mí.
Yo te amaré con una sonrisa o frunciendo el ceño,
en medio de la oscuridad del dolor o de la luz del placer,
y cuando la cadena de la vida se agote,
perseguir tu último vuelo eterno,
cuando hallas extendido tus alas para huir,
aún, aún, espero un momento para mí.
Yo te amaré por esos ojos brillantes,
los cuales mi afecto traicionaron,
teniendo la tintura de los cielos,
brillan cuando otras bellezas se desvanecen,
y cuando se apagan demasiado bajo para ver,
reflejan un rayo azul en mí.





IMPLORANDO RESIGNACIÓN A LA MUERTE.
IMPLORING TO BE RESIGNED AT DEATH.

Déjame morir y no temblar ante la muerte,
pero sonreír al final de mis días,
y luego en el vuelo de mi aliento,
como un pájaro de la mañana de mayo,
cantar a lo lejos.
Déjame morir sin temor a la muerte,
sin horrores mi alma se consternará,
y con la almohada de la fe bajo mi cabeza,
con el desafío a la desintegración mortal,
cantar a lo lejos
Déjame morir como un hijo de los valientes,
y mostrar distinción marcial;
ni tampoco reducir un pensamiento a la tumba,
no, pero con una sonrisa desde la arcilla,
cantar a lo lejos.
Déjame morir feliz, sin importar el dolor,
sin remordimiento de este mundo traicionero,
y el espíritu herido soltarlo de sus cadenas,
así que resiste en la carne la dilación,
cantando a lo lejos.
Déjame morir, y perdonar a mi peor enemigo,
cuando los velos de la muerte en el último rayo vital;
Dado que no tengo más que un momento para vivir,
déjame, cuando cumpla con el último pago de la deuda ,
cantando a lo lejos.

Traducción literal del inglés por: J. Diego Amoroz Etxeberria.







THE WOODMAN AND MONEY HUNTER.

Throughout our rambles much we find; 
The bee trees burst with honey; 
Wild birds we tame of every kind, 
At once they seem to be resign'd; 
I know but one that lags behind, 
There's nothing lags but money.

The woods afford us much supply, 
The opossum, coon, and coney; 
They all are tame and venture nigh, 
Regardless of the public eye, 
I know but one among them shy, 
There's nothing shy but money.

And she lies in the bankrupt shade; 
The cunning fox is funny; 
When thus the public debts are paid, 
Deceitful cash is not afraid, 
Where funds are hid for private trade, 
There's nothing paid but money.

Then let us roam the woods along, 
And drive the coon and coney; 
Our lead is good, our powder strong, 
To shoot the pigeons as they throng, 
But sing no more the idle song, 
Nor prowl the chase for money. 






THE EYE OF LOVE.

I know her story-telling eye 
Has more expression than her tongue; 
And from that heart-extorted sigh, 
At once the peal of love is rung.

When that soft eye lets fall a tear 
Of doating fondness as we part, 
The stream is from a cause sincere, 
And issues from a melting heart.

What shall her fluttering pulse restrain, 
The life-watch beating from her soul, 
When all the power of hate is slain, 
And love permits it no control.

When said her tongue, I wish thee well, 
Her eye declared it must be true; 
And every sentence seem'd to tell 
The tale of sorrow told by few.


When low she bow'd and wheel'd aside, 
I saw her blushing temples fade; 
Her smiles were sunk in sorrow's tide, 
But love was in her eye betray'd. 












































THE SETTING SUN.

'Tis sweet to trace the setting sun 
Wheel blushing down the west; 
When his diurnal race is run, 
The traveller stops the gloom to shun, 
And lodge his bones to rest.

Far from the eye he sinks apace, 
But still throws back his light 
From oceans of resplendent grace, 
Whence sleeping vesper paints her face, 
And bids the sun good night.

To those hesperian fields by night 
My thoughts in vision stray, 
Like spirits stealing into light, 
From gloom upon the wing of flight, 
Soaring from time away.

Our eagle, with his pinions furl'd, 
Takes his departing peep, 
And hails the occidental world, 
Swift round whose base the globes are whirl'd, 
Whilst weary creatures sleep. 







THE RISING SUN.

The king of day rides on, 
To give the placid morning birth; 
On wheels of glory moves his throne, 
Whose light adorns the earth.

When once his limpid maid 
Has the imperial course begun, 
The lark deserts the dusky glade, 
And soars to meet the sun.

Up from the orient deep, 
Aurora mounts without delay, 
With brooms of light the plains to sweep, 
And purge the gloom away.

Ye ghostly scenes give way, 
Our king is coming now in sight, 
Bearing the diadem of day, 
Whose crest expels the night.

Thus we, like birds, retreat 
To groves, and hide from ev'ry eye; 
Our slumb'ring dust will rise and meet 
Its morning in the sky.

The immaterial sun, 
Now hid within empyreal gloom,
Will break forth on a brighter throne, 
And call us from the tomb. 







MEMORY.

Sweet memory, like a pleasing dream, 
Still lends a dull and feeble ray; 
For ages with her vestige teems, 
When beauty's trace is worn away.

When pleasure, with her harps unstrung, 
Sits silent to be heard no more, 
Or leaves them on the willows hung, 
And pass-time glee forever o'er;

Still back in smiles thy glory steals 
With ev'ning dew drops from thine eye; 
The twilight bursting from thy wheels, 
Ascends and bids oblivion fly.

Memory, thy bush prevails to bloom, 
Design'd to fade, no, never, never, 
Will stamp thy vestige on the tomb, 
And bid th' immortal live forever.

When youth's bright sun has once declined 
And bid his smiling day expire,
Mem'ry, thy torch steals up behind, 
And sets thy hidden stars on fire. 








PROSPERITY.

Come, thou queen of every creature, 
Nature calls thee to her arms ; 
Love sits gay on every feature, 
Teeming with a thousand charms.

Meet me mid the wreathing bowers, 
Greet me in the citron grove, 
Where I saw the belle of flowers 
Dealing with the blooms of love.

Hark! the lowly dove of Sharon, 
Bids thee rise and come away, 
From a vale both dry and barren, 
Come to one where life is gay.

Come, thou queen of all the forest, 
Fair Feronia, mountain glee, 
Lovelier than the garden florist, 
Or the goddess of the bee.

Come, Sterculus, and with pleasure, 
Fertilize the teeming field;
From thy straw, dissolved at leisure, 
Bid the lea her bounty yield.

Come, thou queen of every creature, 
Nature calls thee to her arms; 
Love sits gay on every feature, 
Teeming with a thousand charms. 







DEATH OF GEN. JACKSON - AN EULOGY.

Hark! from the mighty Hero's tomb, 
I hear a voice proclaim! 
A sound which fills the world with gloom, 
But magnifies his name.

His flight from time let braves deplore, 
And wail from state to state, 
And sound abroad from shore to shore, 
The death of one so great!

He scorn'd to live a captured slave, 
And fought his passage through; 
He dies, the prince of all the brave, 
And bids the world adieu!

Sing to the mem'ry of his power, 
Ye vagrant mountaineers,
Ye rustic peasants drop a shower 
Of love for him in tears.

He wields the glittering sword no more, 
With that transpiercing eye; 
Ceases to roam the mountain o'er, 
And gets him down to die!

Still let the nation spread his fame, 
While marching from his tomb; 
Aloud let all the world proclaim, 
Jackson, forever bloom.

No longer to the world confin'd, 
He goes down like a star; 
He sets, and leaves his friends behind 
To rein the steed of war.

Hark! from the mighty Hero's tomb, 
I hear a voice proclaim! 
A sound which fills the world with gloom, 
But magnifies his name! 







MR. CLAY'S RECEPTION AT RALEIGH,

April, 1844.


Salute the august train! a scene so grand, 
With every tuneful band;
The mighty brave, 
His country bound to save, 
Extends his aiding hand; 
For joy his vot'ries hoop and stamp, 
Excited by the blaze of pomp! 
Let ev'ry eye 
The scene descry, 
The sons of freedom's land.

They look ten thousand stars! lamp tumbler blaze, 
To give the Hero praise! 
Immortal Clay, 
The cause is to pourtray! 
Your tuneful voices raise; 
The lights of our Columbian sun, 
Break from his patriotic throne; 
Let all admire 
The faithful sire, 
The chief musician plays.

Ye bustling crowds give way, proclaims the drum, 
And give the Patriot room; 
The cannon's sound, 
The blast of trumpets bound, 
Be this our father's home; 
Now let the best musician play,

A skillful tune for Henry Clay! 
Let every ear 
With transport hear! 
The President is come.

Let sister states greet the Columbian feast, 
With each admiring guest; 
Thou art our choice! 
Let ev'ry joyful voice, 
Sound from the east to west; 
Let haughty Albion's lion roar, 
The eagle must prevail to soar; 
And in lovely form, 
Above the storm, 
Erect her peaceful nest.

Beyond each proud empire she throws her eye! 
Which lifted to the sky, 
No thunders roll, 
To agitate her soul, 
Beneath her feet they fly! 
Let skillful fingers sweep the lyre, 
Strike ev'ry ear! set hearts on fire! 
Let monarchs sleep 
Beyond the deep, 
And howling faction die.

Nor hence forget the scene applauding day, 
When every heart was gay; 
The universal swell 
Rush'd from the loud town bell; 
In awful, grand array, 
We see them form the bright parade; 
And hark, a gladdening march is play'd! 
Along the street, 
The theme is sweet, 
For every voice is Clay.


To the Capitol the low and upland peers 
Resort with princely fears, 
And homage pay; 
A loud huzza for Clay! 
Falls on our ears; 
Loud from his lips the thunders roll, 
And fill with wonder every soul; 
Round the sire of state 
All concentrate, 
And every mortal hears. 






CLAY'S DEFEAT.

'Tis the hope of the noble defeated; 
The aim of the marksman is vain; 
The wish of destruction completed, 
The soldier eternally slain.

When winter succeeds to the summer, 
The bird is too chilly to sing; 
No music is play'd for the drummer, 
No carol is heard on the wing.

The court of a nation forsaken, 
An edifice stripp'd of its dome, 
Its fame from her pinnacle shaken, 
Like the sigh heaving downfall of Rome.

Fall'n, fall'n is the chief of the witty, 
The prince of republican power; 
The star-crown of Washington City 
Descends his political tower.

The gold-plated seat is bespoken, 
The brave of the west is before; 
The bowl at the fountain is broken, 
The music of fame is no more.

No longer a wonderful story 
Is told for the brave whig to hear, 
Whose sun leaves his circuit of glory, 
Or sinks from the light of his sphere. 






THE HAPPY BIRD'S NEST.

When on my cottage falls the placid shower, 
When ev'ning calls the labourer home to rest, 
When glad the bee deserts the humid flower, 
O then the bird assumes her peaceful nest.

When sable shadows grow unshapely tall, 
And Sol's resplendent wheel descends the west, 
The knell of respiration tolls for all, 
And Hesper smiles upon the linnet's nest.

When o'er the mountain bounds the fair gazell, 
The night bird tells her day-departing jest, 
She gladly leaves her melancholy dell, 
And spreads her pinions o'er the linnet's nest.

Then harmless Dian spreads her lucid sail, 
And glides through ether with her silver crest, 
Bidding the watchful bird still pour her tale, 
And cheer the happy linnet on her nest.

Thus may some guardian angel bear her light, 
And o'er thy tomb, departed genius, rest,
Whilst thou shalt take thy long eternal flight, 
And leave some faithful bird to guard thy nest. 





THE FATE OF AN INNOCENT DOG.

When Tiger left his native yard, 
He did not many ills regard, 
A fleet and harmless cur; 
Indeed, he was a trusty dog, 
And did not through the pastures prog; 
The grazing flocks to stir, poor dog, 
The grazing flocks to stir.

He through a field by chance was led, 
In quest of game not far ahead, 
And made one active leap; 
When all at once, alarm'd, he spied, 
A creature welt'ring on its side, 
A deadly wounded sheep, alas! 
A deadly wounded sheep.

He there was fill'd with sudden fear, 
Apprized of lurking danger near, 
And there he left his trail; 
Indeed, he was afraid to yelp,

Nor could he grant the creature help, 
But wheel'd and drop'd his tail, poor dog, 
But wheel'd and drop'd his tail.

It was his pass-time, pride and fun, 
At morn the nimble hare to run, 
When frost was on the grass; 
Returning home who should he meet? 
The weather's owner, coming fleet, 
Who scorn'd to let him pass, alas! 
Who scorn'd to let him pass.

Tiger could but his bristles raise, 
A surly compliment he pays, 
Insulted shows his wrath; 
Returns a just defensive growl, 
And does not turn aside to prowl, 
But onward keeps the path, poor dog, 
But onward keeps the path.

The raging owner found the brute, 
But could afford it no recruit, 
Nor raise it up to stand; 
'Twas mangled by some other dogs, 
A set of detrimental rogues, 
Raised up at no command, alas! 
Raised up at no command.

Sagacious Tiger left his bogs, 
But bore the blame of other dogs, 
With powder, fire and ball; 
They kill'd the poor, unlawful game, 
And then came back and eat the same ; 
But Tiger paid for all, poor dog, 
But Tiger paid for all.

Let ev'ry harmless dog beware 
Lest he be taken in the snare, 
And scorn such fields to roam; 
A creature may be fraught with grace, 
And suffer for the vile and base, 
By straggling off from home, alas! 
By straggling off from home.

The blood of creatures oft is spilt, 
Who die without a shade of guilt; 
Look out, or cease to roam; 
Whilst up and down the world he plays 
For pleasure, man in danger strays 
Without a friend from home, alas! 
Without a friend from home. 










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