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The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point

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Julie Kays

on 5 July 2011

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Transcript of The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point

The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning born in England 1806, died in Florence 1861 Analysis of the Poem
- Speaker: the poet through the black slave woman
- Written in 36 verses, 7 lines in the first 35 verses, 8 lines in the final verse
- Dramatic monologue, a didactic poem
- Sensibility – derived from moral philosophy that stressed the social importance of fellow feeling and sympathy in social relations
- Iambic pentameters, emjambment
- rhyming pattern ababccb, the final verse ababcccb
- Dactyl – in the 3rd line of the 1st verse: an ces tor

when addressing what it is like to be black:
- dark, black
- dusky features
- anxiety
- ‘we have no stars’ (37)
- ‘shuts like prison-bars’ (39)
- Curses wished onto white men, ancestors
when addressing love:
- I laughted in girlish glee (58)
- sunny
- tender (look)
- as if unsold, unbought (65)
- bliss
when addressing loss:
- plucked my fruit
- sucked the soul
when addressing the control of the white man:
- master’s look
- master-right
- hunter sons The Liberty Bell 1844 - a coffee table 'gift book' contained The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point by Elizabeth Barrett Browning Verse 1
The slave runs through the night to get to Plymouth Rock where our country’s first pilgrims declared their freedom & independence from England. God was credited for helping to bring about freedom for the white pilgrims. The slave bends down on their knee to pay homage to this landmark of freedom.

Repeated line “I look on/at the sky and the sea” a moment to reflect on nature where man has no control. Used at the end and at the beginning of stanzas. In the final stanza, this line evolves into “I look at the sky.”

Verses 5-7
The slave is angry that God does not care about the black man nor do the white men, however, ironically Nature supports the benefit and balance between dark and light.

Verse 8 we learn that the slave is a young woman who experiences ‘love at first sight’ – a transition Verse 9 that the joy of love overshadows even the slaves harsh lives – love equaled freedom Verse 12 Transition
The loving couple who cared about God now, were split up and the God they showed love to did nothing “Though nothing didst thou say” with an attitude “Coldly thou sat’st behind the sun”

Verse 13
“We were black, we were black”
The verb tense changed to the past tense – meaning after all they were black in color and all that that encompassed so who were they to think that they could enjoy love. Then as if that was not bad enough, the white men killed the black man – her love – mattering to her, but not impacting others. This is a flagrant abuse of freedom – appealing to the pilgrims.

Verse 15
We learn she has a child
Verse 16
She explains that because she is black “I am black, you see;” – she has had to submit to the overseer’s sexual advances and conceived his child, by appearances, a white child – unacceptable – the child is white as the white ladies at church ‘who scorned to pray Beside me at church’

Verses 17-18
she cannot cope with the fact that as a black woman, she has a white child will have rights and freedom’s of a white man – and be allowed to treat and view her as a slave. She could not nurture and raise this child SO see verse 19 Verse 19-20
She suffocates her own child and buries him among the mango trees

Verse 21
Master’s look – metaphor for a his ‘lash’ or worse
She objectifies the baby by calling it “it” “And so, to save it from my curse, I twited it round in my shawl.”

Verses 22-23
In grief she laughs at the irony that ‘her fruit/her child’ was white like the angels – and took the soul of her child as a white man. She credits the angels as freeing the child’s soul by allowing it to suffocate – She mourns (or is in shock) “I am cold, though it happened a month ago.” after taking the baby’s life.

Verse 24
No one (white or black) said anything about her carrying the dead child around with a kerchief over his face

Verse 25
She buries the child in the forest at night – far away from the angels

Verse 26-27
Once she buried the child in the “black” earth she was relieved and sang to the child as a mother should, nurturingly. The dead child sang back to her, joining the souls of mother and child. Verse 28
Reflection – I look on the sea and the sky!
She is angry – My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day. – and the pilgrims are afraid to see/to acknowledge this anger (or the reasons for it)

Verse 29
She is hunted by the ancestors of the pilgrims and fights them off with her attitude diminishing them as a “noisome thing” “Keep off, -- I brave you all at once,-- I throw off your eyes like a noisome thing!”

Verse 31
She wishes that the men who hunter her spare their wives there infidelities by having their mulatto children buried without being known – resentful that the white wives can openly love and nurture their white babies in freedom, unlike her.

Verse 32
“I am not mad: I am black.” I’m not just wild and angry – I am a black person.
Irony – that in the land of the free there is an entire race of people enslaved and scared from beatings – the rope burns have scared the slaves’ wrists Verse 33
Metaphor – she ‘hung as a gourd hangs in the sun” what her body looks like after being flogged, her body hanging heavy, by her wrists

Verse 34-35
Blacks and whites are set in opposition of each other creating a cycle of whips from the white man and curses from the black. Christ died for a reason, the blacks are wounded and die without purpose

Verse 36
She’s had it, she falls down and looks up at the sky and sees “the clouds breaking on (he) brain” she is seeing and wanting her death, death will allow her the freedom to be with her child – “in the (privacy/hidden) death-dark where we may kiss and agree”
Broken hearted and disgraced, she releases white men from her scorn “curse-free” – Read the collected works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
More E-texts

The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point
Elizabeth Barrett Browning


I stand on the mark beside the shore
Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee,
Where exile turned to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.
I have run through the night, my skin is as dark,
I bend my knee down on this mark...
I look on the sky and the sea.

O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!
I see you come out proud and slow
From the land of the spirits pale as dew. . .
And round me and round me ye go!
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one
Who in your names works sin and woe.

And thus I thought that I would come
And kneel here where I knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum
In undertone to the ocean's roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,
Here, in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in freedom's evermore.

I am black, I am black;
And yet God made me, they say.
But if He did so, smiling back
He must have cast His work away
Under the feet of His white creatures,
With a look of scorn,--that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay. V.
And yet He has made dark things
To be glad and merry as light.
There's a little dark bird sits and sings;
There's a dark stream ripples out of sight;
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,
And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O'er the face of the darkest night.

But we who are dark, we are dark!
Ah, God, we have no stars!
About our souls in care and cark
Our blackness shuts like prison bars:
The poor souls crouch so far behind,
That never a comfort can they find
By reaching through the prison-bars.

Indeed, we live beneath the sky,...
That great smooth Hand of God, stretched out
On all His children fatherly,
To bless them from the fear and doubt,
Which would be, if, from this low place,
All opened straight up to His face
Into the grand eternity.

And still God's sunshine and His frost,
They make us hot, they make us cold,
As if we were not black and lost:
And the beasts and birds, in wood and fold,
Do fear and take us for very men!
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of the glen
Look into my eyes and be bold? IX. IX.
I am black, I am black!--
But, once, I laughed in girlish glee;
For one of my colour stood in the track
Where the drivers drove, and looked at me--
And tender and full was the look he gave:
Could a slave look so at another slave?--
I look at the sky and the sea.

And from that hour our spirits grew
As free as if unsold, unbought:
Oh, strong enough, since we were two
To conquer the world, we thought!
The drivers drove us day by day;
We did not mind, we went one way,
And no better a liberty sought.

In the sunny ground between the canes,
He said "I love you" as he passed:
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,
I heard how he vowed it fast:
While others shook, he smiled in the hut
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut,
Through the roar of the hurricanes.

I sang his name instead of a song;
Over and over I sang his name--
Upward and downward I drew it along
My various notes; the same, the same!
I sang it low, that the slave-girls near
Might never guess from aught they could hear,
It was only a name.

I look on the sky and the sea--
We were two to love, and two to pray,--
Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee,
Though nothing didst Thou say.
Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun!
And now I cry who am but one,
How wilt Thou speak to-day?--

We were black, we were black!
We had no claim to love and bliss:
What marvel, if each turned to lack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his,--
They dragged him... where ?... I crawled to touch
His blood's mark in the dust!... not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls,... though plain as this! XV.
Wrong, followed by a deeper wrong!
Mere grief's too good for such as I.
So the white men brought the shame ere long
To strangle the sob of my agony.
They would not leave me for my dull
Wet eyes!--it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears and die.

I am black, I am black!--
I wore a child upon my breast
An amulet that hung too slack,
And, in my unrest, could not rest:
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,
One to another, one to another,
Until all ended for the best:

For hark ! I will tell you low... Iow...
I am black, you see,--
And the babe who lay on my bosom so,
Was far too white... too white for me;
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray
Beside me at church but yesterday;
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.

My own, own child! I could not bear
To look in his face, it was so white.
I covered him up with a kerchief there;
I covered his face in close and tight:
And he moaned and struggled, as well might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty--
Ha, ha! he wanted his master right. XIX.
He moaned and beat with his head and feet,
His little feet that never grew--
He struck them out, as it was meet,
Against my heart to break it through.
I might have sung and made him mild--
But I dared not sing to the white-faced child
The only song I knew.

I pulled the kerchief very close:
He could not see the sun, I swear,
More, then, alive, than now he does
From between the roots of the mango... where
... I know where. Close! a child and mother
Do wrong to look at one another,
When one is black and one is fair.

Why, in that single glance I had
Of my child's face,... I tell you all,
I saw a look that made me mad...
The master's look, that used to fall
On my soul like his lash... or worse!
And so, to save it from my curse,
I twisted it round in my shawl.

And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,
He shivered from head to foot;
Till, after a time, he lay instead
Too suddenly still and mute.
I felt, beside, a stiffening cold,...
I dared to lift up just a fold...
As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit.

But my fruit... ha, ha!--there, had been
(I laugh to think on't at this hour!...)
Your fine white angels, who have seen
Nearest the secret of God's power,...
And plucked my fruit to make them wine,
And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower. XXIV.
Ha, ha, for the trick of the angels white!
They freed the white child's spirit so.
I said not a word, but, day and night,
I carried the body to and fro;
And it lay on my heart like a stone... as chill.
--The sun may shine out as much as he will:
I am cold, though it happened a month ago.

From the white man's house, and the black man's hut,
I carried the little body on,
The forest's arms did round us shut,
And silence through the trees did run:
They asked no question as I went,--
They stood too high for astonishment,--
They could see God sit on His throne.

My little body, kerchiefed fast,
I bore it on through the forest... on:
And when I felt it was tired at last,
I scooped a hole beneath the moon.
Through the forest-tops the angels far,
With a white sharp finger from every star,
Did point and mock at what was done.

Yet when it was all done aright,...
Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, strewed,
All, changed to black earth,... nothing white,...
A dark child in the dark,--ensued
Some comfort, and my heart grew young:
I sate down smiling there and sung
The song I learnt in my maidenhood. XXVIII.
And thus we two were reconciled,
The white child and black mother, thus:
For, as I sang it, soft and wild
The same song, more melodious,
Rose from the grave whereon I sate!
It was the dead child singing that,
To join the souls of both of us.

I look on the sea and the sky!
Where the pilgrims' ships first anchored lay,
The free sun rideth gloriously;
But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away
Through the earliest streaks of the morn.
My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.

Ah!--in their 'stead, their hunter sons!
Ah, ah! they are on me--they hunt in a ring--
Keep off! I brave you all at once--
I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think:
Did you never stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?

(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--)
I wish you, who stand there five a-breast,
Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest
As mine in the mangos!--Yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she liketh best.

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!

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.

Our wounds are different. Your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed,
Nor able to make Christs again
Do good with bleeding. We who bleed...
(Stand off!) we help not in our loss!
We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.

I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky:
The clouds are breaking on my brain;
I am floated along, as if I should die
Of liberty's exquisite pain--
In the name of the white child, waiting for me
In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree,
White men, I leave you all curse-free
In my broken heart's disdain!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Comparison
As in the Chimney Sweeper from William Blake’s Song’s of Experience, children are not valued except for the menial labor they provide to their employers, they live a terrible existence. Barrett Browning writes of a race of people held down in a subservient role created by powers stronger than they. The fruits of the labors of the chimney sweeps or the slaves is the benefit of the business owners/slave owners. The message in both poems, Nature accepts who they are and they can be content with that, but those who objectify them take away those rights. Because the chimney sweep and the slave continue to exist, the employers/parents/overseers/owners think that is OK/that is enough. It’s ironic that these parents/overseers/owners/pilgrims are OK to worship a God who protects them but does not care about those who they control (their children/their slaves). Switching to the closing message from Chimney Sweeper in Song’s of Innocence: Life on earth is terrible, but there will be joy in heaven; in The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point the black slave mother will be united with her white child ‘where (their) kisses agree” – she can love her child at last – quite bittersweet to trade her life for this.. Born Elizabeth Barrett Moulton in England, the eldest of 11 (some accounts say 12) children received the education of a boy, being taught along with her brother “Bro” Latin, Greek, history, philosophy and literature –she continued with her studies learning Hebrew on her own.

Her first volume of poetry was published at the age of 13.

She viewed herself as a Christian poet – highly moral sensibility – an abolitionist against slavery

Her family’s wealth came from a sugar cane plantation in Jamaica run by slave labor. Barrett Browning wrote “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point”. The poem was published in a coffee table “gift book” called The Liberty Bell. Funds from the sale of these annual publications funded the abolitionist movement.

Barrett Browning became the most accomplished/acknowledged woman poet of the Victorian age. She was in conflict with her male contemporary’s use of ‘nature’ in that Wordsworth, Coleridge … viewed and wrote about nature being of a female orientation. Barrett Browning being female did not want to address nature as female ie, being from her. She wrote as the poet not nature.

In 1850 she was the leading candidate to succeed Wordsworth as poet laureate, losing to Tennyson.

She married William Browning 1846 secretly in London and move to Florence, Italy. Her father did not speak with her again, returning all of her letters unopened – he opposed any of his children to marry -odd. Barrett Browning continued to write, including political poetry which was not well received, wrote her most famous works Sonnets from the Portuguese and Aurora Leigh, has a son “Pen” and lived the rest of her life in Florence.
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