很久以前的黑膚色無名詩人啊，

    你們的嘴唇何以觸碰到聖火?

    何以在蒙昧中知曉

    遊吟詩人豎琴的力量和美妙?

    是誰最先在枷鎖中抬起目光?

    是誰最先從淒清而漫長的夜晚，

    感悟到先知們的古老信仰，

    在黑暗的靈魂中站起，引吭歌唱?

    是哪個奴隸的心唱出這樣的歌曲，

    如「逃出去尋找耶穌」?隨著它的旋律，

    他的靈魂每夜自由飛翔，

    雖然雙手仍緊鎖著冰冷的鐵鏈。

    是誰聽見了激動人心的「約旦鼓聲」?

      是誰的眼睛星星般明亮

    看見戰車「徐徐駛下」?

    是誰發出悠揚悅耳的詠歎：

  「沒人知道我經歷的苦難」?

    什麼牢中之物，是什麼活著的肉體，

    能在黑暗中摸索通向上帝的路，

    從自己麻木的心中找出

    這些關於悲傷、愛情、忠誠和希望的歌曲?

    它是怎樣領悟那微妙的含意，

    即使耳朵無法聽到的聲音?

    那很少被吹奏的難以捉摸的蘆笛，

    其聲調如此感人肺腑，將心臟融化成淚滴。

    即便那位傑出的德國大師在夢中，

    創作響徹雲霄的和聲，

    也從未聽見一個主旋律

    「下來吧，摩西」更加壯麗。請聽它的樂句，

    就如嘹亮的號角令人熱血沸騰。

    這些就是人們已唱過的歌曲，

    當他們建立英雄業績：這些曲子喲

    在時間年幼時創造歷史。

    這一切令人不可思議：

    那預言家火熱的激情竟喚起

    這些太陽和泥土的純真孩子

    從偷閒和勞役中甦醒。

    死去、被遺忘、不留名的黑人奴隸歌唱家啊，

    你們──唯有你們，雖屬於苦眾生，

    那些未受教育，默默無聞的無名歌者，

    卻追求神聖向上伸出雙臂。   

    你們歌唱的不是英雄也不是皇帝，

    不是血腥的戰爭，也不是歡樂曲，

    慶祝武力贏得的勝利但卑微的弦啊

    由你們撥響奏出天堂的音樂。   

    你們的歌聲比自己知道的更美；

    這些歌曲曾滿足無數聽眾飢渴的心靈，

    它們流傳至今，──但你們的功勞無可比擬：

    向基督歌唱一個由樹木和石頭產生的人民。

Heart of what slave poured out such melody
As "Steal away to Jesus"? On its strains
His spirit must have nightly floated free,
Though still about his hands he felt his chains.
Who heard great "Jordan roll"? Whose starward eye
Saw chariot "swing low"? And who was he
That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh,
"Nobody knows de trouble I see"?

What merely living clod, what captive thing,
Could up toward God through all its darkness grope,
And find within its deadened heart to sing
These songs of sorrow, love and faith, and hope?
How did it catch that subtle undertone,
That note in music heard not with the ears?
How sound the elusive reed so seldom blown,
Which stirs the soul or melts the heart to tears
Not that great German master in his dream

Of harmonies that thundered amongst the stars
At the creation, ever heard a theme
Nobler than "Go down, Moses." Mark its bars
How like a mighty trumpet-call they stir
The blood. Such are the notes that men have sung
Going to valorous deeds; such tones there were
That helped make history when Time was young.

There is a wide, wide wonder in it all,
That from degraded rest and servile toil
The fiery spirit of the seer should call
These simple children of the sun and soil.
O black slave singers, gone, forgot, unfamed,
You－you alone, of all the long, long line
Of those who've sung untaught, unknown, unnamed,
Have stretched out upward, seeking the divine.

You sang not deeds of heroes or of kings;
No chant of bloody war, no exulting paean
Of arms-won triumphs; but your humble strings
You touched in chord with music empyrean.
You sang far better than you knew; the songs
That for your listeners' hungry hearts sufficed
Still live,－but more than this to you belongs:
You sang a race from wood and stone to Christ.