Leaping with open hands,
     Down they tear man and horse,
     Down in their awful course;
     Trampling with bloody heel
     Over the crashing steel,
     All their eyes forward bent,
     Rushed the black regiment.

     “Freedom!” their battle-cry,—­
     Freedom! or leave to die!”
     Ah! and they meant the word,—­
     Not as with us ’tis heard,
     Not a mere party shout: 
     They gave their spirits out;
     Trusted the end to God,
     And on the gory sod
     Rolled in triumphant blood. 
     Glad to strike one free blow,
     Whether for weal or woe;
     Glad to breathe one free breath,
     Though on the lips of death.

     Praying—­alas! in vain!—­
     That they might fall again,
     So they could once more see
     That bust to liberty! 
     This was what “freedom” lent
     To the black regiment.

     Hundreds on hundreds fell;
     But they are resting well;
     Scourges and shackles strong
     Never shall do them wrong. 
     Oh, to the living few,
     Soldiers, be just and true!

     Hail them as comrades tried;
     Fight with them side by side;
     Never, in field or tent,
     Scorn the black regiment!

          Copyright:  permission of George Boker, Esq.

THE SWORD-BEARER

     From ‘Poems of the War’

     March 8th, 1862

     Brave Morris saw the day was lost;
        For nothing now remained,
     On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland,
        But to save the flag unstained.

     So he swore an oath in the sight of Heaven,—­
        If he kept it the world can tell:—­
     “Before I strike to a rebel flag,
        I’ll sink to the gates of hell!

     “Here, take my sword; ’tis in my way;
        I shall trip o’er the useless steel;
     For I’ll meet the lot that falls to all
        With my shoulder at the wheel.”

     So the little negro took the sword;
        And oh, with what reverent care,
     Following his master step by step,
        He bore it here and there!

     A thought had crept through his sluggish brain,
        And shone in his dusky face,
     That somehow—­he could not tell just how—­
        ’Twas the sword of his trampled race.

     And as Morris, great with his lion heart,
        Rushed onward from gun to gun,
     The little negro slid after him,
        Like a shadow in the sun.

     But something of pomp and of curious pride
        The sable creature wore,
     Which at any time but a time like that
        Would have made the ship’s crew roar.

     Over the wounded, dying, and dead,
        Like an usher of the rod,
     The black page, full of his mighty trust,
        With dainty caution trod.