Brave Randall leaped upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport; “Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell Go through an open port.” It was our last, our deadliest shot; The deck was over-flown: The poor ship staggered, lurched to port, And gave a living groan. Down, down, as headlong through the waves Our gallant vessel rushed, A thousand gurgling, watery sounds Around my senses gushed. Then I remember little more; One look to heaven I gave, Where, like an angel’s wing, I saw Our spotless ensign wave. I tried to cheer, I cannot say Whether I swam or sank; A blue mist closed around my eyes, And every thing was blank. When I awoke, a soldier-lad, All dripping from the sea, With two great tears upon his cheeks, Was bending over me. I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God! the flag Still fluttered at the peak! And there, while thread shall hang to thread, O let that ensign fly! The noblest constellation set Against our northern sky. A sign that we who live may claim The peerage of the brave; A monument, that needs no scroll, For those beneath the wave! [Illustration] [Illustration] THE SWORD-BEARER. BY GEORGE H. BOKER. 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. No heed he gave to the flying ball, No heed to the bursting shell; His duty was something more than life, And he strove to do it well. Down, with our starry flag apeak, In the whirling sea we sank; And captain and crew and the sword-bearer Were washed from the bloody plank.