We swept the field and won the hill; Our flag flared out upon the crest, Where wavering, gasping, pale and chill, A dozen bullets through his breast, The slender hero held it still! We leaped to lift his drooping head, The sergeant clasped him to his breast; “I bore the flag,” the low voice said, “And God bore me, now let me rest;” And so we laid him with the dead. MAURICE THOMPSON. (By special permission of the author, and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.) 33 THE BLACK REGIMENT Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land,-- So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam, and eyeballs shine; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. “Now!” the flag-sergeant cried, “Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land; or bound Down, like the whining hound,-- Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again!” Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment! “Charge!” trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondsmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle’s crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the gun’s mouth they laugh; Or at the slippery brands, Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crushing 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, Trusting 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 burst 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! GEORGE HENRY BOKER. 34 GREENCASTLE JENNY