THE COLOR SERGEANT (_On an Incident at the Battle of San Juan Hill_) Under a burning tropic sun, With comrades around him lying, A trooper of the sable Tenth Lay wounded, bleeding, dying. First in the charge up the fort-crowned hill, His company's guidon bearing, He had rushed where the leaden hail fell fast, Not death nor danger fearing. He fell in the front where the fight grew fierce, Still faithful in life's last labor; Black though his skin, yet his heart as true As the steel of his blood-stained saber. And while the battle around him rolled, Like the roar of a sullen breaker, He closed his eyes on the bloody scene, And presented arms to his Maker. There he lay, without honor or rank, But, still, in a grim-like beauty; Despised of men for his humble race, Yet true, in death, to his duty. THE BLACK MAMMY O whitened head entwined in turban gay, O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand, O foster-mother in whose arms there lay The race whose sons are masters of the land! It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold, It was thine eyes that followed through the length Of infant days these sons. In times of old It was thy breast that nourished them to strength. So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed The golden head, the face and brow of snow; So often has it 'gainst thy broad, dark breast Lain, set off like a quickened cameo. Thou simple soul, as cuddling down that babe With thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild, Came ne'er the thought to thee, swift like a stab, That it some day might crush thine own black child? FATHER, FATHER ABRAHAM (_On the Anniversary of Lincoln's Birth_) Father, Father Abraham, To-day look on us from above; On us, the offspring of thy faith, The children of thy Christ-like love. For that which we have humbly wrought, Give us to-day thy kindly smile; Wherein we've failed or fallen short, Bear with us, Father, yet awhile. Father, Father Abraham, To-day we lift our hearts to thee, Filled with the thought of what great price Was paid, that we might ransomed be. To-day we consecrate ourselves Anew in hand and heart and brain, To send this judgment down the years: The ransom was not paid in vain. BROTHERS See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye! No light is there; none, save the glint that shines In the now glaring, and now shifting orbs Of some wild animal caught in the hunter's trap.