"Forward!" "Forward!" comes the cry, As stalwart columns, ambling by, Stride over graves that, waiting, lie Undug in mother earth! Their goal, the flag of fierce Castile Above her serried ranks of steel, Insensate to the cannon's peal That gives the battle birth! As brawn as black--a fearless foe; Grave, grim and grand, they onward go, To conquer or to die! The rule of right; the march of might; A dusky host from darker night, Responsive to the morning light, To work the martial will! And o'er the trench and trembling earth, The morn that gives the battle birth Is on the San Juan Hill! Hark! sounds again the bugle call! Let ring the rifles over all, To shriek above the battle-pall The war-god's jubilee! Their's, were bondmen, low, and long; Their's, once weak against the strong; Their's, to strike and stay the wrong, That strangers might be free! And on, and on, for weal or woe, The tawny faces grimmer go, That bade no mercy to a foe That pitties but to kill. "Close up!" "Close up!" is heard, and said, And yet the rain of steel and lead Still leaves a livid trail of red Upon the San Juan Hill! "Charge!" "Charge!" The bugle peals again; 'Tis life or death for Roosevelt's men!-- The Mausers make reply! Aye! speechless are those swarthy sons, Save for the clamor of the guns-- Their only battle-cry! The lowly stain upon each face, The taunt still fresh of prouder race, But speeds the step that springs a pace, To succor or to die! With rifles hot--to waist-band nude; The brawn beside the pampered dude; The cowboy king--one grave--and rude-- To shelter him who falls! One breast--and bare,--howe'er begot, The low, the high--one common lot: The world's distinction all forgot When Freedom's bugle calls! No faltering step, no fitful start; None seeking less than all his part; One watchward springing from each heart,-- Yet on, and onward still! The sullen sound of tramp and tread; Abe Lincoln's flag still overhead; They followed where the angels led The way, up San Juan Hill! And where the life stream ebbs and flows, And stains the track of trenchant blows That met no meaner steel, The bated breath--the battle yell-- The turf in slippery crimson, tell Where Castile's proudest colors fell With wounds that never heal! Where every trooper found a wreath Of glory for his sabre sheath; And earned the laurels well; With feet to field and face to foe, In lines of battle lying low, The sable soldiers fell!