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 old chains again!" Oh, what a shout there went From the black regiment! "Charge!" Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen 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 guns' mouths 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 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!