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.
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.
They picked us up from the hungry waves;-- Alas! not all!--"And where, Where is the faithful negro lad?"-- "Back oars! avast! look there!"
We looked; and, as Heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor's word, There, fathoms deep in the sea, he lay, Still grasping the master's sword!
We drew him out; and many an hour We wrought with his rigid form, Ere the almost smothered spark of life By slow degrees grew warm.