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 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.
A NAMELESS GRAVE.
"A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out,"
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt.
Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea
In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn,
When I remember thou hast given for me
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name,
And I can give thee nothing in return.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
IN the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook, Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old mound,
And the winds and the birds and the limpid brook Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound,
Who lies so still in the plushy moss,
With his pale cheek pressed on a breezy pillow, Couched where the lights and the shadows cross Through the flickering fringe of the willow,Who lies, alas!
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass?
A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress,
A bright-haired man, with his lips apart,-
One hand thrown up o'er his frank, dead face,
And the other clutching his pulseless heart,-—
Lies there in the shadows cool and dim,
His musket swept by a trailing bough,
With a careless grace in each tranquil limb,
And a wound in his manly brow-
Whence the warm blood drips in the quiet grass.
And the violets peer from their dusky beds,
With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes;
And the lilies quiver their shining heads,
Their pale lips full of a sad surprise;
And the lizard darts through the glistening fern,
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoary,
Strange birds fly out with a cry, to bathe
Their wings in the sunset glory ;
While the shadows pass
O'er the quiet face and the dewy grass. God pity the bride who waits at home With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, Dreaming the sweet old dream of love,
While her lover is walking in Paradise. God strengthen her heart as the days go by, And the long, drear nights of her vigil follow ; Nor bird nor wind nor whispering grass May breathe the tale of the hollow:
The secret is safe in the woodland grass.
ANONYMOUS (Southern).
SOMEBODY'S DARLING.
INTO a ward of the whitewashed halls
Where the dead and the dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day-
Somebody's darling, so young and brave;
Wearing yet on his sweet pale face-
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now--
Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take-
They were somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested here-
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best. He has somebody's love,
Somebody's heart enshrined him there,
Somebody wafts his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead—
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear.
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head:
Somebody's darling slumbers here.'
MARIA LA COSTE (Southern).
"HE'LL SEE IT WHEN HE WAKES."
[In one of the battles in Virginia, a gallant young Mississippian had fallen; and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from his betrothed. One of the burialgroup took the letter and laid it upon the breast of the dead soldier, with the words: "Bury it with him. He'll see it when he wakes."]
AMID the clouds of battle-smoke
The sun had died away,
And where the storm of battle broke
A thousand warriors lay.
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