The Black Regiment
Dark as the clouds of even,
Ranked in the western heaven,
Waiting the breath that lifts
All the dead mass, and drifts
Tempest and falling brand
Over a ruined land,-
So still and orderly,
Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,
Stands the black regiment.
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 cold chains again!"
Oh, what a shout there went
From the black regiment!
Charge!" trump and drum awoke; Onward the bondsmen 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 gun's mouth 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 crushing 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 't is heard,-
Not a mere party shout;
They gave their spirits out,
Trusting the end to God,
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!
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
Five seconds-it couldn't be more
And the whole Swarm was humming and
(We were on an enemy's shore.)
With savage haste, in the dark,
(Our steerage hadn't a spark,)
Into boot and hose they blundered-
From for'ard came a strange, low roar,
The dull and smothered racket
Of lower rig and jacket
Hurried on, by the hundred,
How the berth deck buzzed and swore!
The third of minutes ten,
And half a thousand men,
From the dream-gulf, dead and deep,
Of the seamen's measured sleep,
In the taking of a lunar,
In the serving of a ration,
Every man at his station!—
Three and a quarter, or sooner!
Never a skulk to be seen
From the look-out aloft to the gunner
Lurking in his black magazine.
There they stand, still as death,
And, (a trifle out of breath,
It may be,) we of the Staff,
All on the poop, to a minute,
Wonder if there's anything in it—
Doubting if to growl or laugh.
But, somehow, every hand
Feels for hilt and brand,
Tries if buckle and frog be tight,—
So, in the chilly breeze, we stand,
Peering through the dimness of the night—
The men by twos and ones,
Grim and silent at the guns,
Ready, if a Foe heave in sight!
But, as we look aloft,
There, all white and soft,
Floated on the fleecy clouds,
(Stray flocks in heaven's blue croft)—
How they shone, the eternal stars,
'Mid the black masts and spars
And the great maze of lifts and shrouds!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
(Flag Ship "Hartford," May, 1864.)
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