"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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 'tis heard,-- Not a mere party shout; They gave their spirits out, Trusting the end to G.o.d, 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!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

_Night Quarters_

Tang! tang! went the gong's wild roar Through the hundred cells of our great Sea-Hive!

Five seconds--it couldn't be more-- And the whole Swarm was humming and alive-- (We were on an enemy's sh.o.r.e.)

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 p.o.o.p, 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.)_

_Battle-Hymn of the Republic_

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored, He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps, I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel; "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal: Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since G.o.d is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him,--be jubilant, my feet!

Our G.o.d is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While G.o.d is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

_Sheridan's Ride_[22]

October 19, 1864.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pa.s.s as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners a.s.saulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape flowed away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire; But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops.

What was done? what to do? A glance told him both.

Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!

And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldier's Temple of Fame,-- There with the glorious General's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

[Footnote 22: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._]

_Song of the Negro Boatman_

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' ma.s.sa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee.

De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

Ole ma.s.sa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind: De Lord's breff blow him furder on, Like corn-shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough, We own de hands dat hold; We sell de pig, we sell de cow, But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord: he gib us signs Dat some day we be free; De norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: An' now he open ebery door, An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

_From "At Port Royal."_