Part 1 / Book 4 / Act 3 — THE BLACK REGIMENT.

[May 27, 1863.]

Dark as the clouds of even, Banked 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 dusty 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!" O, 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. O, 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.

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THE C.S. ARMY'S COMMISSARY.

I.—1863.

"Well, this is bad!" we sighing said, While musing round the bivouac fire, And dwelling with a fond desire, On home and comforts long since fled.

"How gayly came we forth at first! Our spirits high, with new emprise, Ambitious of each exercise, And glowing with a martial thirst.

"Equipped as for a holiday, With bounteous store of everything To use or comfort minist'ring, All cheerily we marched away.

"But as the struggle fiercer grew, Light marching orders came apace,— And baggage-wagon soon gave place To that which sterner uses knew.

"Our tents—they went a year ago; Now kettle, spider, frying-pan Are lost to us, and as we can We live, while marching to and fro.

"Our food has lessened, till at length, E'en want's gaunt image seems to threat— A foe to whom the bravest yet Must yield at last his knightly strength.

"But while we've meat and flour enough The bayonet shall be our spit— The ramrod bake our dough on it— A gum-cloth be our kneading trough.

"We'll bear privation, danger dare, While even these are left to us— Be hopeful, faithful, emulous Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!"

II.—1864.

"Three years and more," we grimly said, When order came to "Rest at will" Beside the corn-field on the hill, As on a weary march we sped—

"Three years and more we've met the foe On many a gory, hard-fought field, And still we swear we cannot yield Till Fate shall bring some deeper woe.

"Three years and more we've struggled on, Through torrid heat and winter's chill, Nor bated aught of steadfast will, Though even hope seems almost gone.

"Ill fed, ill clad, and shelterless, How little cheer in health we know! When wounds and illness lay us low, How comfortless our sore distress!

"These flimsy rags, that scarcely hide Our forms, can naught discourage us; But Hunger—ah! it may be thus That Fortune shall the strife decide.

"But while the corn-fields give supply We'll take, content, the roasting-ear, Nor yield us yet to craven fear, But still press on, to do or die:"

ED. PORTER THOMPSON.

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