George Henry Boker

Brave comrade, answer! When you joined the war, What left you? “Wife and children, wealth and friends, A storied home whose ancient roof-tree bends Above such thoughts as love tells o’er and o’er.” Had you no pang or struggle? “Yes; I bore Such pain on parting as at hell’s gate rends The entering soul, when from its grasp ascends The last faint virtue which on earth it wore.” You loved your home, your kindred, children, wife; You loathed yet plunged into war’s bloody whirl!— What urged you? “Duty! Something more than life. That which made Abraham bare the priestly knife, And Isaac kneel, or that young Hebrew girl Who sought her father coming from the strife.”

Mangled, uncared for, suffering thro’ the night With heavenly patience the poor boy had lain; Under the dreary shadows, left and right, Groaned on the wounded, stiffened out the slain. What faith sustained his lone, Brave heart to make no moan, To send no cry from that blood-sprinkled sod, Is a close mystery with him and God. But when the light came, and the morning dew Glittered around him, like a golden lake, And every dripping flower with deepened hue Looked through its tears for very pity’s sake, He moved his aching head Upon his rugged bed, And smiled as a blue violet, virgin-meek, Laid her pure kiss upon his withered cheek. At once there circled in his waking heart A thousand memories of distant home; Of how those same blue violets would start Along his native fields, and some would roam Down his dear humming brooks, To hide in secret nooks, And, shyly met, in nodding circles swing, Like gossips murmuring at belated Spring. And then he thought of the beloved hands That with his own had plucked the modest flower. The blue-eyed maiden, crowned with golden bands, Who ruled as sovereign of that sunny hour. She at whose soft command He joined the mustering band, She for whose sake he lay so firm and still, Despite his pangs, not questioned then her will. So, lost in thought, scarce conscious of the deed, Culling the violets, here and there he crept Slowly—ah! slowly,—for his wound would bleed; And the sweet flowers themselves half smiled, half wept, To be thus gathered in By hands so pale and thin, By fingers trembling as they neatly laid Stem upon stem, and bound them in a braid. The strangest posy ever fashioned yet Was clasped against the bosom of the lad, As we, the seekers for the wounded, set His form upon our shoulders bowed and sad; Though he but seemed to think How violets nod and wink; And as we cheered him, for the path was wild, He only looked upon his flowers and smiled.

Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dread 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 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; Tramping 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 this 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.