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,

And on the gory sod

New World

and Old Glory

New World and Old Glory

Se

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 alive

(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.

New World

and Old

Glory

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.)

Battle-Hymn of the Republic

New World

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of and Old

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 God 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:

Glory