L Our heavy pivots roared; And shot and shell, a fire.of hell, God's mercy! from her sloping roof As hail bounds from a cottage thatch, Or when against her dusky hull On, on, with fast increasing speed She heeded not, no gun she fired, Straight on our bow she bore; Through riving plank and crashing frame Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, Alas! alas! my Cumberland, That ne'er knew grief before, Once more she backward drew a space, The dead and dying round us lay, I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God! the flag And there, while thread shall hang to thread, O let that ensign fly! The noblest constellation set Against our northern sky. A sign that we who live may claim LXXXVII. THE SWORD-BEARER. G. W. BOKER-MARCH 8, 1862. Brave Morris saw the day was lost; On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland, So he swore an oath in sight of Heaven, I'll sink to the gates of hell! "Here, take my sword; 't is in my way; So the little negro took the sword; A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow-he could not tell just how'T was the sword of his trampled race. And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Like a shadow in the sun. But something of pomp and of curious pride The sable creature wore, Which at any time but a time like that Would have made the ship's crew roar. Over the wounded, dying, and dead, The black page, full of his mighty trust, No heed he gave to the flying ball, Down, with our starry flag apeak, And captain and crew and the sword-bearer They picked us up from the hungry waves; Alas! not all! "And where, Where is the faithful negro lad?" "Back oars! avast! look there!" We looked; and as heaven may save my soul, I pledge you a sailor's word, There, fathoms deep in the sea, he lay, We drew him out; and many an hour |