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.

G.H. BOKER.




Carolina.


The despot treads thy sacred sands,
Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
Thy sons stand by with idle hands,