THE SWORD-BEARER.
By GEORGE H. BOKER.
So he swore an oath in the sight of heaven (If he kept it, the world can tell): “Before I strike to a rebel flag, I’ll sink to the gates of hell!
“Here, take my sword; ’tis in my way; I shall trip o’er the useless steel: For I’ll meet the lot that falls to all, With my shoulder at the wheel.”
So the little negro took the sword, And oh! with what reverent care! Following his master step by step, He bore it here and there.
A thought had crept through his sluggish brain, And shone in his dusky face, That somehow—he could not tell just how— ’Twas the sword of his trampled race.
And as Morris, great with his lion heart, Rushed onward from gun to gun, The little negro slid after him, Like a shadow in the sun.