When I awoke, a soldier-lad,

All dripping from the sea,

With two great tears upon his cheeks,
Was bending over me.

I tried to speak. He understood
The wish I could not speak.

He turned me. There, thank God! the flag
Still fluttered at the peak!

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
The peerage of the brave;

A monument, that needs no scroll,
For those beneath the wave!

BR

For nothing now remained

On the wrecked and sinking Cumberland But to save the flag unstained.

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; 't is 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'T was 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.

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,
Like an usher of the rod,

The black page, full of his mighty trust,
With dainty caution trod.

No heed he gave to the flying ball,
No heed to the bursting shell;
His duty was something more than life,
And he strove to do it well.

Down, with our starry flag apeak,

In the whirling sea we sank;

And captain and crew and the sword-bearer
Were washed from the bloody plank.

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,
Still grasping his master's sword.

We drew him out; and many an hour
We wrought with his rigid form,
Ere the almost smothered spark of life
By slow degrees grew warm.

The first dull glance that his eyeballs rolled Was down toward his shrunken hand; And he smiled, and closed his eyes again, As they fell on the rescued brand.

And no one touched the sacred sword,
Till at length, when Morris came,
The little negro stretched it out,
With his eager eyes aflame.

And if Morris wrung the poor boy's hand,
And his words seemed hard to speak,

And tears ran down his manly cheeks,
What tongue shall call him weak?

"C take the cup:

Draw your chair up,—draw it closer,—just another little sup!

Maybe you may think I 'm better; but I 'm pretty well

used up,

Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a going up!

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try-"

"Never say that," said the surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh;

"It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!" "What you say will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die.

"Doctor, what has been the matter?"-" You were very faint, they say;

You must try to get to sleep now."-"Doctor, have I been away?"