| Is on the San Juan Hill! |
|
| Hark! sounds again the bugle call! |
| Let ring the rifles over all, |
| To shriek above the battle-pall |
| The war-god's jubilee! |
| Their's, were bondmen, low, and long; |
| Their's, once weak against the strong; |
| Their's, to strike and stay the wrong, |
| That strangers might be free! |
|
| And on, and on, for weal or woe, |
| The tawny faces grimmer go, |
| That bade no mercy to a foe |
| That pitties but to kill. |
| "Close up!" "Close up!" is heard, and said, |
| And yet the rain of steel and lead |
| Still leaves a livid trail of red |
| Upon the San Juan Hill! |
|
| "Charge!" "Charge!" The bugle peals again; |
| 'Tis life or death for Roosevelt's men!-- |
| The Mausers make reply! |
| Aye! speechless are those swarthy sons, |
| Save for the clamor of the guns-- |
| Their only battle-cry! |
| The lowly stain upon each face, |
| The taunt still fresh of prouder race, |
| But speeds the step that springs a pace, |
| To succor or to die! |
|
| With rifles hot--to waist-band nude; |
| The brawn beside the pampered dude; |
| The cowboy king--one grave--and rude-- |
| To shelter him who falls! |
| One breast--and bare,--howe'er begot, |
| The low, the high--one common lot: |
| The world's distinction all forgot |
| When Freedom's bugle calls! |
|
| No faltering step, no fitful start; |
| None seeking less than all his part; |
| One watchward springing from each heart,-- |
| Yet on, and onward still! |
| The sullen sound of tramp and tread; |
| Abe Lincoln's flag still overhead; |
| They followed where the angels led |
| The way, up San Juan Hill! |
|
| And where the life stream ebbs and flows, |
| And stains the track of trenchant blows |
| That met no meaner steel, |
| The bated breath--the battle yell-- |
| The turf in slippery crimson, tell |
| Where Castile's proudest colors fell |
| With wounds that never heal! |
|
| Where every trooper found a wreath |
| Of glory for his sabre sheath; |
| And earned the laurels well; |
| With feet to field and face to foe, |
| In lines of battle lying low, |
| The sable soldiers fell! |
|
| And where the black and brawny breast |
| Gave up its all--life's richest, best, |
| To find the tomb's eternal rest |
| A dream of freedom still! |
| A groundless creed was swept away, |
| With brand of "coward "--a time-worn say-- |
| And he blazed the path a better way |
| Up the side of San Juan Hill! |
| For black or white, on the scroll of fame, |
| The blood of the hero dyes the same; |
| And ever, ever will! |
| |
| Sleep, trooper, sleep; thy sable brow, |
| Amid the living laurel now, |
| Is wound in wreaths of fame! |
| Nor need the graven granite stone, |
| To tell of garlands all thine own-- |
| To hold a soldier's name! |
[In the city of New Orleans, in 1866, two thousand two hundred and sixty-six ex-slaves were recruited for the service. None but the largest and blackest Negroes were accepted. From these were formed the Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth Infantry, and the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry. All four are famous fighting regiments, yet the two cavalry commands have earned the proudest distinction. While the record of the Ninth Cavalry, better known as the "Nigger Ninth," in its thirty-two years of service in the Indian wars, in the military history of the border, stands without a peer; and is, without exception, the most famous fighting regiment in the United States service.]--Author.
[Illustration: COLONEL THEODORE B. ROOSEVELT.]
