308
THE SWORD-BEARER
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.
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.
