Poems (Proctor)/For Freedom
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
FOR FREEDOM!Response of the Colored Soldiers to the Call of the President, January, 1864.
Thank God! 'Tis the war-cry! They call us; we come;
Clear summons the bugle, bold beckons the drum;
Our "Ready!" rings clearer; our hearts bolder beat
As under the bright flag rejoicing we meet,
For still we have trusted through darkest delay,
That the flash of these guns would be dawn of our day.
Clear summons the bugle, bold beckons the drum;
Our "Ready!" rings clearer; our hearts bolder beat
As under the bright flag rejoicing we meet,
For still we have trusted through darkest delay,
That the flash of these guns would be dawn of our day.
'Tis dawning! 'tis morning! the hills are aglow!
God's angels roll backward the clouds of our woe!
One grasp of the rifle, one glimpse of the fray,
And chattel and bondman have vanished for aye;
Stern men they will find us who venture to feel
The shock of our cannon, the thrust of our steel.
God's angels roll backward the clouds of our woe!
One grasp of the rifle, one glimpse of the fray,
And chattel and bondman have vanished for aye;
Stern men they will find us who venture to feel
The shock of our cannon, the thrust of our steel.
And then, when the fierce day is done, in the gleam
Of the camp-fire at midnight, how gayly we'll dream!—
The slave is the citizen, coveted name!
That lifts him from loathing, that shields him from shame;
His cottage unravished, and, gladsome as he,
His wife by the hearthstone, his babe on her knee.
Of the camp-fire at midnight, how gayly we'll dream!—
The slave is the citizen, coveted name!
That lifts him from loathing, that shields him from shame;
His cottage unravished, and, gladsome as he,
His wife by the hearthstone, his babe on her knee.
The cotton grows fair by the sea as of old;
The cane yields its sugar, the orange its gold;
Light rustle the corn-leaves, the rice-fields are green,
And, free as the white man, he smiles on the scene;—
The drum beats; we start from our slumbers and pray
That the dream of the night find an answering day.
The cane yields its sugar, the orange its gold;
Light rustle the corn-leaves, the rice-fields are green,
And, free as the white man, he smiles on the scene;—
The drum beats; we start from our slumbers and pray
That the dream of the night find an answering day.
To God be the glory! They call us; we come;
How welcome the watchword, the hurry, the bum;
Our hearts are on fire as our good swords we bare,
"For Freedom! for Freedom!" soft echoes the air;
The bugles ring cheerly; the banners float high;
O comrades, strike boldly! our triumph is nigh!
How welcome the watchword, the hurry, the bum;
Our hearts are on fire as our good swords we bare,
"For Freedom! for Freedom!" soft echoes the air;
The bugles ring cheerly; the banners float high;
O comrades, strike boldly! our triumph is nigh!