shing steel,--
All their eyes forward bent,
Rushed the black regiment.

"Freedom!" their battle-cry,--
"Freedom! or leave to die!"
Ah! and they meant the word,
Not as with us 'tis heard,
Not a mere party shout;
They gave their spirits out,
Trusted the end to God,
And on the gory sod
Rolled in triumphant blood.
Glad to strike one free blow,
Whether for weal or woe;
Glad to breathe one free breath,
Though on the lips of death;
Praying,--alas! in vain!--That
they might fall again,
So they could once more see
That burst to liberty!
This was what "freedom" lent
To the black regiment.

Hundreds on hundreds fell;
But they are resting well;
Scourges and shackles strong
Never shall do them wrong.
O, to the living few,
Soldiers, be just and true!
Hail them as comrades tried;
Fight with them side by side;
Never, in field or tent,
Scorn the black regiment!

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

* * * * *

THE C.S. ARMY'S COMMISSARY.

I.--1863.

"Well, this is bad!" we sighing said,
While musing round the bivouac fire,
And dwelling with a fond desire,
On home and comforts long since fled.

"How gayly came we forth at first!
Our spirits high, with new emprise,
Ambitious of each exercise,
And glowing with a martial thirst.

"Equipped as for a holiday,
With bounteous store of everything
To use or comfort minist'ring,
All cheerily we marched away.

"But as the struggle fiercer grew,
Light marching orders came apace,--
And baggage-wagon soon gave place
To that which sterner uses knew.

"Our tents--they went a year ago;
Now kettle, spider, frying-pan
Are lost to us, and as we can
We live, while marching to and fro.

"Our food has lessened, till at length,
E'en want's gaunt image seems to threat--
A foe to whom the bravest yet
Must yield at last his knightly strength.

"But while we've meat and flour enough
The bayonet shall be our spit--
The ramrod bake our dough on it--
A gum-cloth be our kneading trough.

"We'll bear privation, danger dare,
While even these are left to us--
Be hopeful, faithful, emulous
Of gallant deeds, though hard our fare!"

II.--1864.

"Three years and more," we grimly said,
When order came to "Rest at will"
Beside the corn-field on the hill,
As on a weary march we sped--