Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks? 
    Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease? 
  Is it a moment’s cool halt that he asks
    Under the shade of the trees?

  Is it the gurgle of water whose flow
    Ofttimes has come to him, borne on the breeze,
  Memory listens to, lapsing so low,
    Under the shade of the trees?

  Nay—­though the rasp of the flesh was so sore,
    Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,
  Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore
    Under the shade of the trees;—­

  Caught the high psalm of ecstatic delight—­
    Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas—­
  Watched earth’s assoiled ones walking in white
    Under the shade of the trees.

  Oh, was it strange he should pine for release,
    Touched to the soul with such transports as these,—­
  He who so needed the balsam of peace,
    Under the shade of the trees?

  Yea, it was noblest for him—­it was best
    (Questioning naught of our Father’s decrees),
  There to pass over the river and rest
    Under the shade of the trees!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

* * * * *

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

[May 27, 1863.]

  Dark as the clouds of even,
  Banked in the western heaven,
  Waiting the breath that lifts
  All the dead mass, and drifts
  Tempest and falling brand
  Over a ruined land,—­
  So still and orderly,
  Arm to arm, knee to knee,
  Waiting the great event,
  Stands the black regiment.

  Down the long dusty line
  Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;
  And the bright bayonet,
  Bristling and firmly set,
  Flashed with a purpose grand,
  Long ere the sharp command
  Of the fierce rolling drum
  Told them their time had come,
  Told them what work was sent
  For the black regiment.

  “Now,” the flag-sergeant cried,
  “Though death and hell betide,
  Let the whole nation see
  If we are fit to be
  Free in this land; or bound
  Down, like the whining hound,—­
  Bound with red stripes of pain
  In our cold chains again!”
  O, what a shout there went
  From the black regiment!

  “Charge!” Trump and drum awoke;
  Onward the bondmen broke;
  Bayonet and sabre-stroke
  Vainly opposed their rush. 
  Through the wild battle’s crush,
  With but one thought aflush,
  Driving their lords like chaff,
  In the guns’ mouths they laugh;
  Or at the slippery brands
  Leaping with open hands,
  Down they tear man and horse,
  Down in their awful course;
  Trampling with bloody heel
  Over the crashing steel,—­
  All their eyes forward bent,
  Rushed the black regiment.