THE COLOR SERGEANT
(On an Incident at the Battle of
San Juan Hill)
Under a burning tropic sun,
With comrades around him lying,
A trooper of the sable Tenth
Lay wounded, bleeding, dying.
First in the charge up the
fort-crowned hill,
His company's guidon bearing,
He had rushed where the leaden
hail fell fast,
Not death nor danger fearing.
He fell in the front where the
fight grew fierce,
Still faithful in life's last
labor;
Black though his skin, yet his
heart as true
As the steel of his
blood-stained saber.
And while the battle around him
rolled,
Like the roar of a sullen
breaker,
He closed his eyes on the bloody
scene,
And presented arms to his Maker.
There he lay, without honor or
rank,
But, still, in a grim-like
beauty;
Despised of men for his humble
race,
Yet true, in death, to his duty.
James Weldon Johnson
Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
View My Guestbook
Sign My Guestbook
