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