spark of life By slow degrees grew warm. The first dull glance that his eye-balls rolled Was down toward his shrunken hand; And he smiled, and closed his eyes again, As they fell on the rescued brand. And no one touched the sacred sword Till at length, when Morris came, The little negro stretched it out, With his eager eyes aflame. And if Morris wrung the poor boy's hand, And his words seemed hard to speak, And tears ran down his manly cheeks, What tongue shall call him weak?